Bad Sister: ‘Tense, convincing… kept me guessing’ Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies. Sam Carrington

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 not another chance like that.’

      ‘Loud and clear. I’ll look forward to your text. Night, love.’

      He hung up before she could make further comment.

      Her moment of relaxation had passed. Her shoulders felt tight, her neck stiff. From one telephone conversation? She rotated her head and massaged her neck. How had this week become so stressful, so quickly? It most definitely wasn’t part of her plan.

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       DI Wade

      Thursday 8 June

      Lindsay Wade spread four photos across her desk. Each enlarged image showed a different tattoo.

      ‘What do you make of these?’ She directed her question at Mack, who, coffee in hand, was staring at the monitor on his desk. He put his mug down and scooted over, the wheels of the chair squealing in protest. He picked up one of the photos.

      ‘The murderer likes birds?’

      ‘Helpful. What kind of bird does it look like to you?’

      Mack tilted his head, squinting, then shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘No idea. I’m guessing it’s not one specific species, more like a mixture – seems muddled. Perhaps our killer is a crap tattooist?’

      ‘Quite possibly, as the other three are similar – they’re pretty muddled too.’ Lindsay handed Mack another picture.

      ‘I thought there were only three new tattoos. Where’s the fourth come from?’

      ‘We left a bit too early. When Harry was sewing Hargreaves back up, he found this one on the lower half of the torso. It revealed itself when he lifted the flap of skin that had been sliced and left hanging.’

      ‘Nothing else hiding in the flaps?’ Mack sniggered. Lindsay silently raised one eyebrow. He dropped his head and stared at the photo, his features suddenly serious. He gathered up the others. ‘Okay, so we’ve got four tattoos that have been created post-mortem, we’re assuming by the killer—’

      ‘Highly likely I’d say.’

      ‘He obviously had a clear reason for creating these, took some time over them, even though they’re pretty rough. So, we’ve got a bird – of unknown species. A code of some sort?’ Mack continued to sift through the photos. ‘Then, a word – I think, although I can’t make it out, and finally … lines and crosses, a pattern?’

      ‘That’s about as far as I got too.’ Lindsay took the photos from Mack and placed them back on her desk. ‘Do you think they could be prison-related? Or some gang code?’

      ‘It’s possible, I guess. Tattoos are more prevalent in the prison community in Russia and USA, though, I’d say.’

      ‘Okay then. We still need to look into the possibility, but …’ Lindsay bit on the inside of her cheek, thinking. ‘You suggested in the morgue they could be a message. One that only the person it’s intended for could interpret?’

      ‘Yes. I was thinking Connie Summers?’

      ‘Well, given that her name is on the dead man’s hand, I suggest we should ask her. It could be that it’s because she’s the one who’ll be able to tell us what they mean?’

      ‘Only one way to find out. I’ll give her a call, get her to come on in.’ Mack propelled the chair back to his desk.

      ‘Actually, Mack – make a copy of these pictures and go see her, will you?’

      He replaced the phone, frowning. ‘But she doesn’t want us to turn up at her office, remember?’

      ‘Yeah. I remember.’

      ‘You playing some kind of mind game here?’ Mack sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.

      ‘No. Not at all. But I don’t want her in here quite yet. I want her independent from us until she’s given her thoughts on these tattoos. I don’t want anyone else to … contaminate her thoughts.’

      ‘I think you want to make her uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Which is your way, I know. But won’t that jeopardise you making sure she doesn’t believe she’s a person of interest?’

      ‘My way? Don’t know what you mean. And no, I don’t think it will make her uncomfortable – she’ll be in her own, safe environment. I think it’ll wind her up a bit, but I also think she needs to know who’s in charge. Don’t you?’

      ‘Sure. I’m on it, Boss.’ Mack put two fingers to his forehead in a salute and took the photos from her.

      ‘Good. Make sure you only do one copy of each and bring these back to me before you go, yeah?’

      ‘Ah, I was hoping I could make a dozen copies and distribute them to my mates at the local tattoo parlours.’

      ‘That’s a good idea, actually. But just the one copy for Summers at the moment. We’ll look into showing others when we have a bit more info.’

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘And when you get to hers, keep it business, eh, Mack?’ Lindsay winked.

      ‘Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.’

      ‘Seriously, though, don’t act like you did before – we want her to assist us, not clam up because you’re rubbing her up the wrong way.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.’ He winked back.

      Lindsay casually looked through the photos of the tattoos, her mind flitting from one thing to the next, the low hum of the computers and buzz of her colleagues’ discussions dissolving into the background. Her thoughts had no structure – they were erratic, not settling on one concrete idea or theory. She needed other people’s input. Raising herself from her desk, she took the pictures to the back of the room and began sticking them to the large whiteboard. Sensing the room quietening, she turned. The team had stopped what they were doing and eager, keen eyes were now trained on the photos.

      ‘Right, well it looks as though I already have your attention.’ Lindsay moved to the side of the board. ‘Gather round.’

      The squeaking of chairs and the shuffling of shoes followed her invitation. The group of officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the whiteboard. Lindsay waited for them all to settle and then turned to the board.

      ‘Four pictures: each depicting a tattoo left on Hargreaves’ body post-mortem,’ she said simply. ‘Thoughts?’

      There was mumbling; some hushed interchange between officers.

      ‘Now, now, don’t be shy. Spit it out, people.’ Lindsay picked up a dry-wipe pen and drew a line downwards at the side of the