with Miles Prescott.
It took a while before she was put through to him. Getting the right department was clearly an art form; pressing the right buttons to be connected to the right people. Finally, Connie heard a deep, gravelly tone – one of a man with a forty-a-day habit – that she recognised as Miles.
‘Miles, it’s Connie Summers, Stephanie Cousins’ psychologist.’
‘Ah, yes. Been expecting a call from you.’
‘Oh, really? How come?’
‘Well, she’s been getting a bit jumpy lately. Coming out with all sorts, so I figured she’d be speaking about it with you. A matter of time before you needed to cross-reference facts with me.’
Connie was taken aback. If he knew this, why hadn’t he contacted her? Perhaps Steph had been right about him, that he wanted to pull back from her, withdraw some support.
‘Right, well now that it’s been established that she’s currently going through an episode of anxiety, perhaps together we can come up with a plan of action.’
‘To be honest, Connie, there’s not much more I can do. She’s had input from the witness protection team for four months, we’ve given her everything required to make a new life, but she seems to be trying to sabotage her own integration with this latest lot of anxiety attacks—’
‘No disrespect, but you’ve been the one who has given her reason to be anxious.’
‘Er … I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The letters? Forwarding them on to her without even knowing who they were from.’
‘Oh. I see. Well, I need to put you right there, I’m afraid. I didn’t forward her any letters. Every so often, one of the team will check her old address, and her uncle’s, to see what post, if any, is there. There’s been nothing of note for the entire time she’s been in Devon.’
‘Well if they haven’t been sent by you, that means someone has got hold of her address; her new identity must’ve been compromised?’
‘You’re assuming someone has got her address. I think what you should be considering is that no one has written or sent any letters. That this is a figment of Stephanie’s imagination.’
‘No. You’re wrong.’ The quiver in her voice came as a surprise to her. Having Miles question the reliability of Steph’s claims was somehow causing Connie to waver too; she couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility. But she’d seen the letter: plain paper, not headed with an official address. Not created in Steph’s mind. Although it was paper anyone could have got hold of. That Steph could have got hold of. Connie tutted, berating herself for doing exactly what Steph accused her of: not believing.
‘Next then you are going to tell me that her own brother is also a figment of her imagination?’
There was an audible silence. Then Connie heard a slow out-breathing of air.
‘Look. I don’t know what’s going on. You’ve seen Stephanie’s file as well as I have. There is no brother.’
‘How … why would she make up a brother? An entire story about where he is, and why he’s there?’
‘And is it this brother who is supposedly writing to her?’
‘Yes. He’s been in a YOI but she thinks he’s been released. She got the first letter on Tuesday.’
‘You’re going to have to leave this with me, Connie. I’ll go back through her case files, see what I can dig up. If there is a brother, I’ll find him.’
‘I’d be grateful. And whilst you’re at it could you also find out about the fire, the one that happened when she was sixteen? The mother survived it, but Steph is saying that her dad didn’t.’
Miles sighed loudly. ‘I really think I’m going to be wasting my time. As far as we know, Steph’s dad’s alive but his whereabouts are unknown, I—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Connie interrupted. ‘I know what the files say, but I want you to check this story out please. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Fine. Fine, I’ll get on to it. I’m busy though, you understand, so it might take a few days.’
It wasn’t the way she’d imagined the conversation going. But at least Miles had agreed to delve further into Steph’s family history. She’d failed to mention that Steph wanted a new psychologist. She would tell him. Perhaps when he’d returned to her with the information. In the meantime, she’d keep a check on the news to see if any further reports on the Hargreaves murder mentioned her name. The police should keep quiet about the writing on his hand, they liked to hold such information back from the press. So as long as she didn’t gain any further media attention, the risk of exposing Steph’s new identity would be minimal.
For now, at least, she wanted to continue with Steph as her client. She wanted to get to the bottom of her fears, because whether they were fact or fiction, there was no doubt in her mind they were very real to Steph.
Uncle Jimmy spent his days lying like a big fat pig on his couch, a beer in one hand, TV remote in the other. Empty cans surrounded the patch of floor in front of him. Her mum had often told her stories of how he’d wasted his life, how he could have been so much more. Instead he’d chosen to be a lazy good-for-nothing and sign on the dole, pissing his giro money up the wall. Or these days, it seemed, into his pants. The stench of stale urine made her retch.
She had to get out.
A roof over her head was one thing, sharing it with a disgusting pervert was another. Her mum had failed to tell her about his fondness for young girls. Before she’d moved in he’d been unable to do much about his urges. Now though, when he wasn’t passed out, he gave her far too much attention – ogling her, trying to catch her in the bathroom, touching her at every opportunity. She’d had enough of that kind of behaviour; she wasn’t going to accept it from him.
It was time to force the move to Vince’s. He’d been keen for her to move in when he found out about the fire, but his eagerness had dwindled recently. Suddenly he had lots on, friends camped round at his, no space for her. But he’d promised. And she wasn’t about to let that go. Promises were promises. You can’t go back on them.
She hadn’t.
Despite attempting to clear her mind, Connie struggled to fully concentrate on her last client of the day – thoughts, questions about Steph’s
