Her Sister’s Secret

Her Sister’s Secret E.V. Seymour A liar in the family… Rosamund Lupton’s Sister meets The Woman in the Window in this gripping thriller brimming with suspense and lies! When Molly Napier’s sister Scarlet is killed in a road accident the whole family are left in shock.  The police are certain she purposely caused the crash that killed another, but what could have happened for sensible Scarlet to lose control at the wheel? Determined to discover the truth, Molly begins to dig deeper into her sister’s life.  With every question she uncovers yet more secrets, all connected to her own family’s past… One of them has something to hide. And then Molly meets Rocco, a stranger with dark secrets of his own. Nothing could ever have prepared her for what comes next. Perhaps the answers she is searching for are more dangerous than she ever imagined… Her Sister’s Secret E.V. SEYMOUR A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019 Copyright © E.V. Seymour 2019 Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019 E.V. Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Source ISBN: 9780008365806 Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008365790 Version: 2019-06-24 Table of Contents Cover (#u428fa376-25e9-5e6c-a8b8-722df5ee1945) Title Page (#ucc5ba8e3-80f5-50f1-84b6-a09506c8a45c) Copyright (#u356025a6-c0cf-5832-976f-a68a4985f191) Dedication (#u46d4a48b-147c-5574-96f7-313038520eae) Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Acknowledgements About the Author About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher For Fran and Jim Chapter 1 (#u84cc693d-ccda-58ee-8a68-46f1026bb39b) I did the wrong thing. Just once. And there is a weary inevitability about what happens next; me in a stranger’s car, sunshine tricking, morning heat ticking, with a throwaway look before I leave. Truth is, I slipped off the picture months ago, way before the terror set in. Maybe it’s connected to the heat, the dog days of summer inducing a kind of craziness but, no matter how hard I try, I can’t catch a break. Can’t. And four fingers of vodka don’t change a thing. I stare at the lonely road ahead. There’s the odd worker bee but mostly traffic is quiet. Nobody to see or stop me. Checking the rear-view mirror, I take another sneaky swallow, not enough to dent my reactions, but enough to make me bold. Unaccustomed to the rip and burn of booze on an empty stomach, I love it –feels perfect in the circumstances. Perfect. And will Nate care? I don’t know. Do I blame him for the sick chain reaction of events? Maybe. Will he feel guilty? Probably. I’ll be honest, half of me is terrified to tear a hole in an unimaginably beautiful day, the other sad, but it’s the best I can do to keep those dirty little secrets shovelled back into the earth and buried deep. It’s why something so wrong will be so right. You’ll see. A glance at my watch confirms it’s time. Primed for speed, the four-by-four starts, its throaty engine snarling. Power thrills through my fingers, up my arms, and takes a spin around my brain. In that petrol-charged moment, I picture how it will play out after I’m gone. They will say I was drunk. They will say I was overworked and suffering from depression. Some will scream that I was mad and bad. Out of her mind, my mother will cry. Intoxicated maybe, but the rest is false. I could never feel more sorted. If someone threatens to topple the walls and bring them crashing down, you make damn sure they lie buried deep in the rubble beside you. Sunshine smashes through the windscreen and briefly blinds me. I take one final slug of booze. For courage. For luck. For endings. Then, stamping on the gas, I drive. Chapter 2 (#u84cc693d-ccda-58ee-8a68-46f1026bb39b) “How many men have you slept with?” “What?” I was less concerned with Lenny’s intrusive question than with the fact I still stung from the furious argument I’d had with my sister three days ago. With bitter words and angry accusations, I’d blown my stack. And it hadn’t ended there. The rest was a blur of emotion right outside any normal spectrum. At that moment in time I’d hated my sister for making me feel so bloody inadequate and unloved by my own mother. “I’ll tell you if you tell me.” “Lenny,” I puffed, almost skinning my knuckles on the wall. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning. It’s bloody hot and I’ve not long had breakfast.” Sweat poured off me due to the weight of the hefty set of mahogany drawers we were manhandling down a flight of stairs. You need to be strong in the house clearance business and, although short in stature, I was, but this piece of old tat was proving a right bastard. “We have a full day of humping—’ She flashed a killer smile. “Shifting furniture,” I corrected, “and all you can think about is sex. What’s wrong with you?” In my experience men who banged on (no pun intended) about getting their leg over weren’t getting any. With Lenny, I simply didn’t know. Wind-up merchant, or genuine enthusiast? She bumped down another step with such force I thought my arms would pop out of their sockets. “Ouch. Watch my hand.” My biceps juddered and there was a faintly queasy sensation in my stomach. Motor-mouth didn’t pause for breath. “You haven’t forgotten to return Mr Noble’s call, have you? He needs us to clear his grandmother’s house.” “No.” I had forgotten actually. Mentally, I ran through my ‘to do’ list, which increased with each passing minute. The shop closed on Mondays, my time dedicated to admin and house clearance. I treated it as my weekly workout. “Only he called again yesterday. You were supposed to get back to him a week ago.” I didn’t dignify Lenny’s criticism with a reply. Too busy manoeuvring around a tight corner. A knob came perilously close to lodging itself between two spindles. With a superhuman effort, I altered the angle. Calamity averted. With only a minor diversion in her train of thought, Lenny got expansive. “I reckon I’ve slept with thirty-three guys, give or take.” “Bloody hell. What are you trying to do? Set some kind of record?” “It’s not a lot for a healthy thirty-nine-year-old.” When did you lose your virginity, I nearly said. In my head I furiously did the maths. I once, memorably, had sex in a store cupboard in an underground tube station on the Bakerloo line, and my last fling had been in a client’s home with Lenny’s predecessor, a guy who got clingy. In general, I was discreet about what I got up to in my down time, whether drinking more than was good for me or choosing unsuitable men to hook up with – often one inextricably led to the other. Scarlet, my goody-two-shoes sister, with her perfect husband, worthy career and perfect bloody life, would never stoop so low, and certainly not without her clothes on. I think I still loved her although I wished, in a complicated, sisterly way, that her halo would slip, trip her up and send her flying. “Would you sleep with a married man?” At this, I practically screeched. “As taboo as doing drugs.” “A bit of blow never hurt anyone,” Lenny chirruped. One stern look from me took the tweet right out of her twitter. Pink zinged across her milk-white cheeks “Sorry, Moll, I forgot about your brother.” “A bit of blow, as you put it, was what got Zach started.” After that he snorted cocaine that made him over-excited and unpredictable, and heroin that turned him into an octogenarian overnight with memory problems and a tendency to fall asleep any time, any place and anywhere. Lenny zipped it and, together, we flogged down the last two stairs, setting the drawers down with a mighty thump. “Pit stop?” she said, suitably chastened, a rarity for Lenny. About to answer, my phone rang. The caller display indicated it was Dad. Some of my friends disregarded calls from their parents when at work. My dad was different. A former senior police officer he’d taken early retirement and authority coursed through his DNA. Quietly spoken, quiet in every way, he was not an easy man to ignore, although my big brother, Zach, had managed it with ease for all his teenage years, most of his adult too. “Where are you?” Dad said. “Barnard’s Green. House clearance.” “Can you come home?” “Now?” I pulled a face at Lenny. “Scarlet’s been in an accident. An RTA.” I took a sharp intake of breath and translated the copper-speak; car crash. “Is-?” “It’s bad,” he said, a catch in his voice. I spiked with alarm, not so much because of what he said, but how he said it. My softly spoken father sounded at least ten decibels louder than normal. “Dad—” “I’m going to the hospital and I need you to stay with your mum.” “But—” “Molly, she has one of her migraines and is definitely not fit to travel.” God, she’d be doing her pieces. “I’ll be right there. You’ll keep in touch?” The line went dead. I gawped at Lenny who, from simply reading my expression, cottoned on that catastrophe had struck. “Go, I’ll deal with things here.” “But the van?” “You take it. I’ll shift as much as I can and pile it in the hall. I can load it later.” Knowing I could trust her, I flew. Blood sprinting, guilt poking, I was consumed by the darkest of thoughts: was I the reason Scarlet had crashed? Chapter 3 (#u84cc693d-ccda-58ee-8a68-46f1026bb39b) It took ten minutes to reach my parents’ house in Malvern Wells. Mr Lee’s claws clattered across the hall the second he heard my key in the lock. Barely stopping to ruffle his soft Shih Tzu ears as he yapped and snuffled at my ankles, I headed straight upstairs and slipped into my parents’ bedroom. In darkness, light peeped through the curtains, leaving a golden criss-cross pattern on the sheets. My mum lay, starfish-style, in the middle. Absolutely still. Eyes closed. Skin deathly pale, blonde hair a storm on the pillow. Even though I was her daughter, even though she was unwell, I saw how beautiful she was. Exactly like Scarlet who, with her generous mouth and petite nose and elfin features, took after Mum. “Molly, is that you?” At the sound of her voice, Mr Lee darted inside, hopped up and parked himself at the foot of the bed. He cast me a reproachful look and rested his chin on Mum’s legs. Proprietorial. My mummy. I kissed her forehead and sat down on dad’s side of the bed. Mum took my hand and gave it a squeeze. Even my sister’s fingers, long and fine, were like my mother’s. Only the nails were different. Scarlet’s were nurse short, mum’s long and highly polished. Me, with my dark hair, scary eyebrows and olive colouring, took after Dad. I got my practicality from him too. Unfortunately, my shortness of stature – I’m a shade over five foot – belonged to a throwback somewhere down the family line. “It’s all right. It will be all right,” I said, not really knowing if it would. Suddenly ashamed, I wondered whether Scarlet had confided in Mum about our argument just days earlier. The anger of our exchange suddenly swamping me: “You what?” I blazed. “I’m not as pretty as you. I’m not as clever as you. I’m certainly not admired like you. Was that what you were going to say?” “Don’t be