One Little Lie

It’ll kill her if she found out now. Don’t do it, Connie, he’d begged.

It’s killing her anyway, Connie had argued.

She would never forgive her father, but for her mother’s sake, as well as for fear of putting Luke and her family in further jeopardy, Connie continued pretending that none of it had resurfaced – that Luke was still buried.

‘So,’ her mum’s voice cut into her thoughts, ‘are you free to come over for a bite to eat on Saturday? I’d quite like some company …’

Connie drew in a large lungful of air. It was Luke’s birthday on Saturday. Her brother would’ve been forty-one if he hadn’t been taken from them at seventeen. Connie quickly shook away the thought. He is going to be forty-one.

‘Yeah, of course, Mum. Do you want me to bring anything? Wine? Pudding?’

‘Just yourself, dear … and your friend, if you like?’

That would make things easier. Lindsay would help with conversation, prevent it from slipping into the dangerous territory of family secrets.

‘If you’re okay with that, then yes. Lindsay would love to meet you properly.’

‘It’s a date, then.’

Connie could hear in her mum’s tone she was smiling. Maybe the fact Connie was keeping this huge secret from her was the right thing to do.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Deborah

A chill ripples inside my body, shaking my foundation like a gust of wind through a tree threatening to shed its leaves. My fingers tremble as I flatten the yellowing newspaper page. I hide the tin full of cuttings from Nathan. He doesn’t think it’s good to brood over the past. Now, seeing the headlines again, I relive it all with frightening clarity.

I am there. Back on that day. I can feel all I felt then, only now it’s even worse. Because I know more now than I did when I was first told of my son’s death. His murder. I know far too much about Kyle Mann. I swallow the rising hatred.

Why does the media insist on displaying the faces of those who have committed such hideous crimes, name them, talk about them, dissect every area of their lives? Why give them the space, the attention? I can’t stand it. It’s the victims who should be the focus. I don’t want to read about how this murdering bastard had a hard life; a difficult upbringing. So what?

I had many of these thoughts back then. I told anyone who was willing to listen. Even those who weren’t. Looking at these articles again now, I’m aware my anger hasn’t subsided. I’ve just done a good job of distracting myself from it.

But now that distraction has gone, thanks to Marcie.

The driveway gravel crunches beneath a car. I jump up, place the cuttings back inside the old biscuit tin and push it under the pile of my jumpers on the shelf in the walk-in wardrobe. Nathan’s home. I haven’t told him I’m on ‘gardening leave’ yet. Not sure whether I should. Maybe I can keep it to myself, for a while at least.

He won’t know that I’m not leaving for work. He always leaves the house before me, and I’m home before him. I can keep up the facade easily. After all, I’m well-practised.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Alice

I’m sitting waiting.

The last Wednesday of February seems to have taken an age to come around, and now it’s here, I’m consumed with impatience for my group to arrive. I got here nice and early to ensure I had plenty of time to set up the room. I’ve brought supplies for a tea break too this time. We can all have a relaxed chat while we refuel.

It’s cold today. The air in the large, high-ceilinged church room envelops me in its cool cocoon. I do up the buttons of my cardigan, but it won’t be enough to stop the shivers. Maybe I should bring my electric blower heater next time. Although, looking around me, I can see there are radiators. I’ll ask the caretaker why they aren’t on. Perhaps he doesn’t think a small group like mine deserves to have money spent on it. It must cost a lot to heat this huge space.

Half an hour to go.

I’m regretting arriving here quite so early. This last thirty minutes is dragging. What if no one turns up this time? The first session went well, I thought – and Wendy did say she was looking forwards to it.

Relax. They will come.

I get up, and begin to pace the wooden floor. I need to try to warm up.

My mind goes back to my session with Connie. I’ve gone over it again and again. It hadn’t progressed the way I wanted it to. She’d been clever, picked up on something I didn’t really want to talk about, and directed the session her way. Towards her agenda, not mine. I hadn’t had a chance to ask the questions I’d planned; ones that would’ve been useful for today’s group meeting. The next counselling session could be awkward, she might continue down the abused wife route. I’ll have to think of something to start off the session differently. A big disclosure to knock her sideways, steer it in the opposite direction to what I know she wants.

