Free Silent Voices by Ann Cleeves

can’t I come too?
    ‘I wondered if you’d heard. About Jenny Lister.’
    ‘What about her?’ Jenny had never been her favourite person. On the surface friendly enough. Supportive. But underneath quite ruthless. Steely even. Given to principles.
    ‘She’s dead. Murdered.’
    Connie’s first reaction – absolutely appalling of course – was that it served priggish Jenny Lister sodding well right. Then that this might make life very awkward. What if the business with Elias was raked up all over again? Only then came a moment of guilt, because deep down she knew that Jenny had dealt with her as well as any manager would, and that with someone else in charge of the case the experience would have been no different.
    Frank was still talking. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. But I thought you’d want to know.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thanks. I hadn’t heard.’ She replaced the receiver. The television was still yattering away in the background and she turned it off. Then all the noises came from outside: the burn running over the pebbles at the end of the garden, and the leaves of the apple tree against the upstairs window. And the voices that were inside her head.
    She shivered. She could smell the damp in Mallow Cottage now, imagined it oozing through the stone floor and running down the lime-washed walls, green and slimy like the stones in the burn. She went upstairs, pulled the duvet from her bed and took it down to the living room, poured another glass of wine, one more than her usual daily allowance. Curled up on the short sofa, her duvet tucked around her, she relived her memories of Jenny and Elias, grieving for both of them as best as she could. Not doing a good job of it, but at least making an attempt for the first time. She was still there when it was getting light, and by then the wine bottle was empty.
    Jenny Lister had employed her. Connie had got into social work in her late twenties after a spell, ironically, working on a local paper. What had attracted her? The usual ideals, she supposed. The romantic notion that she might make a difference in people’s lives. Throughout the training she’d had an image of this family held together through her support: a tousle-haired boy and a girl with big sad eyes climbing on her knee, thanking her for helping their mummy and daddy. All crap of course, but she’d always needed a bit of praise to keep her going. Jenny had been quite good at the praise thing, at least at the beginning.
    Once a month they’d have supervision sessions in Jenny’s office. Real coffee and nice biscuits – sometimes home-made. Jenny was one of those superwomen who baked at weekends and went to the theatre and read proper books. The sort of woman Frank’s new lover might grow into. And Connie would talk through her caseload. They were part of the child-protection team – the most exciting and dramatic area of social work. No incontinent old ladies or smelly, schizophrenic men for them. Jenny was in charge of fostering and adoption, of assessing and training prospective adoptive parents, but most of Connie’s work was following up kids on the ‘at risk’ register. Some of them would end up being fostered or adopted of course, but while Jenny chatted to nice middle-class foster parents in leafy suburbs on her home visits, Connie’s took her to the skankiest estates in the North-East. All dog shit and graffiti, and not a tousle-haired boy or sad-eyed girl in sight. Sometimes she thought Jenny didn’t have a clue what it was like.
    At first during supervision Jenny said all the right things: ‘Sounds as if you’ve developed a really good relationship with that mum, and a great idea to go with her to the toddler group.’ And: ‘Absolutely right to insist on talking to the class teacher.’ So Connie would come out, high on caffeine and approval. Later, though, Connie’s caseload increased and the visits to families became more routine, so the clients sometimes blurred in