silly.” Scarlet spoke quietly, hurt in her eyes. “All I was going to say is that you need to speak to Mum and Dad. This isn’t my fault.” With a superhuman effort, Mum’s eyes opened, tears pooling at the corners, bringing me out of my painful thoughts. “Oh Molly, it sounds so awful. They had to cut her from the wreckage.” An icy shiver tiptoed along my spine. “Mum, I’m sure it will—” “Her beautiful face.” While the situation seemed dire, I sensed that Scarlet’s face would be the least of her problems. Oh God. “My phone,” Mum burst out, edging up onto the pillows, agitating. “What if your dad calls?” Her gaze darted in the direction of the window. “It’s over on the dressing table.” I stood up, located her mobile and placed it in her hand. Meanwhile, Mr Lee snored softly, completely out of it. I wished I were dreaming too. “Tell me exactly what happened,” I said. “Was Nate with her?” Nate was Scarlet’s husband. An architect, he worked with my father on his renovation projects. I jolted. Whatever must Nate be going through? “No, Molly,” Mum said, with icy patience. “Nate called your father.” “Sorry, yes. Any other vehicles?” “A motorcyclist.” “God. Poor him. Or her,” I added. Mum’s expression briefly darkened. Bad form to express pity for anyone other than my sister. “Pass my water, would you?” Her voice was tight and clipped. I passed her the glass from the side of the bed and she took a sip. “Do you know where the accident happened?” “Not really, but I’m guessing she was nearly home. She’s working nights this week.” “Perhaps Scarlet was tired and took her eye off the road.” Mum’s jaw stiffened. “Scarlet would never make a mistake. She’s always so careful.” I considered this. A beautiful day, summer sun already up, and Scarlet travelling on a road with which she was familiar. “Do you know what time the crash happened?” Mum hitched her shoulders. “Judging by Nate’s phone call, between 7.30 and 8.00 a.m. Why, oh why, do I have to get one of my migraines now?” Mum placed the back of her hand against her forehead. “Have you taken anything?” “I’m trialling a new nasal spray. Scarlet suggested it.” Her mouth creased with pain at the mention of my sister’s name. Parents aren’t supposed to have favourites, but I’d known for as long as I could remember that my mum adored my sister and cared for her more than me. Zach remained more difficult to categorise. Whenever Mum spoke about her firstborn and only son her voice would tremble with emotion, but it was Scarlet who remained the centre of her universe. I nodded sympathetically. We didn’t speak. “I wish your father would call,” she said, fretting. “He promised he would.” “I’m sure he will.” “Do you think we should try Nate?” Definitely not. “Honestly, Mum, I know it seems like an eternity, but I’m sure everything that can be done is being done. If anyone can sort things out, Dad can.” My dad, in all our eyes, was the most capable of men, mentally, emotionally and physically too. He’d always been sporty, and now his building work kept him lean and healthy. She forced a smile and sank back miserably into the pillows. “It was probably his fault.” “What?” I said, startled. “That biker. Bloody speed merchants.” I took a breath, counted to ten, and told myself that my mum was understandably upset and already scratchy due to feeling unwell. “Probably too early to say.” “There are so many damned lunatics on the road.” “A bird could have flown out. It might be nobody’s fault.” Or it might be mine. Oh My God. The room suddenly bloated with dry heat. Squirming, I stroked Mr Lee’s head. Don’t let it be as bad as everyone thinks. Let there be a mistake. I promise I will never fight with my sister again. I will be nice. I will never blame her for anything. “We should call Zach,” I said. “Let him know.” She tensed. “Know what? At the moment there is nothing to tell.” I stifled a sigh. Contact with my brother was sporadic and difficult. To be fair, this was largely his choice and his fault. If we’d remained in Cheltenham, I could understand his aversion to possibly running into his druggie friends, but he had no connections in Worcestershire. That chaotic stage in his life was over, so I didn’t really get it. Having put my parents through hell, he remained a touchy subject with Mum and Dad. Whatever the ancient history, I believed he should be told about the accident, although, admittedly, maybe not right now. “Tea?” Despite the heat, it seemed the right beverage to drink. You couldn’t drink vodka at quarter to nine in the morning even if Mum would not be averse to the idea. “Please.” I padded out of the room, keen to escape, anxious to be doing something so that I didn’t have to consider what might or might not be happening. Like a virus attacking my nervous central system, all I could think about was my sister, the crash, the fallout, the blame. I put the kettle on and took the jolly cups and saucers – my mum’s favourite – from the cupboard and went through the motions. Spoonful of sugar for me. Light dash of milk for her. While it brewed, I tried my dad on his mobile. My call went straight to his messaging service, his voice sombre in a way I’d never noticed before. An omen? A scoot around local Gloucestershire news online revealed absolutely nothing. Before I got drawn into what was trending on Twitter, the kettle boiled. Arranging everything on a tray, the way my mum liked, I took it upstairs. “I’ve tried your father. No reply,” she said, brittle with frustration. “Maybe he can’t respond. Could be driving, or at the hospital.” “Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. We drank in silence. Her hands trembled. God knew what was travelling through her mind although none of it could be good. Eventually she eased back down the bed. Hid beneath the sheets. I sat and stared off into the distance. For a second time I considered calling Zach. He and Scarlet had never been close, and it was always me who tried to maintain family ties. “Can I get you anything else?” She shook her head minutely. “The dog probably needs to go out.” Only if I scooped him up and forced him, which was precisely what I did. Picking up on the bad news vibe, Mr Lee’s tongue darted out and licked my ear in a sort of ‘sorry you’re feeling sad’ gesture. I gave him a squeeze and carted him downstairs, through the kitchen and conservatory and into heat resembling a fan assisted oven at 220 degrees centigrade. Too long outside and I’d be done to a turn. I held back in the shade, watched as Mr Lee mooched across the lawn, skirted the vegetable patch and cocked his leg against one of the fruit trees. To the right, a teal-painted wooden bench where Scarlet and I once sat weeks before and prior to the row, the two of us gazing across the rooftops to the Severn valley, cold drinks in our hands after a blistering day at work. Peace between us. She’d seemed distant, I remembered now, not her usual smiley self. When I’d enquired if she was okay, she’d told me she was knackered. To be honest, I hadn’t really bought her answer and wondered if there was something up between her and Nate. Looking back, I wished I’d pressed her because then I’d be able to make better sense of everything. But maybe exhaustion had led to the accident. Maybe it was nothing to do with me. Maybe. The dog ambled back, cocked his leg again, this time against a flowering shrub on a patio bleached white with heat. I jagged in irritation because the weather felt all wrong. The sun wore a stupid happy-clappy grin on its face. It was way too lovely a day for unfolding events that I couldn’t call, couldn’t predict. Retreating inside, I ran water into a bowl for Mr Lee. The house seemed unsettled and empty, like a home in which a warring couple declare they are going their separate ways. Was it possible that we were all over-reacting? Might someone have got mixed up, identified the wrong driver? Was my sister really at home, sunning her rear and snoozing in the sun, while some other poor woman lay trapped in wreckage? Buoyed, I took out my mobile, punched in Scarlet’s number. Nothing. Switched off. Dead. Steeling myself, I went back upstairs. “All right?” Mum asked in the way people do when they don’t require a truthful answer. “Yes.” “Dog had a drink?” “Uh-huh.” “Sorry, you had to leave work.” “Doesn’t matter. Lenny is managing fine without me.” “Even so—” She broke off, stirred, eyes flickering toward the doorway, to where Dad stood. Tall and solidly built, there suddenly seemed less of him in that moment. Purple shadows etched upon his face and underneath his eyes gave him the appearance of the gravely ill. As he walked silently towards us, I read all kinds of emotions in his brown eyes. That’s when I knew. Indubitably. And so did my mother. Her hand gripping mine told me so. My throat cramped. “Dad?” In a voice stained with pain, he said, “Scarlet died this morning.” Chapter 4 (#u84cc693d-ccda-58ee-8a68-46f1026bb39b) Silence, like the split-second before an ancient tree, cut down, hits the earth. Dad started forward, every step an exercise in agony. Mum, slack-jawed, let go of my hand, gripped and twisted the cotton top sheet through her fingers, a metaphor for a life irrevocably screwed. When Dad reached out and put his arms around her, she let out a deep-throated howl. I slipped off the bed, made way, excluded. Numbed, I couldn’t really take it in. There were tears. I’d never seen my big tough dad cry. Not when Zach got expelled from school – again – not when he’d OD’d, not when my brother went to rehab that would make most prisons look like recreational facilities, not when Dad walked my sister down the aisle. Not ever. But he cried now. “There must be some mistake.” Mum’s sobs were dry. Excruciating. “No, my darling.” “But—” “I identified her.” Mum pulled away. “You did?” She spoke in a small, wondering, vulnerable voice. “Surely, Nate—” “Too much for the boy. I offered.” “And you’re sure? You’re certain?” “She’s gone,” he confirmed tearfully. Mum wrenched back the sheet. “Then I must I go to her.” “No, Amanda.” “I have to see her, Rod.” Stricken, I held my breath, watched as Dad put his solid hands on Mum’s shoulders, looked into her eyes. Firm. Back in control. All his ex-copper credentials showing through. “We can take flowers once the scene’s secured and preserved.” Her mouth tightened, ugliness in her expression. “I don’t want to take fucking flowers. I want to see my baby.” Dad glanced anxiously over his shoulder at me. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Maybe he was embarrassed because my mum never swore, and he wasn’t great with the drama. Maybe he feared the miasma of emotions about to break loose. