drawn together until they touched in the middle. ‘What does he look like?’
‘About this high.’ With a shaky hand, she indicated up to her shoulder. ‘Black hair. He had blue pyjamas on. He’s ten.’ She swung around, eyes flitting over the scene, darting between the many figures that scattered the area. ‘Where is he? He was with me.’ The pitch of her voice elevated. The paramedic shouted to his colleague, asking if a boy had been taken to the hospital. She saw the shake of his head, the rising of his shoulders in a shrug.
‘Don’t worry,’ the man said, ‘I’m sure he’s safe. It’s scary for a ten-year-old, perhaps he’s got out of the way. I’ll ask the police to look for him.’ He made a move to bundle her into the ambulance, but she forced her body weight back against him, stopping his attempt. ‘Are you all right, love? Come on, you need to be checked over.’
‘No.’ She turned and glared at him. ‘I need to tell them. I have to find him, and make sure they know.’ She struggled against his grip, pulling away from him, and the blanket he’d placed around her shoulders fell to the ground.
‘Wait, please, you need to be assessed!’ His voice trailed after her as she fled.
There were at least four police cars. Why did they need so many? She ran to each one, pushing past bystanders as they lazily watched the scene, checking to see if he was in any of them. Where was he?
‘Hey, hey. Slow up.’ A policewoman gently placed both arms around her shoulders. Why did everyone feel the need to touch her? ‘What are you doing here? You should be on your way to hospital.’
‘No, no. I need to find my brother.’ She didn’t make eye contact with the woman.
‘Ah, I see. It’s okay, he was frightened, he’s with one of the PCs over there.’ She pointed at an unmarked car, up the road on the right.
‘Did he tell you?’ The girl raised her wide eyes to meet the policewoman’s.
‘Tell us what?’
‘That it’s his fault. Did the little creep tell you?’ She tore away, and ran towards the car. The policewoman followed. As the girl approached, she saw him in the back seat – with a blanket wrapped loosely around him, as they’d wrapped it round her. He looked small; innocent. The screech came from deep within her, filling the night air. ‘You little shit, you murderer!’ she shouted, banging both fists repeatedly against the window. The boy shrank away from it; from her – moving backwards, scrambling to the other side of the car. The policewoman was with her now, holding her arms; holding her back. ‘He did it. He started the fire. He’s a weirdo, always playing with fire. He killed him.’ Her determination gave her strength to break free. She launched again towards the window. She didn’t bang on it this time, but pressed up against it, squashing her features. It cooled her face.
The boy inside cowered. Tears had made clean tracks down his blackened face. He shook his head, his whole body seeming to tremble. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping out of water. Finally, he managed to say, ‘Don’t be angry at me. I’m sorry, sis.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Connie released her hands from the arms of the chair, gripping one in the other instead. ‘How?’ Her gaze darted between DI Wade and DS Mack, searching for clues while she waited for a response.
‘Mr Hargreaves was on ROTL – release on temporary licence—’
‘Yes, I know what ROTL is, Detective Inspector. But, why was he? He’d not long been reconvicted.’ Connie felt heat flushing her face. ‘How had he possibly been assessed as being safe to leave the prison?’
‘No offence, Miss … sorry … Connie. But hadn’t you assessed him as safe to return to the community?’ DS Mack said.
‘None taken. Because, yes, I recommended his release – along with other professionals, I might add – but at that time he hadn’t committed a further offence. Now he has, and so it would be ridiculous to allow him ROTL now, wouldn’t it?’
‘Calm down, Connie,’ DI Wade said, as she shot DS Mack what appeared to be a warning look. ‘DS Mack hasn’t really explained it properly. Hargreaves was granted permission by the prison governor to attend his mother’s funeral last Friday. It was meant to be for a few hours, under prison-officer guard. But somehow, following a commotion at the graveside, the full details of which we’ve yet to discover, he made a run for it. It’s assumed he had help on the inside as well as the outside so that he could orchestrate the whole thing to coincide with the funeral.’
Connie sat back, forcing her shoulders down into their natural position. ‘So, now he’s dead?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Three days following his escape. His body was dumped outside the prison gatehouse this morning.’
‘Well, that’s unfortunate for him, I guess. So what’s any of this got to do with me? Why are you here?’
‘Well, that’s the interesting part.’
Nothing about the case so far was in the slightest bit interesting as far as Connie was concerned. She didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Her upper body slumped. What the hell was coming next?
‘Eric Hargreaves’ body has been mutilated, the type and detail is not being disclosed for obvious reasons, but let’s just say it’s been done in a … particular way—’
‘And you think I can help establish the type of person who would do this, give you some clues as to their motive?’
DI Wade scrunched her face a little and gently shook her head. ‘I’m sure you could help with that, yes, but we’re calling on you for a different reason at present.’
Connie’s stomach dropped. ‘Oh?’
‘You see …’ DS Mack took over. ‘On closer inspection it was noted he had something written on his hand.’ He paused, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He was enjoying dragging out the details; making Connie squirm. She rubbed at the raised red mark that was still on her wrist. It was stinging. She closed her eyes to block out DS Mack’s smug face. Although she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before, she hoped after this that she’d never see his face again.
‘Am I meant to guess?’ Her tone sharp.
DS Mack shifted sideways slightly in his seat; his feet kicked the corner of her desk. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a see-through evidence bag containing a photograph. He held it out towards Connie between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.
She blinked rapidly a few times, then frowned.
She stared at the words: ‘CONNIE MOORE’ written in black on the palm of the bloody, grey-tinged hand.
Connie’s face tightened.
‘It’s a conundrum for us, too,’ DI Wade said. ‘But we’re hoping you’ll be able to
