Читать книгу One Little Lie: From the best selling author comes a new crime thriller book for 2018 - Sam Carrington, Sam Carrington - Страница 9

Connie Summers all but sprinted up the hill towards the building that housed her psychological therapy practice, puffs of breath clouding the cold space in front of her. Eight months ago, she’d struggled to walk it – extra weight gained through long periods of stress-related binge-eating had taken its toll and prevented her from even ascending stairs without gasping for air. But when her new housemate had moved in, so too did a new regime: healthy eating, gym sessions, hikes over the moors. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had brought the best out in Connie.

Not everything in Connie’s life was rosy, though. The weight of worry still hunched her shoulders and tugged at her thoughts – still meant she couldn’t fully relax. Even now, as she strode past the familiar Totnes shops, flashbacks permeated her mind in short, sharp bursts. The images – bright, vivid and unwelcome – came to her when she didn’t even realise she was thinking about the events that had shaken her so profoundly last year.

Connie hadn’t fully recovered from the aftermath of her involvement in the Hargreaves’ murder, and she doubted she ever would. It was bad enough that she’d been one of the professionals responsible for the decision to release Ricky Hargreaves from prison, when days later he reoffended by raping a woman, but to then be dragged into Ricky’s murder case a year later when she’d begun to put her prison career behind her – it was like the red-blood icing on a poisoned cake. She’d lost clients, quite literally, due to a cruel twist of fate: the lethal mix of her previous work with offenders and her own father’s criminal links. The innocent faces of the young woman and her little boy – both now dead – were still at the forefront of Connie’s mind. She’d also struggled financially – her failure to drag herself to work every day, coupled with an inability to motivate herself to build her business back up, took its toll. This wasn’t only a direct effect of Hargreaves, but also her family’s own dubious past, its secrets unexpectedly revealing themselves, causing her thoughts to spiral uncontrollably for a while. Lindsay moving in had helped, enabling her to afford the mortgage repayments and the rent on her business premises. But it wasn’t the main reason Connie had suggested the arrangement. A friend was what she really needed.

Despite the memories haunting her walk to work, Connie was looking forwards to starting the week by welcoming a new client. Having completed the journey from the train station through the narrow side streets onto High Street and up the hill towards East Gate Arch, all in a dazed fog, Connie came back to the moment as she reached her building. She shook her head to clear it, took a breath and unlocked the blue front door. After taking a few steps across the reception area, she dashed up the stairs, giving a cursory glance at the newly installed security camera as she went. She unravelled her scarf and slung it, together with her coat, on the stand in the corner of her upstairs consulting room. The gentle clanking of the radiator filled the room – she’d timed it to come on at 8.45 a.m., so it was comfortable by 9 a.m. Connie went back downstairs to make a coffee, to let warmth replace the chill of the room before beginning her day.

Mug cradled in both hands, the heat penetrating her cold fingers, Connie leant back in her chair and listened to her answerphone. The third message made her sit forwards abruptly, spilling her coffee over the desk. What the hell?

‘Long time no speak, Con,’ the overly cheerful female voice said.

Connie reached forwards to delete the message before it played out, her finger hovering over the button. Curiosity prevented her from pressing it.

‘I know this might be a long shot,’ Jen paused, and Connie heard a sigh before she carried on. ‘But we’re in the shit here, really. You know how it is: lack of staff, too many prisoners to assess, parole board breathing down our necks. We’re swamped.’

A worm of dread began its journey through her stomach. She knew where this was heading.

‘So, anyway. The psych department has had permission to draft in some help, by way of independent psychologists popping in to carry out some of the backlog of reports. Obviously, I thought of you. You’re local, know the job, the prison. It makes sense. There are only a few men to assess, but the money will be good.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought perhaps you might appreciate a bit of extra income at the moment?’

Yes. She would. But, there was no way she’d be returning to HMP Baymead, no matter how much they paid her.

‘Think about it, eh, Con? Would be great to see you. Give me a call!’