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from what I already knew. My mother could live without any one of us, but not Scarlet. “Amanda, listen to me. You have to be very brave.” “I can’t,” she gulped. “I just—” “You can. You must. For Scarlet.” “Oh my Christ,” she burst out. “She always said she wanted to donate her organs. We can’t let that happen, Rod.” “That’s not an issue at the moment.” I frowned. What did Dad mean? “But there will be a post-mortem,” he continued. “No,” she snapped. “You tell him, Molly. Tell him it can’t happen.” I stared from one to the other, my breath staccato and shallow. “Mum, I wish I could but—” “Oh, what’s the use?” Ripping herself from dad, she tore out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Naked and unsteady feet crashed against polished wooden floorboards. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, but the accusing light in her eyes said it all. When she’d needed me most, I’d failed her. Dad stood up, met my wounded gaze. “She doesn’t mean it, Moll.” My expression told him that she did. “Leave her. She’ll —” He was going to say ‘calm down’ but, too late, realised the futility of it. He sat. I stood. Lost. A hot ember of grief lodged so deep in my chest I thought it would never cool. I didn’t know what to say, or how to feel, other than crashing grief and guilt. I’d never be able to make it up to my sister now. “Come,” he said, with a sad smile. I went to him and threw my arms around his neck and rested my cheek against his big wide chest. As he stroked my head the years rolled back, except that Scarlet was no longer there to share them with me. Scarlet was a lonely shadow. I pulled away, ran a knuckle underneath each eye. “How’s Nate?” “In bad shape. Went to pieces at the hospital. I left him with his parents. There’s an FLO with him too.” Family Liaison Officer. I was fluent in my dad’s cop lingo. “And now?” “There will be an accident investigation followed by an inquest. Standard procedure.” “What did you mean about organ donation? Scarlet believed in it so much.” He let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know the RP SIO but, as a former police officer, I might be able to extract some inside information.” I dredged my brain. Dad meant Road Policing Investigating Officer. “It’s a confused picture but I got the impression that the police were holding something back. The fact that they want to prioritise the post-mortem indicates as such.” I didn’t like the sound of this at all. I understood that reports could take a week or so, although initial findings could be disclosed earlier. Dad continued, as if on autopilot. “Every fatality on British roads is treated as a suspicious death and in this instance there’s two. In the normal course of events, a Collision Officer will identify and preserve records and review witness evidence, and a Vehicle Examiner will check out the vehicles.” I didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t. I tried to absorb the news. Failed. “Dad,” I said gingerly, “When will they find out what happened?” I had to know. “Sounds like a high-speed collision.” “You think Scarlet was driving too quickly?” “Maybe.” He shook his head. “But don’t tell your mother I said that.” I squeezed his arm; saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. We both knew that my mum would never recover from this. “It might or might not be a factor, but Scarlet wasn’t driving her car.” “How come?” I said, puzzled. “Remember that prang she had a month or so ago?” “Hit a gate-post.” Which was right out of character, I remembered with a twinge of anxiety. Scarlet was a good driver. Smooth. Fluid. Safe. Not like me with my tendency to curb it and poke my nose out too far at junctions. “The Golf was in for bodywork repairs. She’d rented an off-roader for the week.” “Maybe she didn’t know how to handle it.” “A possibility,” he agreed. “How long had she had it?” “Three days.” Yes, I remembered now. She was on her way to drop off her car and pick up the courtesy vehicle when I’d picked a fight. “Surely, she’d take it steady simply because she wasn’t used to driving the vehicle.” “I have to admit it does seem odd, especially as she was on the wide straight stretch on the Old Gloucester Road, after Hayden.” I knew my sister’s regular route. The speed limit was 50 mph, but drivers often took it more quickly. Me included. A hard lump swelled in my throat, making it virtually impossible to swallow. Still the tears wouldn’t come. “Was it really awful, Dad? Seeing Scarlet?” He glanced away, jaw bracing, his normal dark colouring a pale imitation. When he spoke his voice sounded raspy, dry and old. “I’ve seen many dead bodies, but nothing prepares you for—” He shook his head. Broken. “Here,” I said, clumsily handing him a tissue. He took it, dabbed his face and blew his nose. “We have to tell Zach.” “My job,” he said, stoic and uncompromising. A pulse ticked in his neck, his expression reminding me of the bad old days when Zach was in thrall to his druggie friends. He hung out with crazies back then. Dad knew most of them in a professional capacity. It wasn’t so much what Zach was doing to his body, destructive as it was, as what he was doing to our lives, Dad’s especially. He pulled out his mobile. “Wouldn’t it be better and kinder done in person?” In any case, Zach never answered his phone and, rarely, if ever returned a call. Dad opened his mouth to speak then hesitated, whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the sound of a loo flushing and running water. “Let me tell Zach,” I murmured. “No, I —’ “I want to, Dad.” I needed to be alone, to think and work out whether I was condemned to a lifetime of guilt. I shuddered to think that Scarlet was so upset by our row that she’d not paid attention on the road. Had I argued with her when she was already at a low ebb? Jesus Christ. His sad eyes met mine. “Are you sure? You’ve had one hell of a shock.” “Honestly, I want to help.” And do something of practical use. “It won’t be a problem. Promise.” He clutched my arm. “Are you okay to drive?” “Yes.” “You’re sure?” His grip on me tightened. “I am.” Anxiously, his eyes darted to the en-suite. “I’ll take care of Mum. You go to Zach.” Chapter 5 (#u84cc693d-ccda-58ee-8a68-46f1026bb39b) My brother lived a simple life in the arse-end of nowhere. It took me forty-five minutes to get there and then another fifteen through winding roads, flanked by high hedges hissing with heat, to reach the commune where Zach had lived for a decade. Thoughts fastened solely on my sister, my eyes clouded at the thought of never hearing her voice, never seeing her smile again. By the time I reached the potholed drive that led to Zach’s home, I was shackled by grief. Parking up on a patch of scrub, the ground rutted and dry from two months of hot weather without rain, a kaleidoscope of images clattered through my mind. Scarlet pale and clammy with shock. Scarlet bleeding. Scarlet dying. Eventually, I forced myself to get out of the van towards what was effectively a scattering of ramshackle dwellings surrounded by vegetable patches, washing lines and pens with livestock. Gareth, a skinny silent man from the Rhondda, was adjusting a halter on one of his horses. He supplemented his meagre living with woodcarvings and strange sculptures made from scrap metal. Nearby, two small children grubbed around in a makeshift sandpit. Think gypsy encampment meets Glastonbury on an unusually dry day and you get the picture. In front of the largest hovel, a raised piece of decking on which sat benches and old easy chairs with sagging bottoms, two semi-naked women sunbathed in the obliterating heat while Zach lay stretched out in a deckchair, legs apart, narrow feet bare. Clean for years and embracing abstinence with the same zeal with which he’d smoked crack cocaine, he looked reasonably healthy. If you didn’t know it, you’d never cotton on that he’d once been a hair’s breadth away from death. He wore baggy shorts and a tie-dyed vest that exposed muscles rope-hard from manual labour. His weathered olive-skin looked as if it had been dipped in creosote. Like me, he had a wide brow, although his eyes were blue, like Scarlet’s. A hybrid variety, he had Mum’s pert nose and Dad’s full mouth. Beneath his dreads, his eyes were shut tight against the sun; they popped open at my approach, a loose smile spreading across his face that vanished the second he caught my mangled expression. “Sis,” he said, climbing out of the chair. “Something wrong?” “Is Tanya around?” Tanya was Zach’s long-suffering girlfriend. I thought it best if she were there too. As much as anyone had a steadying influence on my brother, she did. “Craft market in Ludlow,” he said. “Selling cards and shit.” “Right,” I said uncertainly. “So, what is it? You look like someone tramped over your grave.” The smile attempted on his face, packed up and retreated. “It’s Scarlet,” I said bleakly. At the mention of her name, he started. “What’s she done? Look, if she’s said something—” “Done?” He blinked. “You’re making me nervous. I meant what’s happened?” Whether it was the compressed heat or emotional overload, I caught that uniquely chilling vibe only a sibling can identify. Zach’s was no ordinary slip of the tongue. I thought back to before the argument, sitting in the garden at Mum and Dad’s, Scarlet preoccupied. Did Zach know something I didn’t? “Moll,” he said. “For Chrissakes, tell me.” When I did, he made a sound, half groan and half exhalation. Brain fried a long time ago; his emotional responses were complex at the best of times. A woman, with a flat nose and cracked lips, stirred. “Man,” she said. “That’s bad.” “Real bad,” the other drawled, raising her head, turning over, in preparation to flash-fry her back. Expecting a shedload of questions, I waited for Zach to fill in the gathering silence. But Zach wasn’t like other people. Hands cupping his elbows, he stood mute, blinking rapidly from the sun or distress, or both. Unsolicited, I gave him a pr?cis of what Dad told me. “I want you to come home,” I said. “Nah,” he said. “I’m all right.” “You’re all right?” I was accustomed to my brother wittering on about his guilt, bad vibes and not wishing to further upset ‘the folks’, but what had started out as distance and separation, over the years had taken on the shape of a feud, the reason for its existence long forgotten by both parties. In the present tragic circumstances, it was pointless, ridiculous and a waste of energy, which is what I told him. “I didn’t mean it the way you twisted it,” Zach said petulantly. “They need you, Zach. Hell, I need you.” Why couldn’t he see it the way I saw it? “Aw Molly, don’t look at me like that.” “Like what? Jesus, Zach, this isn’t about you.” “I never said it was.” “Fuck’s sake, don’t you care?” “Of course, I fucking care. She was my sister too. And it’s horrible what’s happened.” “Well, then.” “Transport’s a problem. I’m not exactly on the doorstep.” “I can take and drop you back. It wouldn’t need to be for long.” I was pleading with him. “I have to be here.” He tilted his chin in the direction of the nearest hedge, bullish, as if he had urgent business on the other side of the privet. “For what exactly?” “Don’t you get it? They won’t want me around. Especially now.” His hands flew to his head, like he’d been caught in an explosion and was trying