Actually, maybe I have just the thing …

No time to think about it now – I hear the outer door bang.

‘Thank you, God.’ I look up to the Lord, crossing my chest. At least someone has turned up.

It’s Wendy. She was first here last time too.

My heart dips a little. I hope some others come early as well. I don’t want too much time alone with her – I don’t want her to bring up the episode with my ‘ex-husband’. I’ve got a little story planned, though, just in case. I have to cover all bases, be prepared.

As I’m welcoming her, a few others follow.

Warmth replaces the cold I’d been feeling.

Finally, when everyone has filtered in, I notice that my group has grown by two people. Once we’re all settled in the circle, we do another brief round of introductions, welcoming the new members. And I’m thrilled to find one of them is Bill.

I smile widely, feeling my face glow. Excellent. I’ve been successful in getting him to the group – my comment on the online support group obviously did the trick. It feels good to know I have some powers of persuasion.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Connie

‘Any men on the scene, Connie, love?’

Connie slumped against the high back of the dining chair. She’d been waiting for something like this all evening; her mother’s idea of small talk at the dinner table.

‘No, Mum. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene – no time for all that.’ It was the easiest and quickest way to shut that particular conversation down. She’d had issues trusting men ever since her teenage trauma – ‘That Night’ at the party where things had gone terribly wrong and she was taken advantage of. It was a time in her life Connie didn’t like to dwell on, or revisit.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’re not getting any younger – I suppose I’m not going to be a grandma anytime soon then.’

Connie’s face flushed.

‘What about you, dear, anyone special?’ She directed her probing question to Lindsay.

‘About the same, I’m afraid, Bev.’ Lindsay took a large gulp of red wine. ‘My divorce came through a few months ago.’

‘Ahh, I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve got a room in Connie’s house?’

‘That, and it made sense financially and geographically. I was travelling to Coleton every day from Plymouth, it was a long trek. After Connie’s … experience … last year, we decided it would work well for both of us. And it does.’ Lindsay turned to Connie and smiled as she raised her glass in a toast.

Connie noted that her mum had inched forwards in her seat, clearly itching to interject. She certainly didn’t waste any time.

‘So, tell me, Lindsay, what big case are you working on right now? The missing girl I heard about on the news?’

‘You can’t ask that, Mum! Lindsay can’t talk about cases outside of her work.’

‘I’m sure she talks to you about it though, doesn’t she?’ Her mum gave a cringeworthy wink as she passed Lindsay the dish of vegetables. Connie threw an apologetic smile at Lindsay.

‘It’s okay.’ Lindsay slyly jabbed her elbow in Connie’s side and widened her eyes at her before turning back to her mum. ‘If I don’t divulge anything that could compromise any ongoing investigations, I can talk about them. You know, in general.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t tell Connie very much, actually.’ Lindsay pushed the serving dish towards Connie.

Connie took it and dolloped a small spoonful of veg on her plate. Her appetite had waned the minute Lindsay had turned off the main Teignmouth road and crossed the bridge into Shaldon. As soon as Connie had walked through the front door of her mum’s terraced house, her gut had twisted into a painful knot and hadn’t relaxed since. At least the emphasis so far had been on Lindsay and her role as detective inspector. She hoped she didn’t feel uncomfortable with her mum’s questions. Judging by the dig she’d been given in the ribs, she guessed she must be fine with it. She should try to relax a little.

‘See, Connie, Lindsay doesn’t mind.’ She smirked teasingly at Connie and then took a mouthful of food.

‘I am involved in the missing person case, yes,’ Lindsay said.

Connie looked up sharply. ‘Are you? I didn’t realise.’

Lindsay had worked long hours the last couple of days, but hadn’t told Connie why. She should’ve guessed it was on the missing twenty-one-year-old’s case, which had been widely reported since Wednesday evening.

‘See, Bev, I don’t tell her everything.’ Lindsay laughed.

