One Little Lie Read online

  ‘No, no need …’ Connie looked down at her shuffling feet. ‘It’s just that you said I wouldn’t have to go through it on my own this time – taking the job in the prison would be fine, you said. I need to get things off my chest, Linds …’ Connie looked back up at Lindsay. She did want to talk right now, but she could sense that she was making Lindsay uncomfortable. ‘But it can wait,’ she heard herself saying.

  Lindsay took a step back. ‘Okay, great.’ And she closed the door without further discussion. The thud echoed in Connie’s ears.

  Connie blinked in shock. That was a pretty quick brush-off. Clearly, Connie was low on her list of priorities, despite her promises of being there for her. Part of her wished she’d never opened up to Lindsay in the first place. Connie might not have dealt with her past problems brilliantly, but at least she could count on herself. It had taken a lot for her to trust someone else, confide in them, lean on them. And this is what she got in return? It’d been that way before though – the minute she used to turn to someone else for support, they let her down. It’d happened when she was young, and it had happened when things got rough in her prison psychologist role. Why would it change now?

  She grabbed her coat from the bannister and, not caring now if there was someone watching her, unlocked the front door. She stormed out, slamming it behind her. She didn’t know where she was going, but there was no way she was waiting in the kitchen or her bedroom for Lindsay and Mack to finish their little meeting, in her house.

  For the first time in a while, Connie felt totally alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Alice

  Connie Summers’ complexion is even paler than usual. Her green eyes – normally bright and sparkly – are dull. I want to ask her if everything is all right, but catch myself in time. I’m not here to talk about her. We all have our problems, and although I’m curious as to what hers are, I’m the paying client. Maybe after my session I’ll drop in a concerned question, see if she tells me why she looks so dreadful. I wait for her opening line, the one I’ve come to expect.

  ‘How have you been over the last two weeks, Alice?’

  There it is.

  I take some time to consider my response; I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’ve thought about how to approach this session, I want to get her thoughts on my plan – but in an indirect way. Coming straight out with what I’ve been up to and what I will be doing soon, will, no doubt, have her reaching for the phone to call the men in white coats. But I can be selective in what I say, twist the truth a little. I’m getting used to that.

  ‘It’s been a mixed few weeks if I’m honest, Connie,’ I say.

  ‘Go on.’ Connie widens her eyes to me in encouragement.

  I let the session amble along for a while. When Connie asks something I’m not willing, or able, to talk about, I steer the conversation around to my comfortable topics. She’s quite easily led. Finally, she asks about my support group and I sit up a little straighter.

  ‘The last group support meeting was extremely successful; the numbers have grown too. I’m thrilled.’ I beam at her. I still feel proud of my achievement, although it’s tinged with sadness, with guilt now Isabella is missing. I don’t tell her about this terrible development. It’ll detract from my purpose.

  ‘Excellent. You’re really making progress. It must be rewarding, as well as helpful to you. Do you feel any less guilty when you listen to others telling their stories?’

  That seems a funny question to ask. Is she suggesting I’m using these other poor souls’ misfortunes to make myself feel better? To lessen my guilt by realising everyone has difficulties with their offspring?

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.’ I am aware my voice has risen. I sound defensive. ‘I haven’t set up this group so I can feel less guilty about my son taking another’s life, Connie. I did it to help other people – to give something back, I suppose.’

  But it’s not the only reason, is it? She must see that, which is why she’s asking this. I need to get back on track.

  ‘I need to help others now, that’s my purpose. Do all I can to make things right. Which is why I’ve decided I’m going to visit the boy’s mother …’

  Connie sits forwards abruptly. ‘Sorry, what boy’s mother?’

  She knows exactly who I mean. ‘The mother of Sean Taylor.’ I smile.

  Her jaw slackens, only slightly, but I notice it. I wonder what’s going through her mind right now.