to protect himself. I knew my brother and he was hiding something, all right. And Zach’s initial question, about what Scarlet had done, had given them both away. A victim in a tragic accident, Scarlet was dead. Nothing could change that fact. But my brother and sister had shared a secret. And I had to find out what it was. Chapter 6 (#u84cc693d-ccda-58ee-8a68-46f1026bb39b) “When did you last see Scarlet?” We sat in the shade with homemade lemonade. The citrus tang hit the back of my throat like a blade. Zach scratched his belly. “Last year, maybe.” “That long ago?” “Christmas,” he said emphatically. “Not around her birthday?” Four months previously. Zach tweaked his moustache, shook his head, dreads swinging. “She was going to come over at Easter but there was a change to her rota.” “Speak to her much on the phone?” I sounded like a Grand Inquisitor, but Zach had always been an impressive liar – rather came with the drug-ridden territory. Directness reduced his wriggle room. “Now and then. Seemed okay.” “She didn’t mention a disagreement?” I tried to sound casual. The root cause of my row with Scarlet was not about money, although to an outsider it might look that way, but about favouritism and the way she, according to me, sucked up to our parents. If Scarlet had confided in Zach, he’d probably pass it off as a scrap between sisters. Cash, or the lack of it, had never featured heavily in Zach’s life, because he was so adept at sponging off others. Zach’s brow furrowed. “Who with?” “Doesn’t matter. According to Dad, there’s going to be an inquest,” I said, not so skilfully deflecting. Zach nodded thoughtfully. “How is he?” I hiked an eyebrow. “Apart from being devastated?” Colour spread across Zach’s high cheekbones, shame and anger in his expression, most of it aimed at me. “I meant in general. No matter,” he said. Waspish. “He’s doing his best to look after Mum.” I kept my voice soft and conciliatory. “God, yeah, how is she?” “Taking it very hard.” Zach nodded, met my eye. Unlike me, he said it how it was. “Scarlet was always her favourite.” “Which is why it’s important we rally round. It’s what Scarlet would have wanted.” His answer to my lousy suggestion was to take a gulp of lemonade and top up his glass. “What happens next?” “Post-mortem.” Zach visibly shivered, the hairs on his arms standing proud. There was an irony that Scarlet had danced with death every day in her professional life as a nurse, and would probably be matter of fact about lying on a slab and being pored over by a stranger, but the thought completely did me in. “Dad wants to visit the scene to lay flowers,” I said. Zach gave a silent respectful nod. I could see that me trying to draw him out wasn’t going to cut through or penetrate his lassitude. “Zach, what did you mean earlier when you asked me what Scarlet had done?” He let out a laugh, dry and arid. “Jesus, Molly, you’re like a dog with a bone.” “Well, it was a peculiar—” “Nothing. I meant nothing.” Odds on, from my set expression, Zach recognised my bullshit detector had flicked on. I might not have a degree, but I had an honorary in truth finding. I was like my dad in this regard. We fell silent. I couldn’t take any of it in. Not Scarlet. Not the surreal conversation I was having with my big brother. Zach drummed his fingers on the table, searching around for something to say. When he spoke next, he was quick to change the subject and asked about business. He had as much interest in my shop as he had in earning a living. I read it as his cue for establishing that my time with him was up and gave a bland reply. Zach reciprocated with one of his own. “Saw Chancer last week.” Chancer or Tristram Chancellor was Zach’s oldest friend. They’d been at school together. Unlike the rest of Zach’s mates, Chancer had stayed in touch, I suspected to keep a benevolent eye on my brother to ensure that he stayed on the straight and narrow. Weird really because Chancer was the opposite of my brother in every respect: successful, moneyed and happily married. The thought made me curdle inside. Long ago, I’d been smart enough to recognise that Chancer was way out of my league. “He and Edie are having problems,” Zach continued. As surprised as I was, I couldn’t give a damn. Exasperated, frustrated, I wished I could grab my brother and shake a normal emotional response out of him. “Think the marriage is on the rocks, to be honest,” Zach said. “Needy Edie certainly seems to think so.” “Don’t be horrible.” Edie was Chancer’s wife. She wasn’t simply in Chancer’s league; she sat astride it. The daughter of a wealthy investment banker, she came from a stocks and shares, Ascot, Wimbo and a jet-setting lifestyle. “What about the kids?” Zach pulled a face and shrugged. I drained my glass and stood up. Zach stood too. I read everything in his expression: Off the hook. She’s going. Thank Christ. I could have asked him to reconsider his decision, to change his mind and come back with me right now, this minute, but knew it would only make us both angry. I had to face it. Even an event as momentous and monstrous as the sudden death of our sister was not going to drag Zach home, or turn him into the prodigal son. He slung an arm around my shoulder, clumsily drew me close and kissed the top of my head and walked me to the van. “Give my love to Mum and Dad.” I gave it one last shot. “Think about coming home, Zach.” He looked down, scuffed the dry ground with a bare heel, kicking up dust. Not a chance in hell, I thought, climbing into the Transit and bumping back along the drive. Chapter 7 (#ulink_9be40d91-7a53-55bc-8958-80aca7880162) Dispirited, I turned onto the main road and, after a few miles, pulled over into a lay-by from where I called Nate. My brother-in-law and me had always got on. “Nate, I don’t know what to say.” “There’s nothing you can say. I can’t believe it. I mean what the fuck? Straight road. Glorious day.” There was a long pause. “Jesus,” he said with a hollow laugh that battered the metal walls of the van, “me an atheist and I actually prayed and pleaded for her to pull through.” “I’m so terribly sorry.” He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did his voice was all twisted up. “But Molly, how are you doing?” To be fair, I didn’t have the words to adequately and accurately answer his question. Most of me was in denial. I mumbled clich?s about expecting this kind of thing to happen to other people. “Is there anything I can do for you, Nate, anything at all?” “Be good to see you.” “What about your parents? I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.” “They’ll go home. Mum, well, you know, her intentions are good, but what with the police updating me every five seconds, I need time to think and process and—” Nate broke off. At first, I thought he was crying, then realised that something was up. “Actually, I really need to talk. In confidence.” “How about I drive over after I’ve finished up here? About sixish?” “That would be good. I’ll see you then.” I strained every sinew to focus on the road. What did Nate want to tell me in confidence? Was he going to reveal how upset Scarlet had seemed a few days ago? Was he going to ask me why? A fresh wave of shame flamed my cheeks. I reached Lenny a little over an hour later. Single-handedly, she’d shifted all the furniture from upstairs. Stacked. Packed. Ready to roll. Red-faced and done in, she stood with her back to the wall. As I slid down from the van, she walked towards me, solemn faced, with open arms. “Your dad phoned. I’m so sorry, hon.” Solid, dependable, anarchic Lenny enveloped me in a sweaty embrace. A tight dry sob I’d bottled for hours escaped from the back of my throat. I clung on, loss excavating a hole through my heart. I’d never dealt with this kind of news before. Scarlet gone. Scarlet dead. A moment longer and I’d start bawling and never stop. To head it off, I said, all business, “Could you run me home, then bring the van back to load up and take it to Flotsam?” This was my shop in Malvern Link. “I’ll pay you extra, of course.” “No way,” she said, as we clambered into the van. “And don’t worry about the shop this week. I can handle it.” A day ago, it would be unthinkable for me to consider relinquishing control. Now it didn’t matter. I stared out of the window, remembering me and my big sister at my first pop concert; both of us poring over wedding dresses; a pub lunch when I’d shaken the ketchup and the top hadn’t been screwed on properly and sauce flew all over Mum and we’d cackled with laughter until we were nearly sick. Happy days. Light days. Would I ever feel that carefree again? As stuffy and hot as the day was, I suddenly felt as cold as winter. Lost, I could make no sense of anything. We pulled up outside my house. “Any particular jobs that need to be done this week?” Lenny said. I shrugged my shoulders. I still had Mr Noble to contact, I vaguely remembered. He’d have to wait. I had one concern only and it wasn’t to clear my conscience. I needed to understand what the hell happened on that road this morning. Chapter 8 (#ulink_fa136566-2020-51e5-912f-24f74093cc45) Glad to reach home, I escaped inside and closed the door on a world that I no longer recognised. Ugly. Dysfunctional. Desolate. A wave of hunger grabbed my stomach and I realised I hadn’t eaten all day. Not really fussed, I browned a thick slice of bread in the toaster, smothered it with peanut butter and ate standing up, mindlessly viewing my accrued possessions. A sucker for old things, the interior was really an extension of the contents of the shop. Most people didn’t have a vaulting horse planted in their living room. All set, my mobile rang from a number I didn’t recognise. Normally, I’d reject calls like this, but these were strange times and I answered it. “Molly Napier?” “Yes?” “Rocco Noble.” Rocco? The only other Rocco I’d heard of was Madonna and Guy Ritchie’s son. Noble, oh yeah, the client I should have phoned. Scrabbling, I said, “I owe you a huge apology. I should have got back sooner, but I’ve been overtaken by events.” I winced, mortified. What would Scarlet think if she knew I’d referred to her death as an ‘event’? “All good, I hope,” he said cheerily. He had a nice voice, rich and low. I pegged him about my age, maybe a bit older. “Actually, not. My sister was killed in a road accident this morning.” I cringed. How could I be so indiscreet and reveal something this personal to a stranger, in a business call, no less? Judging by the stunned silence that followed, Mr Noble appeared to agree. “Hello, you still there?” I said. The unmistakable click that signals a caller hanging up asserted otherwise. I stared long and hard at the screen. Screw you, I thought, weirdo. “Your mother won’t come out of the bedroom.” Dad sat in the conservatory, hopeless and lonely. “How did Zach take it?” “Upset. I’d hoped he’d come home but—” My voice died away. “Zach is Zach. He’ll be here when he’s ready.” He stared blindly out of the window at the garden. “Have you talked to the