‘Terrible business. That poor family. I do hope it’s a happy ending. Do you think it will be, Lindsay?’ Connie watched as her mother’s eyes darkened. This topic of conversation wasn’t a good idea; her mum would be thinking about Luke, especially given today was his birthday, and how she’d lost her son under such tragic circumstances. It would make it difficult for Connie, knowing what she now knew. She’d tried so hard not to think about Luke, not to contemplate the hows, whys and whens. Tried hard not to spill everything to her mum, often wrestling with her decision not to disclose the details.

Lindsay placed her knife and fork on her plate and leant back, exhaling loudly. ‘If I’m honest, Bev, it doesn’t look very hopeful. In this kind of case we’re searching for proof of life. It’s been over forty-eight hours and we haven’t found any evidence of that yet. Those first hours are critical.’

‘But maybe she’s gone off with friends without telling anyone?’ Her mother’s voice was filled with a hope that made Connie’s heart ache.

‘It’s a possibility,’ Lindsay said, ‘but she hasn’t accessed her bank account, her mobile phone hasn’t been used, so …’

‘Must be a hard job, dealing with something so awful – having to be the sole hope for her family.’

‘Yes, it is. You never really get used to it, although you do learn to manage. All my major cases have been challenging, each one for different reasons.’

‘You must be very strong, Lindsay. I’m glad there are people like you who work for the victims, their family. Get justice.’ Tears sparkled in her eyes.

Connie looked down at her plate, not wanting to witness her mum’s pain.

‘I try to be strong. You have to be, really, to keep on doing the job. We don’t always serve justice though, I’m afraid. Not every case results in a conviction.’

‘No. I know. We never got justice for our Luke.’

Connie’s stomach flipped. She shut her eyes tightly, not trusting herself to look into her mother’s eyes. The silence stretched.

‘I’m really sorry about your son, Bev. I’m sorry closure wasn’t gained.’

Connie felt a hand on hers and opened her eyes. Lindsay had her other hand on her mum’s. Connie wondered if Lindsay felt guilty too. She had confided in her, and so she also knew about Luke being alive and well. Not dead.

The weight of the lie dragged Connie down; made her heavy. Almost twelve months of keeping this huge secret. How had her father done it for twenty-two years? Unbelievable.

‘You are back working in the prison on Monday then, Connie.’ Her mum’s sudden change in direction was both welcome and unwanted. At least she wasn’t talking about Luke. It wasn’t long ago that she’d wanted to hear her mum talk about her brother, encouraged her – manipulated situations in order to make her talk about him. Now she was quashing her attempts, changing the subject and avoiding any talk of him. It was unfair. Cruel.

She hated her father. For lying in the first place, for hiding the truth for so long. And for dragging Connie into his deceit, making her a co-conspirator. A liar.

At the same time, she didn’t want to discuss her decision to go back to HMP Baymead, to go over her mother’s fears yet again. Didn’t she have enough to feel guilty for?

‘Yes, Mum. It’s going okay, actually. It’s not the same as before.’ She smiled at her mum. ‘Honestly.’

‘Good. I’m glad. They won’t keep asking you to do these … report things, will they?’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve made it perfectly clear this is a one-off. Even if they ask again, I’ll say no …’

‘No you won’t, Connie. You’re like your dad in that way.’ Her voice was flat, monotone.

Connie’s heartbeat jolted. Like your dad. The words cut deep.

But there was a truth in them that Connie couldn’t deny.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Connie

‘I’m Connie. I don’t know if you remember me – I saw you when you first arrived at Baymead two years ago …’

Kyle Mann’s eyes were cloudy, red-rimmed. He looked as though he’d just woken up after a heavy drinking session. Or, as was more likely in prison, he’d taken drugs. The mass of blond curls he’d had when Connie first met him were gone: a shaved scalp now replaced them, giving his features a harder edge. He looked more like the criminal he was than the younger butter-wouldn’t-melt appearance he’d entered the prison system with.

