One Little Lie. Sam Carrington

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