was relieved when the session was over. It was only four thirty, but she didn’t want to catch her usual train. She’d get the later one, at six. Be unpredictable. Just in case. Connie made herself a cafetière of coffee, then, enveloped by the peace of her room, sat and allowed the questions she’d been trying to repress flood her mind. How could Steph’s family – her brother, dead dad – be unknown to the witness protection team? It was their job to know everything, to ensure their witnesses’ safety. How could it be possible that Miles didn’t know about Brett? Had they merely concentrated on the gang and Steph’s boyfriend when carrying out risk assessments? But surely background info was key to covering every base, ensuring no one knew of Steph’s new identity, her new home. There should be no loose ends.
Something wasn’t right. Had they screwed up? Perhaps in their eagerness to get Steph to testify, they’d missed vital background checks. Although why Steph hadn’t just told Miles about her brother was strange.
Connie let her head drop into her cupped hands. These questions forced her in another direction, and her thoughts drifted to her own brother. To the memory stick she’d been handed. Hadn’t she spent the last twenty-two years burying the memory of Luke’s death? She didn’t talk about him. Her brother dying when she’d only just turned fifteen impacted on her more than any of her family ever realised. More than she’d let on. Even to herself. The only people she ever spoke his name to were her parents. And even then, it was sporadic: his birthday, the anniversary of his death. She didn’t like to bring him up in case she upset her mum.
Someone wanted her to remember him though – the article and the document had suddenly thrust his life, his death, in her face. Where she had to take notice of it. She and Steph seemed to have that in common: a lost brother. Very different circumstances, and Brett was still alive physically, but still – they’d both suffered, both experienced the grieving process. They both had unresolved issues about it.
But how could Connie guide Steph through her anxiety, her problems, when she’d never got her head around the event that changed her own life? After Luke died, her father had moved them to the other side of Manchester. But not content with upending them all once, her parents had then dragged Connie away from big, bad Manchester to the idyllic coastal town in Devon, peeled her away from her friends, her support network. Just like Steph. The similarities had gone unnoticed until now. Until the memory stick had found its way into Connie’s hands, she’d buried her past. Buried Luke. But, like Steph, the past was now forcing its way into the present.
It had been a random attack, they’d said. He’d died quickly, they’d said. Wrong place, wrong time. As simple as that.
But then why had someone gone to the trouble of searching her past to bring it all up again now?
Getting the later train had been a good call. There were no sightings of Jonesy, and more to the point, no further ‘gifts’ from strangers. Connie’s muscles had begun relaxing once she’d got home, showered, had a lasagne microwave meal and sunk into the sofa with a glass of wine.
Her personal mobile jumping into action interrupted her evening. Sighing, she pulled herself up and placed the glass on the coaster. For a moment, she froze. The caller ID showed as Niall. What did he want? Her finger hovered over the accept button, then moved to decline. She hesitated. He’d been a good support during the initial shit-hitting-fan stage of the Hargreaves cock-up. He’d popped over to the psychology block for coffees and chats, been very vocal about how none of it was her fault, how Ricky was an evil manipulator who’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Then he’d taken her out for a meal – to console her, cheer her up. Help her forget the horrible situation. They’d got on so well, and he had made her cry with laughter. He’d been exactly what she’d needed. And then of course there’d been sex.
There’d been no communication from him since she’d gone off sick last June. She hadn’t told him about her pregnancy, which had been a relief once she’d realised it wasn’t his. But regardless, she’d obviously become too needy in his eyes. So, the question was, why was he ringing her now? Was he the leak – the person who’d spoken to that sneaky reporter, Kelly? The thought made her cheeks burn. The arsehole. She jabbed the ‘accept’ symbol.
‘Yes?’
‘Connie. It’s Niall.’
‘Yep, what can I do for you?’
‘Uh … well, I was just wondering how you were doing, really.’ His delivery was unsure – a slight stammer evident. Connie assumed it was his guilt showing. Or hoped it was.
‘You haven’t wondered enough to call me in, what – the previous twelve months?’ Her voice was clipped. It wasn’t even intentional, in fact until now she hadn’t realised how annoyed she was about his total abandonment.
‘Of course I’ve wondered. I’ve thought about you a lot, but, you know … men aren’t great at this stuff …’
‘This stuff being?’ Why did men think if they pulled the ‘we’re not good at this stuff’ routine that women would roll over and accept it and forgive them their inadequacies?
‘Difficult emotions. It was hard for me to know the best thing to do …’
‘Oh, it was hard for you? I’m so sorry about that, Niall. How selfish of me to have put you through that.’
‘Okay, I can see this was a bad idea, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Oh, you’re not enjoying the conversation? What a shame, I have so much to fill you in on.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you by calling.’
How did he do that? One sentence, spoken in a quiet whisper oozing sincerity, and already she was regretting her abruptness.
‘No, no.’ Her voice softened. ‘It was brave of you to make the effort, finally.’
‘Can I pop over for a coffee sometime? Catch up properly?’ His tone was suddenly bright.
As much as it irked her to admit it, she would quite like some company. She would also like to do a bit of digging to find out what had gone on in relation to Hargreaves’ escape, and which employee had been responsible for giving her name to the media. To the police too.
‘I’m pretty busy with my consultancy, but I’ll check my diary and give you a text.’
‘Oh, okay.’ The pause lengthened. ‘You won’t text me though, will you?’
Connie sighed. She didn’t want to make this easy for him, why should she? But she found herself caving in on hearing the disappointment in his voice. Perhaps she was more desperate for company than she’d thought.
‘I will. More likely an evening though, I don’t get back from work until six-ish.’
‘Great. Thanks, Connie. I know I don’t deserve another chance, really.’
‘It’s just a drink. Don’t go getting any ideas, it’s