Connie tilted her head in the direction of his gaze, seeking his attention. He didn’t give any sign he’d heard her, or that he was even aware of her presence. He was sitting opposite her, a table separating them, with Connie closest to the door. And the alarm. He appeared relaxed: his legs loosely positioned, knees splayed – very close to Connie’s – and hands resting on the table.

Jen had said that he hadn’t spoken a word to any of the staff since his imprisonment. She wondered if he kept this vow of silence with other inmates. She’d get Verity to take her to the wing later so she could speak to his personal officer to find out who he associated with, and if they’d had any evidence of him communicating in any way.

‘I am a forensic psychologist. I’m here today to carry out an assessment that will be used together with a number of other reports and will be compiled for the parole board in relation to your progression through the system. Do you understand, Kyle?’

Nothing.

Jen was right; it was unlikely he would start talking now, not after all this time. Connie needn’t have worried about a conflict of interest, any ethical dilemma in working with Alice. She’d have to carry on with this meeting regardless though, get what she needed, and then call for Verity to come back and escort her to the psychology office.

‘I’m an independent psychologist, which means I don’t work in the prison, or for the prison service. My role is to work with you, talk to you about your offence, your risk factors, and give recommendations for rehabilitation programmes. I’ll do a written report, which will be provided to the parole board. Okay?’

Connie thought she saw a flicker in Kyle’s eyes. A quick glance in her direction. But still she was faced with the wall of silence. She moved her chair along slightly, lining it up so that she was in his direct line of vision. He lowered his head, purposely avoiding catching her eye. So, he did know she was there. He was well aware of why she was there, she felt sure.

‘Right, well, I’m going to read through some of these notes I have here,’ Connie said as she placed his file on the table and opened it. ‘And you jump in whenever you want. Tell me if there’s anything you want to clarify, or add. Anything you don’t agree with.’

Connie started to read out the description of his offence. Every now and then she paused, looking up to observe his body language, to see if his expression had altered. He remained closed. He’d had a few years to perfect this routine. He was good at it. It was highly improbable Connie would crack him without something new, something to give him cause to wobble – a reason to speak.

During her last visit to the prison, when she’d studied the files of the men she’d be assessing, Connie had reread the police transcript of their interview with Kyle prior to him being charged with murder. He’d been incredibly vague, often giving one-word responses, but had spoken. However, as soon as they charged him, further interviews had been ‘no comment’ ones or he’d simply remained quiet – supposedly at the advice of his solicitor. She’d also read the lengthy transcript of the interview with Kyle’s parents. With Alice, and her husband, Edward. How they’d been so certain their son would not have committed this crime without serious coercion. His mother in particular had been totally convinced he’d been targeted, manipulated and groomed by someone. She’d said he was an easy target because of his behavioural difficulties. She’d said he suffered with mild Asperger’s and had some learning difficulties growing up. None of this could be substantiated in court later – there was simply no hard evidence to back up her claims. No assessments, no input from services, school, or any doctors able to confirm anything Alice Mann had asserted.

As Connie began reading from the notes she’d taken from the transcript, Kyle’s eyes closed, and she noticed his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands into fists.

Just talking about what his mum had said to the police had touched a nerve.

‘Your mum really believes in you. You know that, don’t you?’

There was a scraping sound as Kyle drew in his legs, tucking them under the chair.

‘You know she doesn’t believe you would be capable of such a crime. Of murder.’ Connie was on a roll. Her passion for forensic psychology was reignited in that moment; she wanted to do a good job, like she always felt she had prior to the Hargreaves incident. Looking at Kyle now, she was suddenly eager to get something from him. A reaction. Even if she couldn’t get him to speak. She picked up a piece of paper containing her scribbled notes and, holding it so she could see it and Kyle’s face easily above the paper, began reading:

‘Kyle wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone. He’s always been a kind, considerate boy, but he was used. People took advantage of him, of his vulnerability. He couldn’t have done this on his own. It’s impossible.’ Connie read the words loudly, leaning in towards Kyle’s face. She was pushing it, she knew – but something made her feel safe; she didn’t sense he was a risk to her.