  ‘I really don’t suggest you do that, Alice—’

  ‘Oh, it’s only a thought at this stage,’ I say, lying. I am testing the waters, curious to know what a psychologist would make of it. By her expression, and her immediate advice to not do it, I think it’s safe to say she doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

  ‘You have the support group, and me. I think it wise you stick with that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do think it’s important to face her, tell her I’m sorry for her loss. I am sure she’d appreciate that.’

  Connie is silent for a moment. Her brow is knitted in contemplation. ‘How would you feel, if your son had been murdered, and the mother of one of those involved came to visit you?’

  I sit up sharply. ‘The mother of one of those involved?’

  ‘Yes. You said you were sure that …’ She stops. The skin of her décolletage flushes a deep red, it spreads up her neck.

  I have never said to Connie I believed Kyle was one of two involved with the murder. Has Connie been doing some research into the case? I hadn’t considered she might do that, wouldn’t have thought there was any need. I wonder how much she’s found out. I recover enough to answer – ignoring her unfinished sentence.

  ‘I’d think it courageous of the woman. I’d want to get to know her. After all, we’ve both lost our sons.’

  Connie leans her elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples her fingers. Her frown deepens, and she sighs. She’s making a real meal of this.

  ‘We need to talk about this some more, Alice. I wouldn’t attempt to see the mother at this point; it could be a bad outcome for both of you.’

  Connie Summers doesn’t know everything. She’s wrong in this case.

  I know best.

  ‘I could do with an extra session, actually, next week if you can fit me in,’ I tell her. It’ll help if she thinks she can talk about this again soon, even though I have no intention of listening to her advice.

  ‘Oh, yes – I’m sure I can do Wednesday—’

  ‘I need Monday,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s important. It’s to cope with the anniversary of Kyle’s conviction – I always find it difficult.’

  ‘Monday the nineteenth …’ Connie studies me for a moment, then slides her chair over to her computer. ‘Yes … should be fine. It will have to be an afternoon appointment though – is 3 p.m. suitable?’ She looks to me, her hands hovering over her keyboard.

  ‘Yes, that’ll do. Thank you.’

  Her fingertips click on the keys.

  ‘We still have more time today, Alice,’ she says as she checks her watch.

  I glance at the clock on the wall to Connie’s right. Ten more minutes today. But I’m not sure now how much time I have overall.

  The clock ticks life away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Tom

  The whispered phone call in the early hours of the morning from Kyle’s smuggled mobile, unexpected, with few words spoken, had angered him.

  What the fuck was she up to? Did she know something? He believed it when Kyle was adamant he’d not said a word. He wouldn’t grass, he was sure – as far as Tom knew he’d kept his vow of silence, as promised, while in custody. The fact Kyle’d told him about his mum meant he’d been prioritised over her. Kyle would’ve known by telling him the information it would put his own mother at risk.

  I mean more to him. He wants me to be safe. Free.

  He’d told Kyle everything would be okay – he’d got someone who could sort it. No harm would co
me to her. Not permanently, anyway. He’d only need to give her a shock, a warning. Of course, this was what he knew Kyle wanted to hear; needed to hear. Tom didn’t want to reveal his true intentions, that would be too risky.

  He couldn’t afford for Alice Mann to dig around. She had to stay away from the shrink. Stop talking.

  What was it with mothers? Interfering fucking busybodies.

  For Kyle’s mum, the player was ready in the wings. She’d be able to sort her. After all, she was eager to prove to Tom that she was a serious player. She’d have her chance now. Everything would work out. Tom was in control.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Deborah

  There’s someone standing close to Alice’s house – part obscured by a large privet hedge. I’m too far away to see who it is, whether it’s male or female even; from my position all I can see is a hunched figure.

  What are they doing?

  A car drives past me at high speed and it seems to startle whoever it is, because they suddenly move on, disappearing around the corner. I lock my car and cross the road. I’m strangely nervous. My legs shake; a fluttery sensation consumes my stomach as I approach the front door.

