Connie had set Friday aside to catch up with her admin, but as soon as she walked into her building, drenched from the sudden downpour, her mind was on one thing only, and it wasn’t paperwork or filing. She chucked her umbrella in the kitchen sink, made a coffee then went up to her office. Once settled, her computer humming to life, she clicked on the images she’d saved to a file the previous day. She’d downloaded the most promising ones, and now, her face inches from the screen, she zoomed in on them. The photos had been mainly taken outside Exeter Crown Court during the trial, but Connie couldn’t pick her Alice out of the crowds. She leant back in the chair, her hopes now diminishing.
She studied the photos of the real Alice, and immediately it struck her how much trouble the woman who’d been coming to see her had gone to in order to replicate her look. Her hair, her clothing, everything matched how the real Alice presented herself. Even if Connie had seen some photos beforehand, there was a strong likelihood she wouldn’t have sussed out she wasn’t Alice Mann at first. Why would you question someone who sought counselling because of a crime committed by their son? Connie had no reason to suspect she wasn’t who she’d said she was. And even though Connie believed she was holding something back, at no point had it crossed her mind that this was what it was. What on earth was she gaining by pretending to be someone else?
Had Connie missed the telltale signs that she was outright lying? She wished she’d videoed her sessions now, so she could have looked back over them frame by frame to scrutinise her body signals, the way she spoke – the language she used, or didn’t use, which may have given her away. The benefit of hindsight.
With the photos not bearing fruit, Connie went on to search Deborah Taylor. There were fewer hits, not so many online photographs. Strange how the murderer’s mother seemed to have gained more press attention, more media curiosity, than the victim’s mother. The pictures of Deborah were more guarded. In each one, she either had a protective arm around her, or her hand being held – always by her husband – named as Nathan Taylor, a local council planning officer. The articles were less sensationalised, more raw than those about Alice and Kyle Mann. The interest had been more for the perpetrator, his family. Not the victim. How did the Taylors’ cope with that?
After hours of searching, Connie was no further forwards. She’d learned more about the crime from different perspectives than those she’d already known, and each victim – as inevitably in cases such as this there were numerous, not only the boy who died but his parents, family and friends – was ingrained in her mind. But she was no closer to finding fake Alice.
Would she still go to the support group, if it existed? Connie would work on the assumption that it did, as she had little else to go on. Even though Alice’s identity had been compromised by the latest news – and she must know that – it might still be worth a shot. When were the meetings again? Connie lurched forwards, clicking on the therapy file for Alice. Scanning the notes, she found what she needed. The in-person meetings were held on the last Wednesday of the month, so Alice had said. Not long to wait. Although, first she needed to find out where they were held. It shouldn’t be too difficult; there weren’t that many places in Totnes suitable for such groups. She’d start putting out some feelers, but in the meantime, she should make a start with another option.
And her starting point would have to be Deborah. Connie would find her and ask her if she’d had contact with the woman posing as Alice. During her last session, Alice had stated it was her intention to visit Deborah – and for now, that was the only lead Connie had.