Kyle’s breathing rate increased; Connie could hear the flow of air as it pushed through his nostrils and was quickly drawn back in again.

This was the most reaction she’d ever known Kyle Mann give. His mum was the key. The way she could get him to speak, she was convinced of that now.

Without much thought of the consequences, Connie played her trump card.

‘I know your mum feels incredible guilt about you being here. She believes she’s let you down, that she could’ve done something to prevent it.’

His eyes were wide now. Focussed on Connie for the first time.

She continued. ‘I know this, Kyle, because she told me. The other day in fact, when she came to see me for my help.’

Kyle lurched forwards. Connie’s pulse banged in her neck.

‘You’re lying,’ he shouted, before slamming his back against his chair, the plastic bouncing with the force.

Connie’s mouth slackened. She’d done it. Made him utter actual words.

She stalled in her shock, but quickly recovered; she had to keep it going now she’d made a breakthrough.

‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Kyle. I think you should know what your mother is going through.’

A pang of guilt struck her. She shouldn’t have told him, she’d really compromised herself now. In her eagerness to get Kyle to speak, she’d broken the code of conduct.

Dammit.

What if Kyle’s stony silence didn’t stretch as far as his mum? He could call Alice, tell her what Connie had said. She’d be in all kinds of trouble. Again. But she’d done what no one else had been able to: she’d made Kyle Mann talk. She may only have this one chance. She had to continue – and deal with the consequences later.

‘She’s not the only one who thinks you didn’t act alone, is she? The police also suspected you were with someone else that day. That another person was as responsible, if not more so than you, for the murder of Sean Taylor.’

‘They’re wrong.’ His voice was a quiet rasp, as though not speaking for all this time had dried his vocal cords and stringing a whole sentence together was challenging.

‘Are they, Kyle? Even your mum?’

‘Especially my mum. I’m not the son she thinks I am.’

Connie sat back, turning over in her mind what Alice had revealed so far about Kyle during her sessions. The aggressive, almost bullying nature she’d described as part of the behaviour she’d endured from Kyle at home, prior to his offence, was not the same picture Alice had painted at the time of his arrest. Didn’t sound like the Kyle she’d spoken of in the transcript Connie had read. Had Alice lied in the interview with the police in an attempt to protect him?

‘I would really like to hear an account of what happened in the lead-up to Sean Taylor’s death. How did the day begin for you, Kyle?’

He snorted and shook his head. ‘I’ve done all this.’

‘Well, actually you haven’t. If your records are correct, you gave “no comment” interviews. Where did you spend the day, Kyle?’ Connie laid her notes down and rested her elbows on the table.

Kyle shrugged his shoulders. Had he verbally communicated all he was willing to? An unexpected sense of disappointment swept through her.

‘Who else did you see that day? Did you meet up with someone?’

He averted his eyes from Connie’s. She was losing him.

‘Who was it? Someone you used to game with online?’ Connie immediately regretted her question. She was using things arising from Alice’s session as a way of forcing Kyle to speak. It was so unethical, she felt her face grow hot with the knowledge of what she was doing.

Kyle’s own face flushed, his eyes growing wider, darker; his pupils dilating.

Connie swallowed hard as he pushed violently up from his chair.

He left the room without saying another word.

Someone else had been involved with Sean’s murder, she felt sure now. The one that got away. And for some reason, Kyle was protecting him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tom

The house was even quieter than usual. He knew he must be alone. He was glad. At least he didn’t have to worry about being caught; he was getting fed up of having to deal with endless questions. He could talk online uninterrupted. His sessions had increased again. The time it’d taken to organise the gaming site had taken far more effort; it was time-consuming getting the right people involved. Keeping them on his domain, even more challenging. Everyone thought they were a gamer these days. Most didn’t know the skill it took. Most didn’t realise the thrills would diminish later down the line. When they’d played as long as he had, they’d come to the same conclusion: online slaughter isn’t enough. Once you reach a certain level it’s more difficult to get the adrenaline going, more difficult to feel alive.