  Is this how she feels when she’s outside my house?

  She gave me her address. She’s so trusting for someone who’s been treated to angry outbursts from random people for the best part of four years. Those who felt they had reason to abuse her when really it was an excuse to direct their outrage at her because the real focus of their hatred was locked away. She was the closest thing, the next best target. How does she know I won’t use this knowledge? I could post her address and identity on the internet and her life would become intolerable again.

  She’s stupid to trust me, because I don’t even trust myself.

  The house is standard, nondescript – like most others in the newer estates. Void of personality.

  The reality hits me. I am standing outside the house of my son’s murderer.

  My mind flashes back to the court case – a replay of the description of how Kyle Mann stabbed Sean. He delivered a single, horrific wound to the back of his neck. And then he walked away, leaving him to die, slowly. He didn’t even give a reason why he chose Sean. No motive. My poor boy, he must’ve been so frightened. It’s unbearable to imagine what went through his mind as he lay alone, his life ebbing away. Visions haunt me in my waking hours and follow me into my dreams. Not only visually, but aurally – I hear his voice, raspy and weak, asking for me, for ‘Mum’.

  I don’t think a knife through my heart would hurt as much as me knowing he was in pain and might’ve been asking for me. You never want your child to hurt, ever. It’s inevitable of course, during certain times in their lives, and you can’t prevent all of it. But you can be there, support them, hold them, comfort them. Even when Sean had chickenpox, I longed to take it away from him, have it myself to stop his pain. I’d have done anything to be in his place, that day – my life for his.

  But I didn’t have that opportunity.

  I did not protect my son.

  Maybe my anger is misdirected. Is it Alice’s fault, or my own, for not seeing what was going on? For not intervening before it was too late.

  A heat begins to build inside of me, like a pressure cooker with its steam trapped.

  If she’s home, she’ll invite me inside. What if I can’t handle it and I snap? Even before I go in, there’s a risk of me losing my self-control. I hate this woman for her son taking mine away. Why on earth am I putting myself through this?

  I could walk away now, call the police and tell them I’m being harassed by her, and then try to get on with my life – as pathetic as it is.

  My feet are planted, though. I can’t turn back now. I’m compelled to see it through.

  With a huge intake of air, I force my feet to move forwards. Gravel chippings, similar to mine, scatter the path. I swipe them off with the side of my shoe and continue to her front doorstep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Connie

  That had been close.

  Connie typed up her notes from Alice’s session into her file on the computer. She didn’t, however, write about the fact she’d almost fucked up: she had begun to forget who had said what. She realised she’d been mixing up things she’d read in Kyle’s psychology file and what Kyle had talked about, with what she thought Alice had told her. She’d thought she could use knowledge gained from her prison role to her advantage in her work with Alice, but at this rate she was only going to do more damage.

  It hadn’t helped being so tired from lack of sleep over the weekend, the remnants of the flare-up with Lindsay still strewn in her mind like dark clouds. She knew her outburst on Friday evening, her behaviour towards Lindsay in front of Mack, had been childish. But she’d wanted to know she wasn’t alone. Flouncing out of the house had served only to make her feel worse, more isolated. She’d thought Lindsay would come after her. She didn’t. Like a sulking child, Connie had returned to the house less than half an hour later, having slowly walked around the perimeter of the park down from her house, afraid to venture too far – her earlier thoughts of someone watching her setting her nerves on edge again.

  Lindsay had still been in the lounge with Mack, their muffled voices penetrating the door as Connie walked past to the kitchen. After another hour, Mack left, his head bowed so as not to catch Connie’s eyes. Connie and Lindsay had spent the rest of the evening talking, each laboriously attempting to make the other understand their point of view. The weekend had been long – Connie at home, Lindsay mostly at work – and when she had seen Lindsay, it’d been awkward between them. It felt as if Lindsay had returned to the hostile, stern detective inspector she’d first met last year. So much so, Connie had held off sharing any of her concerns about Kyle, and about Alice. It hadn’t been the right time.