police?” “I’ve put calls through to Roger Stanton, the SIO in charge.” Senior Investigating Officer. “Nothing yet. I phoned the garage where Scarlet rented the four-by-four and put them in the picture.” “How did they take the news?” “Someone’s death normally trumps business interests.” “Of course.” I cleared my voice. “Will you be all right, only I thought I’d swing by Nate’s.” I couldn’t mislead my father, although I mentioned nothing about confidences. Didn’t breathe a word about my bad vibe concerning Zach either. Dad had more than enough to deal with. “Tell Nate we plan to leave here about ten tomorrow.” To lay flowers, I remembered, the prospect unnerving. “I’ll be there.” “And if there is anything I can do for him,” he said, trailing off. “I’ll let him know.” I kissed my dad’s cool cheek and turned to leave. “Molly?” “Yes?” He tore his gaze away from the garden and looked up at me with solemn eyes. “Any news from Nate, about what happened, I’d be grateful to hear.” I read disbelief and unease in his expression. While denial was entirely natural – I shared it too – Dad’s instinct, sixth sense, whatever you wanted to call it, mirrored my own. A tragic accident it might have been, but there had to be more to why Scarlet came off that road. If I were wrong, I’d be the first to gladly embrace it. I pushed a smile. My father had no idea how committed I was. Scarlet lived – had lived – off the trendy Bath Road in Leckhampton. The road was more congested than usual and the side streets chock full of cars. A tricky place for parking, I found a spot outside an electrician’s from where I walked around the corner. As soon as I pushed open the gate, the front door cracked open. For a second, I imagined Scarlet standing there with a big warm smile and my heart caught in my rib cage. “Hello, Nate.” A million miles away from the mousse and moisturiser guy I knew, he stood on the threshold like a man who’d emerged from a war zone. His hair was lank, jaw dark. Against prison pallor, deep shadows loitered underneath his hangdog eyes. He looked as if he needed a blood transfusion. He wore an old T-shirt over three-quarter length shorts. Both had seen better days. He grabbed hold of me, and we squeezed the life out of each other. Eventually, he pulled away. “Drink?” From the smell on his breath, I guessed he’d already started and was probably halfway through a bottle of neat spirit. Couldn’t blame him. “A small one. I’m driving, remember.” For a second, he blanched as though I’d made a joke in appalling taste, and then seemed to pull himself together. I followed him down the short hall to the heart of the house, a stylish kitchen diner and family room with WOW factor; Nate’s and dad’s first project. Helplessly, my eyes zeroed in on the white and grey noticeboard that Scarlet told me had cost a small fortune. A mini home office, it paraded invitations, reminders and recipes, most of it written in my sister’s organised handwriting. A sudden surge of tears threatened to catch me unawares. I bit down, choked it off. “Wine or beer?” Nate said. “Beer, please.” Pulling up a bar stool, all cream and Italian leather, I sat down at the counter while Nate fixed my drink and topped up his own glass with whisky. “What’s this?” I picked up a navy-blue folder with ‘Brake’ written on the front. “A support pack. Someone dropped it off. As if that’s going to help.” Nate’s tone was bitter. I nodded sympathetically, glanced around the room which, usually so tidy, was a mess. My expression must have given me away because he said, “I’ve been searching for the bracelet I gave Scarlet for Christmas.” Three carat diamonds set in gold; it had cost a small fortune. My sister had been knocked out when she discovered the price tag on-line. It had cost the thick end of four grand. As much as she loved it, she thought it too lavish, which was typical of her. Why the hell Nate was hunting for it at this precise moment beat me. For sentimental reasons, or something else? Except I couldn’t think what the ‘something else’ was. “Turned the whole house upside down,” Nate complained. I tried to mute any reaction to what seemed a strange obsession, given the circumstances. “Maybe she was wearing it.” He rolled his eyes. “Not at work.” “Want me to take a look?” He hitched his shoulders in a ‘knock yourself out’ gesture. I left Nate nursing his drink and stepped out into the narrow hall and up the tight staircase to the main bedroom. It felt weird walking around Scarlet’s home when she was no longer there in person, and there were reminders of her existence everywhere. Nate had already searched Scarlet’s jewellery box, judging by the lid flipped open, but I dived in anyway. The contents consisted of earrings, a couple of dress rings and a charm bracelet Mum had given her when she was twenty-one. Much luck had it brought her, I thought stonily, as I turned my attention to the drawer beside her bed that disclosed nothing of importance. A rummage through the wardrobe yielded a similar result. The only marvel was how neat and tidy everything looked. Not a shoe out of place. Best clothes contained in those fancy covers you pick up from the dry cleaners. Everything reflected my sister’s ordered and tidy mind. If anyone was accident proof, she was. Or so I’d stupidly believed. Back out on the short landing, I hung over the banister and called out to Nate. “Did you check the spare bedroom?” “Found nothing.” “Mind if take a look?” “No, go ahead.” Small and sparsely furnished, a double bed consumed one wall. A lonely chair crouched in the corner. With no room for a wardrobe, a built-in cupboard provided storage. Inside, winter sweaters and boots and six handbags. I tore open each, turfed them upside down, unzipped the pockets and ran my fingers inside. Ostensibly, I was looking for a bracelet. In reality, I was searching for clues that would explain why the most sorted woman I knew had taken her eyes off the road and crashed in the sunshine and wound up dead. In truth, I also sought absolution. I piled everything back in the cupboard and, dragging the chair across, stepped up onto the seat so that I could reach the top shelf. Two colourfully decorated storage boxes contained photographs, scarfs and hats. I smiled as I picked out the mad fascinator that Scarlet had worn for her hen night. I didn’t bother with a plain box marked ‘Nate’s crap’. Of the bracelet, there was no sign. Nothing weird or out of place either. Setting the chair back, and about to head out to the landing, I spotted a navy rucksack hanging loosely on the back of the door. It wasn’t really Scarlet’s style, but I lifted it off to take a look. There was no phone in the designated zip up section and the main compartment was empty apart from a small pack of unopened tissues. Plunging a hand into an interior section, I grazed something the size of a receipt or car parking ticket and fished it out. Torn from a lined jotter, a scrap of paper, with writing on it. I stared at a London address in a hand I didn’t recognise, a name below read: ‘Charlie Binns.’ Neither meant anything to me. With the note in my pocket, I returned to the kitchen and sat down next to Nate. “No luck?” he said. I shook my head. “I’ll need to close her social media accounts,” he said randomly. “Have you seen the tributes?” “God, so soon?” It seemed peculiar that death, a private matter, should be made public when I hadn’t even had a chance to grasp what had happened. “People she worked with. Lots of lovely things said about her. Your sister was uniquely beautiful, inside and out.” A feather of guilt sneaked along my spine. I reached out, rested my hand over his. “There’s going to be so much shit to deal with.” He was breathy, and his eyes were wild. “I’ll have to cancel her credit cards and then there’s the legal stuff.” “What legal stuff?” “She died intestate.” I blinked in ignorance. “Without a will,” he explained. “I’m sure Dad will know how to handle it.” Nate nodded sadly, put his glass down, scrubbed at his face with his hands. Again, the mad-eyed look. If I didn’t handle this right, I’d lose him. “Nate, what did you want to talk to me about?” He looked at me with big soulful eyes. “You might need a stronger drink.” Chapter 9 (#ulink_8306714a-bf09-5977-ad97-77d0b9c6b540) “The motorcyclist was an off-duty copper with the Gloucestershire force.” My jaw slackened. Why it should make a difference was stupid and yet, somehow, it did. “Coming back from a shift and heading towards Gloucester,” Nate explained. Hence the head-on, I realised. “With both of them involved in challenging jobs, I reckon fatigue was the primary factor.” It would be the obvious conclusion. I shifted in my seat. The piece of paper in my pocket crackled. “What about the hire vehicle?” “Jeep Cherokee four by four, beast of a motor. I teased her about it.” His expression was wan. If speed was an issue, I realised that it would be in the accident report. Nate’s shoulders slumped. “Took them half-an-hour to cut her out of the wreckage.” I baulked. Somehow, I’d thought she was killed instantly. “My God, she was conscious?” The thought appalled me. “And the police officer?” “Never stood a chance,” Nate said darkly. “Apparently he was thrown twenty feet in the air on impact.” Blood thundered in my ears. “Was he driving too fast? Maybe he swerved onto her side of the road.” Guiltily, I remembered how I’d scoffed at my mum’s speculations suggesting something similar. Feeling grim at the prospect, we both fell silent. Nate was first to break. “Molly?” “Yeah?” “Scarlet was drunk.” If Nate had produced a hammer to thwack me over the head, I couldn’t have felt more astonished. Scarlet was a classic teetotaller to the point of boring for Europe on the subject. I’d received enough lectures on what alcohol did to your physiology from her. Strangely, I don’t ever remember Scarlet reprimanding our mum, a more worthy candidate. The thought of possible ramifications made my airways narrow and tighten. “That can’t be right. She didn’t drink.” “A smashed bottle of vodka was found in the wreckage.” “So what?” “One of the firefighters cutting her free said he could smell alcohol on her breath.” “That’s ludicrous.” “Exactly what I said.” “But —” “Look,” he said, abruptly testy, “I’ll know more after the post-mortem. Promise you won’t breathe a word?” “Of course.” It wouldn’t be hard. I swallowed my beer to make the point that the allegation was ridiculous. A cagey light entered his eyes. “When I was looking for Scarlet’s bracelet, I found a note.” “Yeah?” I said, pretty cagey myself. Should I tell him I already had it in my pocket? “From her to me. Here.” He pulled out a sheet of writing paper from underneath a cookery book and planted it in my hand. With trembling fingers, I straightened it out. Definitely Scarlet’s stylish, all loops and curls, writing. It read: Nate, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Love you, babe. S xxx I spiked with alarm. Did this imply suicide? “Forgiveness for what?” “Search me.” Nate took another pull of whisky. Quick and sharp and guaranteed to make me back off. He snatched the note off me and set it aside, out of reach. Surely, our row couldn’t have precipitated such a catastrophic turn of events. My blood chilled at the thought. That left another alternative: Scarlet had been in trouble somehow. But if she was, would I know? I thought we were close. Except — “Have you shown it to the police?” “No.” “You’re going to, aren’t you?” “Molly, the meaning isn’t clear. There’s nothing even faintly emotional about it.” “That’s not really an answer. The fact she left a message at all could explain why she wasn’t taking as much care on the road.” Spectral fingers dug me in the back. “Maybe she meant to do it?” Nate’s expression darkened. “Suicide?” I bit my bottom lip and nodded. “It’s not dated,” Nate argued. “It could have been written any time.” “But it might not have been. Nate, you have to tell Mum and Dad and warn them about the booze,” I hurried on. “Are you kidding? Think what it would do to your folks.” “Mum and Dad will find out anyway if the toxicology results come back positive.” Nate looked into my eyes with a hunted expression. “Your dad was brilliant today,” he slurred. “Identified her. Couldn’t face it, see?” “I know. He said.” “Did he?” Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “The thought of her smashed up.” “Try not to think about it.” Pain shot through me with fury, scorching my head. I had to concentrate on practicalities. I had to focus on the ‘why’ of it all. If I didn’t, I’d fall apart and be no good to anyone. And Nate needed me strong, Mum and Dad too. “Have you eaten? I could fix you something.” He took a gulp of neat, obliterating booze, by way of an answer. “Sweet of you,” he said with a crooked smile, “but this is fine.” “You must look after yourself, Nate. Scarlet wouldn’t want to see you like this.” Eyes half-closed, heavy-lidded, he turned to me with a slow expression. “Like what?” “Hurting. Drinking. Destroyed.” “Maybe, you’re wrong,” he said, with an ugly drunken expression. “Maybe she would.” What did Nate mean? Booze talk, I thought, and maybe there were always odd little inconsistencies in the way people behaved in the wake of sudden death, but I couldn’t ignore the remark from an experienced firefighter. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Scarlet was the safest driver I knew. Best to come clean. “I didn’t find Scarlet’s bracelet, but I did find this.” I showed Nate the scrap of paper with the name and address scrawled on it. “Mean anything to you?” He stared, frowned at the name and address on the paper and made a sound similar to the half grunt half sigh Zach had issued earlier. “Charlie Binns? Never heard of him.” “You’re sure?” “Who the hell is he?” He sounded accusing. I spread my hands, couldn’t say. “How much do you actually know?” The tone of his voice had that nasty ‘bad news’ ring to it – strange bearing in mind the morning’s breaking headline. My tongue tangled in my teeth and I bit down painfully on the inside of my cheek because I was right to be suspicious. There was definitely more going on underneath the surface. Nate’s response pretty much confirmed it. “How well did you really know your sister, Molly?” Chapter 10 (#ulink_ab101388-d519-5336-a461-a9aadb693891) He didn’t wait for a reply. “She’d been edgy and moody for a while. You must have noticed.” I flinched, forced myself to face the unthinkable: I’d been too obsessed by my own feelings of resentment to notice my sister’s emotional state. Didn’t make me feel good. “Naturally, I asked her what was wrong,” Nate continued, “but she never said. I thought it was the stress of work and suggested a weekend away. Then that conference in London came up.” On Critical Care, I remembered, about three weeks ago. “I suggested I could go with her, we could make it a long weekend, but Scarlet wasn’t keen,” Nate continued. “Used that old excuse about not mixing business with pleasure.” “Seems perfectly reasonable to me.” “Except the conference takes place later this month.” “What? You mean —” “Scarlet enjoyed a weekend away without me.” I stared at the writing in my hand. “She definitely went to London?” “According to the hotel she phoned from, but I’ve no idea who she was with. Maybe now we know,” he said, eyeing the piece of paper. I pressed a hand tight to my forehead. For Scarlet to break her own moral code would be massive. It would have ripped her apart. And what about a lover? Was there some guy waiting for a phone call or a visit from her that would never happen? No, it wasn’t possible, I thought firmly. No way could I believe that Scarlet would have an affair. It just wasn’t in her DNA. “To be charitable,” Nate said in a tone adopted by those who have right on their side, “she might have gone to London alone.” Which still didn’t explain what she might have been doing there. “How did she behave when she got back?” “Sunny as hell. Said the conference had been good. Informative, was the exact word she used.” “And what did she say when you pointed out the lie?” “I didn’t.” I straightened up. “Your wife goes to a bogus conference and you don’t challenge her, you don’t breathe a word?” “I wanted to wait it out, bide my time, see what happened.” In similar circumstances, I couldn’t see me keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I was unsophisticated and impetuous. “Certainly nothing on her phone or emails.” “You snooped on them?” I didn’t hold with that. Nate gave me a brazen look. Who are you to judge me now? His expression said. And he was right. I took a breath. “What’s the name of the hotel Scarlet stayed in?” Irritation chased across Nate’s features. “Leave it, Molly.” “Nate, all we have at the moment are wild guesses. I want facts. I want the truth. I need to understand why Scarlet died.” “There is no why. It was an accident.” Yes, it was. Or I thought it was. “Bu — t” “It won’t bring her back. It won’t do any good.” “Nate, don’t you want to know?” He sidestepped my question. “Your dad has it all under control.” “If you don’t tell me the name of the hotel, I’ll ask Mum.” The expression on my face assured Nate that I wasn’t bluffing, and I wasn’t giving up. With bad grace, he gave an address near Paddington train station. “And the room number?” “Molly —” “It might help to put your mind at rest, give you closure.” “That, I doubt.” “Please, Nate.” “For God’s sake, room number seventy-three.” The second I got home I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped off the top and drank straight from the bottle. What seemed certain, the post-mortem would throw up the ethanol in Scarlet’s bloodstream. It might not be lorry loads of the stuff but, for a committed non-drinker, even small measures could have Dutch courage effects. If Scarlet was guilty of causing the accident, the entire constabulary of Gloucestershire would be keen to blacken her name. With everything I believed in suddenly turned upside down and inside out, I wondered what other horrors lay in wait. Rear on the sofa and feet parked on the coffee table, I fired up my laptop and switched to online local news in Gloucestershire. Sure enough, a factual report detailed that the police were investigating a fatal collision. The location was given, and an appeal made for witnesses to come forward with information. A later piece identified Detective Sergeant Richard Bowen as the motorcycle victim. Aged forty-two, he had an exemplary police service record and had received awards for heroism. An accompanying photograph of him dressed in uniform portrayed a sleek-looking man, not dissimilar from Nate in appearance, with a majestic smile, the picture of respectability. To my shame, it dismayed me. Already I could picture how the story would play out: courageous police officer and family man versus drunk driver. Didn’t matter that Scarlet was a nurse with a glowing reputation. Her last inexplicable act was how she would be remembered, and it would sink her. Closing my eyes tight, I prayed the post-mortem the next day would prove she was sober. Maybe Bowen was in the wrong. Driving too quickly. Taking unnecessary risks. Next, I tapped my way straight to Google and the name of the hotel Nate had given me. Shabby, with peeling window frames on the ground floor, the hotel in which Scarlet stayed for the non-existent conference charged less than fifty quid for a standard room. Unless the pictures were out of date, it didn’t look the best location for seduction, but the type of place where unfortunate families were given temporary B&B accommodation by the council. What on earth was Scarlet doing there? My phone rang. I picked up, saw it was Dad and braced myself. My father could identify a liar at fifty paces. I’d have to box clever to conceal what I knew. “I found out the name of the motor cyclist.” Dad told me much of what I’d already discovered. “Poor bastard left a wife and two youngsters. One of my old contacts informed me this evening,” he explained, verifying that the information came from a reliable source. “Thank God, the man wasn’t working.” “Does it make a difference?” “A world of. It’s mandatory for the IPCC to be involved if one of their officers is on duty.” Independent Police Complaints Commission, I registered. “In case he was pursuing a suspect, or something?” Dad went quiet. “Dad?” I was sure I could hear the cogs in his brain in full motion. “I should have thought of it.” He spoke like he was kicking himself for being remiss. “Thought of what?” “Bowen was travelling home after a shift. If he was knackered, having worked excessive hours, the IPCC may still get involved and any investigation could take weeks.” And that would make a terrible situation worse, I thought in dismay. “Either way, it won’t be long before it hits the nationals.” “Really?” I was horrified. The thought of our private grief trawled through by strangers was hard to bear. That it might also provide some hack with a sensational story along the lines of ‘Drunk Nurse Kills Police Officer’ was intolerable I expected Dad to say something about the allegation that Scarlet was drunk. He didn’t, and, from the clipped tone, I had the strong impression it wouldn’t be wise to reveal it. He didn’t speak for a moment but, even on the other end of the line, I could tell he was thinking and trying to get a handle on the chain of events. “You weren’t aware of any problems? Something she was upset about that might have made her distracted?” I pushed every horrible thought away about the name of a mystery man scribbled on a piece of paper, the suggestion of suicide, a mysterious visit to a crappy hotel in London and the whopping lie Scarlet had told her husband. I told him I didn’t know. “How’s Mum?” “Exhausted. I persuaded her to take a sedative. She’s sleeping now.” “Dad?” I blurted out. “Do you mind if I don’t come with you and mum tomorrow?” “Oh,” he said, obviously taken aback. “Sorry. It’s —” “Of course, Molly, I understand.” Except he didn’t. Until seeing