  Connie sighed and walked to the window. Arms crossed, she gazed out over Totnes market square. Had she put all her eggs in one basket? She had to acknowledge it was unfair to lay the onus on Lindsay to be the one to support her. It wasn’t Lindsay’s fault Connie had burned all her bridges. Her mum had asked if there was a man in her life, and she’d categorically said she didn’t have time for one. Connie told herself she didn’t need one, although really it was because she didn’t want to trust another man after she’d felt so used by men in the past. But perhaps it was time to get back on the dating scene, after all. She could do with a distraction.

  Connie turned back to her desk. She’d agreed to the Monday session for Alice even though it was the same day she’d arranged to see Kyle. If she altered Kyle’s time slot she could probably fit them both in: she’d booked Alice’s appointment for three, giving her time to complete her session with Kyle and get the train back to Totnes. The anniversary was bound to be a challenging time for her client, and so it was important to offer the extra support. Connie made a call to HMP Baymead and asked Jen if she’d swap the appointment time with Kyle to early Monday morning and send out a fresh movement slip to the wing for him to attend at 9 a.m.

  She’d have to be more careful next week, make sure she was fresh, on top of things – it would be extra challenging to see mother and son in one day. And she must keep to what Alice was actually telling her in future, not what she knew from other sources – although she could still use information gained from elsewhere to ask the relevant questions, to point Alice in the right direction. In particular, Connie would have to work on Alice’s warped idea of seeing the dead boy’s mother – enable her to realise her feelings of guilt needed to be addressed without involving the victim’s family.

  She really couldn’t see a happy ending with that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Connie

  Connie took in her appearance in the full-length mirror. She’d not been out in the evening without Lindsay since she’d moved in last year. The confidence she’d once had, prior to the Hargreaves incident and her subsequent exit from her prison job, was finally beginning to return
. Her straight black hair – a longer-styled bob in comparison to how she’d worn it last year – had a lovely, healthy sheen to it. She looked good in the skinny black jeans and figure-hugging, low-cut top. She felt good.

  The taxi was booked for 8 p.m. Connie hoped Lindsay would come home before she left, so she could see Connie was going out for the night. She wanted her to know she wasn’t going to sit around the house forever waiting for Lindsay to return. She needed something more. Her plan was to head to The Farmer in the centre of Coleton. It tended to be relatively quiet in there until much later, but that would give her chance to find a table and down a few drinks to relax. With luck, she’d see some familiar faces, regulars who might recognise her too, despite the fact she hadn’t been on the scene for quite some time.

  As 8 p.m. approached, there was still no sign of Lindsay. Connie scribbled a note on a Post-it and put in under the X-Files fridge magnet for Lindsay to see – if she even bothered to check for a note. The taxi blared its horn. Connie gave Amber a quick cuddle, then grabbed her bag and jacket.

  Walking into places alone had never fazed her. It’d been her life for a while after leaving Baymead, when she’d been on the pull every weekend. She’d frequented all the local pubs on her own, only meeting up with men once inside. Because it wasn’t a weekend, she held little hope of meeting someone of interest tonight, but company of any sort would do right now. And even if that failed, she could do with having a drink anyway.

  After buying a large white wine, Connie found a table halfway between the bar and the entrance – a spot to give her the best visibility. The only thing with being on her own was acting naturally – knowing what to do, how to ‘be’. She twisted the stem of the glass with one hand, the other lay on her lap. She’d give it a few minutes then get her mobile phone out. It was acceptable these days – people didn’t think you were Billy-no-mates if you were scrolling through your phone. The music was loud, or maybe it was the fact it was her only focus. Or was she getting old? There was no live band tonight, so she thought she might come back at the weekend – The Farmer’s live music generally drew quite a crowd.