Nate, I’d been determined to go, wanted to, but now I had plans. Chapter 11 (#ulink_a39305cb-f312-5fbf-8fe8-83f9352f1de8) First thing the next day, I texted Fliss Fiander, Scarlet’s best friend, and asked if I could visit that morning. She replied: Any time after ten. So very sorry, Molly. To reach my car, I routinely take the scenic route down the garden where I have a home office over a carport. This is where I park the vehicular love of my life, a flashy white Fiat 500. Except that morning it was no longer white. With a hand clamped to my mouth, I gaped at what I could see of the bonnet, which wasn’t very much through a slurry of mashed flesh and bone. Reminiscent of a scene from The Walking Dead gore and shiny intestines spattered the windscreen. The smell, in the high temperature, was one of rotting meat and decay. Heart in my throat, I took a pace nearer to try and identify exactly what I was looking at. Closer inspection revealed snarling fangs glinting in the sunshine. Curved claws attached to once powerful paws protruded from a coagulated mass of remains. The black and white marking would once have been striking. Tufts of thick black and white fur streaked with blood was all that signified that the roadkill belonged to a badger. Anger flared inside me. I’d not accidentally run something over. I hadn’t sleepwalked in the night, offed a creature and driven back to home turf. The tableau before my eyes was the worst kind of sick joke. Shaking, I walked to the edge of the carport and onto the pavement to check the road both ways. Cars, pedestrians, school kids coming and going; everywhere perversely ordinary. The pub across the road had only closed down a couple of months before. Empty and boarded up, it had provided the perpetrator with the perfect cover to carry out their grisly mission undetected. It also suggested a planner and not an opportunist. I ought to call the police but, with so many unanswered questions about Scarlet’s death remaining, I didn’t want it to detract from any investigation. Of one thing I was certain: the timing was significant. I had no enemies and no business rivals. Could this be a retaliatory act for Scarlet’s actions? I resolved to call my dad. Stepping back into the shade, I crouched down, staring hard at the floor, searching with my fingertips for anything that might have been left behind. Careful to avoid bird shit from a family of nesting house martins; grit, dirt and dust were the only items coating my nails. Disappointed, I straightened up, returned to the house where I dug out a dust-mask reserved for sanding down old furniture and clamped it on. Next, I grabbed a roll of thick black bin liners and a pair of rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink. Back in the carport, I did what I had to do. The beast was heavier than I’d anticipated. Blood splashed my sandals and guts stained my clothes. The stink was indescribable and penetrated my face gear. Fortunately, I’d passed on breakfast that morning as bile filled my mouth. Having got the worst off the car, and dumping the bags to one side, I hosed down the rest, flinching at the sight of tissue and animal fluids circling the drain. The smell would take longer to dissipate. Locking the connecting door, I retreated to the house, where I peeled off my bloody clothes, tossed them into a plastic carrier bag and took another shower. Dry and dressed, I called Dad and explained what happened. Whether it was the heat, or grief, it seemed to take him an age to process. “Are you all right?” “Sort of.” I wasn’t. “Some people are utter ghouls. I’m only sorry that you’ve been on the receiving end.” “It’s just so extreme,” I mumbled. Dad didn’t know about the notes, didn’t know about Scarlet’s trip to London, the inconsistencies of her life. “When people are upset, they sometimes do awful things. Unfortunately, I’m familiar with the species. It could have been a friend or family member close to Richard Bowen’s.” Dad’s suggestion opened up a valid possibility I’d not had time to fully consider. “The best thing you can do, Molly, is to forget this ever happened.” “Forget?” “Darling.” I recognised that tone. It was specially reserved for telling me, in the nicest way, that I was excitable and gifted with an overactive imagination. “I’m not making this up,” I said crossly. “Of course, you’re not. Leave everything where it is, and I’ll come and dispose of it later. Whatever you do, I don’t want either Nate or your mother finding out. This remains between the two of us.” “I understand,” I said reluctantly. “Good girl, I knew you’d be strong enough. Now I really must go.” I had not forgotten my parents’ pilgrimage to the scene of the accident. And despite what my Dad said, I would not forget the grisly gift delivered to my carport, or the messy message it sent. Chapter 12 (#ulink_1b40b3c2-65b6-55ea-bf70-1013eab51fb4) Dressed in T-shirt and joggers, sweatband banishing her long honey-coloured hair, and with top of the range trainers on her feet, Fliss Fiander had obviously returned from a run or the gym. I could see she was upset. Her make-up wasn’t quite so immaculate or au naturel and her long dark lashes, which I suspected were permanently dyed, looked damp. Having never got the hang of applying foundation and lipstick, my look was more natural meets ‘can’t be arsed.’ There was a difference. Towering over me, she threw her arms wide, gave me a hug, and invited me in. “You look tired out, Molly.” “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” Correction: didn’t get any sleep last night and that was before this morning’s incident. On the drive over, self-doubt assailed me. Was I speculating too much about my sister’s trip to London? Could there be a completely innocent reason? Was I making deductions without the evidence to back them up regarding the notes found? In a way, it would be more comforting because then I didn’t need to be scared. Well, not much. “Samuel’s out with the au pair so we have the house to ourselves. Come on through.” I removed my flip-flops, my toes sinking into inches of thick oatmeal-coloured carpet and followed Fliss into a house that was the epitome of knockout design. The Fianders were ‘hired help’ folk, with staff for every aspect of their lives. I was as likely to watch Fliss Fiander with a mop and bucket in her hand as see her buy a sweater from the clothes section of the local supermarket. Designer girl. Designer house. She appraised me in a way that I found faintly intrusive. Had Scarlet confided in her about our row? Did she know about Scarlet’s trip to the Capital? “I’m about to make tea. Camomile or fruit?” “Fruit would be fine.” I hated camomile. Like drinking distilled weeds. From the kitchen, tri-fold doors led out onto a terrace with modernist furniture that matched the slate grey marble paving slabs and probably cost as much as the entire contents of my house. Beyond: a lush garden with ornamental paths, statues, arbours, exotic-looking plants and summerhouse. Outdoor Grand Design meets Hanging Gardens of Babylon. “Pop outside, make yourself at home. I won’t be a second.” I slid into a seat, stretched out in the sunshine, abruptly slain by the thought that it should be Scarlet sitting here with her best friend, not me. “There you go.” With a creamy smile, Fliss handed me a glass that came inside another, presumably to prevent condensation. I thanked her and she viewed me with a sombre expression. “Scarlet really was my very best friend, and me and Louis are totally devastated. I can’t imagine how you must feel. It’s such a shock. Your poor parents and Zach, poor Nate too.” Grim, I nodded, took a tentative sip, wished I hadn’t. “You’ve spoken to Nate?” “Briefly.” “Did he tell you that Scarlet lied about attending a conference and that he suspected her of having an affair?” Fliss flushed and frowned. “Hang on a sec. I must grab my sunnies. Squinting into the sun is so ageing,” she said. Needlessly, I thought. I stared off into the distance, listened to the birds, thought about a future I couldn’t see, feeling awkward because I had one and my sister didn’t. Feeling rotten because I wasn’t only trawling through my sister’s private life, I was about to trample on it too. “That’s better.” Cartier sunglasses replaced the sweatband. She beamed an expansive, self-confident smile designed to recalibrate the conversation. Made no difference to me. I picked up right where I left off. “Was she?” She threw me a ‘mustn’t speak ill of the dead’ stare, although it was difficult to deduce much at all through the impenetrability of graded brown lenses. A slight flare of the nostrils was her only ‘tell.’ I rephrased. “Would she confide in you if she were?” I tamed the jagging sensation underneath my skin. “I’d like to think so.” Which wasn’t the same as ‘Yes.’ Fliss Fiander was choosing her answers with exquisite care. I needed to push her and I was shameless about it. “I really need you to be completely honest with me. And before you say a word, twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t think my sister capable of drinking vodka neat from the bottle and driving under the influence.” “What?” she said with a jolt. “Unconfirmed, but likely.” She snatched at her drink. “Please, Fliss. What happened yesterday is so odd, so left-field, any scrap of information that can explain the tragedy, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me.” She rested her glass delicately on the low table in front of us, adjusted her sunglasses, and flicked both palms up in a defensive gesture. “There’s a saying about not shooting the messenger.” Chapter 13 (#ulink_068f65f2-6ab2-590e-a907-ed04386b0f22) “I’m a lousy shot.” It was supposed to put her at her ease. She responded with an imperious look that would take me years to perfect. “Sorry, please carry on.” “A rumour, nothing more, and definitely not the sort of thing for public consumption,” she warned, “but Scarlet suspected Nate was the one having an affair.” “Nate?” She flashed a worldly look. I felt like a child who’d found out about the birds and the bees – apt in the circumstances. Was this why he didn’t want to show the police the note his wife had left? Was this why he didn’t pursue my sister about her unscheduled stay in a London hotel? I quickly regrouped. “You say she was suspicious, but she had no evidence.” “Apart from the bracelet he gave her at Christmas.” I frowned in confusion. “Scarlet reckoned it was a guilt gift.” “Right,” I said, scrabbling to process what I was hearing, “So Scarlet had had suspicions for a while?” “Uh-huh.” “And it made her unhappy?” “Of course.” “Enough to make her lose concentration on a bright summer day, enough to kill herself and to hell with whoever was driving on the opposite side of the road?” “Good God, Molly, I really don’t know anything for certain.” “Well, what are you sure about?” I’d briefly lost volume control. I coughed, flicked Fliss an apologetic smile. “She spent most of last year moping about Nate,” Fliss continued smoothly, “but then, this year, she was happy. Almost too happy.” “How can you be too happy?” “Giddy then.” Giddy was not a word I’d use to describe my sister. And then it dawned on me. “Like she was having an affair as payback?” “I’ll be honest, I thought she’d met someone after we got back from holiday in Jamaica in February. She looked different. Radiant. I think I teased her about having a fling.” “Which she denied?” “Fervently.” I cast my mind back. I didn’t remember seeing much of Scarlet at the time. “Then what?” “I didn’t see her for a few months until we threw a party for Samuel’s birthday at the beginning of June. Scarlet came, and she looked absolutely dreadful. Frankly, I was worried about her. She stayed on afterwards and I asked what was wrong.” She gave me a long appraising look. Was this what it was all about? Two people fucking other people and one getting upset enough to —No, no, no. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. My sister had only three boyfriends, tops, before meeting Nate, one of which never went beyond first base. And yes, we talked about things like that. When I ordered a hunky strip-a-gram for her hen night, she almost passed out. She was no prude, but she exuded decency and doing stuff by the book, in every aspect of her life. There had to be more to it. What Fliss described was like a cheap scene played out in a soap in order to push up ratings. Fliss glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails, examined them and looked at me straight. “I got the impression Scarlet was in a jam. She didn’t want anyone to know, Louis included, but she asked if she could borrow some money. Quite a lot, in fact.” I felt the air punch out of me. Scarlet was always so careful. She didn’t earn a fortune, but Nate’s job paid well, and they were doing fine —or so I’d thought. “For what?” “She didn’t say.” “How much?” “Twenty-five thousand pounds.” “And you lent it?” I was aghast. What the hell would Scarlet need that kind of money for? Ironic, really, considering I’d had a go at her for accepting a free handout from Mum and Dad to buy their house in Cheltenham. “I would have but, ten days later, she changed her mind. Said she’d found another way.” A way that meant money would never be a problem again? My mind careered into overdrive. “How did she seem when she told you everything was okay?” “Relieved. Good. Her mood lifted. She seemed better.” Isn’t that how people who are about to commit suicide behave when they finally make up their minds? It seemed important to understand the chronology. I had to understand. Mentally, I built a timeline of Scarlet’s last weeks and months on earth. By my estimation, Scarlet’s change of mind occurred after her trip to London. Fliss crashed through my thoughts. “How’s Zach taken the news?” “Like Zach takes any news, as if he’s impervious.” She tilted her chin. “Scarlet often talked about him, more so lately. I think she worried he was about to relapse.” It would be a miracle if Scarlet’s death didn’t tip him over the edge. I reflected on my visit to my brother yesterday. Subdued, a little odd, but no more weird than usual, yet there had been something. I’d neither forgotten his opening question: What’s she done? Nor that sense he knew something I didn’t. Fliss angled her face at the sun, a light warm breeze lifting her long hair. “He was quite twitchy the last time she visited.” “When was this?” Fliss frowned in concentration. “Must have been shortly before she told me she no longer needed the cash.” Fear tripped through me. That didn’t fit with what Zach had told me. Which meant one of them was lying, and I didn’t think it was Fliss Fiander. Chapter 14 (#ulink_bb720b15-8885-5f70-842b-89750e3e8ebc) Dazed, I wondered what twenty-five thousand pounds would have bought my sister; freedom from her adulterous husband, or something else? And how did Charlie Binns figure? If he figured at all in this unravelling mess. As for Zach, was his inexplicable memory loss the residue of a druggie past, or because he was deliberately hiding something from me? I climbed into my car and called the grotty hotel in which Scarlet had stayed. My enquiry was greeted with a yawned, wish I was still in bed “Can I help you?” “I hope so,” I said brightly. “My name’s Molly Napier, and my sister Scarlet Jay stayed in room seventy-three.” I gave the exact dates. “Thing is, her companion mislaid his sunglasses – they’re rather expensive – and he’s sure he last had them at your hotel. It’s a long shot but I’m coming to London next week and wondered whether I could collect them.” “Hold one moment.” A tinny rendition of the soundtrack from the Titanic cut in. Mercifully, on the second chorus, the guy on the desk returned. “No, nothing found.” “You’ve spoken to the housekeeper?” “Yup.” “For Room seventy-three?” “That’s right.” “You’re absolutely certain?” “Miss, I already told you. We don’t have a gentleman’s sunglasses and, in fact, there was no gentleman registered to that room.” I thanked him and cut the call. It wasn’t what you’d call hard evidence either way. For that I’d need to take a road trip. Next stop: Kensal Rise and the mysterious Charlie Binns. It took me the wrong side of two hours to drive to Paddington, where I parked the car at a rate that made my eyes water. From there, I headed for the underground where I hopped onto a tube on the Bakerloo Line. Twelve minutes later, I was standing with my back to a big cemetery, squinting against the sun and looking at a map on my phone that told me I needed to walk via College Road and Leigh Gardens to Chamberlayne Road. If I’d been less focused on locating Charlie Binns, I’d have noticed that this area of the borough of Brent was up and coming and lively, that there were plenty of pubs, restaurants and bars, and had a cultured, arty vibe. All of which appeared to escape Mr Binns, I thought, standing outside a door sandwiched between a tile shop and bookies. Big ugly picture windows with thick heavy curtains, which were drawn, loomed down from the maisonette above. Not a promising start. I rang the bell, inclined my face so that my mouth was close to the speaker. I hadn’t rehearsed a speech. I’d have to blag my way in. No reply. I tried again, with the same result. Maybe the people in the tile shop would be able to help. I wandered inside and approached a middle-aged man at the counter. He had a pencil tucked up behind his ear and was avidly studying a holiday brochure. “Wonder if you could help me,” I said, “I’m looking for Charlie Binns.” He licked the pad of his thumb and flicked over a page. “Funny, but you’re the second punter to come knocking on his door recently.” My heart gave a little thump. “Did she give a name?” The thought of me following in Scarlet’s footsteps excited and terrified me in equal measure. “She did not.” “Was she tall, slender, pretty, in her thirties?” “Barking up the wrong avenue, love. The she was a he.” “Oh,” I said, crestfallen. Settling on another page, he removed the pencil from behind his ear and made a mark against Tenerife. “I do need to talk to Mr Binns and it’s quite urgent.” Rattled by the interruption, he looked up, his deep-set gaze fixed on mine. “I’ll tell you what I told him. Unless you have supernatural powers, you’ll have a job. Charlie got offed a month or more ago. The only place you’ll find him is at the cemetery.” I almost choked. “Murdered?” “Shot dead, a few streets away.” As the shock of the revelation hit me, two thoughts swam to the surface. Why did Scarlet have the name of a murdered man in her bag, and who the hell was the guy asking exactly the same questions as me? Chapter 15 (#ulink_3c43207d-6450-5785-8aec-684e8b80e7da) “YES?” A lorry driver had just cut me up and boxed me in. I was so bloody strung out and exhausted, I’d failed to screen the call. “I owe you a huge apology.” His voice was the equivalent of chucking a bucket of crushed ice over my head. I checked my rear-view, flicked on an indicator, shoved my foot down hard and pulled out. Fuck you. Let Mr Noble dig himself out of the hole he’d dug. “It was unforgivable.” “I’m not in the business of granting absolution.” To be fair, I had one too many sins of my own. “I completely understand but I wanted to apologise for my rude behaviour and say how sorry I am for your loss.” The sentiment sounded respectful and genuinely meant. Creep. “You caught me unawares, I’m afraid. I know what it’s like to lose someone.” I only felt marginally less pissed off. I definitely didn’t appreciate him doing an emotional number on me. “Long time ago.” And yet from the tone of his voice, I reckoned it still felt like yesterday to him. Is this how I would feel in ten or twenty-years’ time? “Does it get better?” I wanted him to assure me that it did, that this raw, helpless feeling would one day disappear, that the guilt would shift too. He paused, appeared to choose his words with care. “Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise, but you never get over it. In time, it doesn’t feel so powerful and overwhelming, but the pain is still with you. Always. Does that make sense?” “Kind of.” I had no idea. “I’m calling about my grandmother’s house clearance.” I pulled a face. What a selfish prick. “It’s pretty small but she had a lot of stuff.” Stuff was right up my street. A stranger’s crap my bread and butter, I was the human equivalent of a magpie. Occasionally, I unearthed gems. But Holy Christ, what was I thinking? My sister was dead. My parents needed me. Nate needed me. I needed to fathom why Scarlet would have the name and address of a murdered man zipped inside her rucksack. About to open my mouth to reject his business offer, he reeled off an address on the Wyche, a village and suburb of Malvern, the name derived from the fact that it was once part of an Iron Age salt route. “Drop by any time after five. Any day this week is fine.” With which, he killed the call. “How did it go, this morning?” I was with Mum, after driving straight to my parents, following my alarming trip to London. “Grim. Painful. Horrible.” She looked so bereft, I felt bad for letting the side down. “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you.” She made no comment, simply carried on as if she were talking to the dead. “We took her favourite roses from the garden. The verge was a sea of flowers. She was loved by so many. Such a bright, intelligent girl.” Mum was right about that. Out of the three of us, Scarlet had been the only one to go to university and get a degree. Zach, who was extremely bright, could have surpassed her academically, if only he’d applied himself, but drugs and taking the piss came before education. Me? I’d floundered. Briefly consumed by my own sense of inadequacy, I almost missed Mum’s next remark. “Most were for the police officer that died.” A deep note of recrimination etched her voice. “And did they have to be so awful?” “Who?” “That man’s colleagues. We felt like lepers.” Dad’s words echoed in my ears. It could have been a friend of Richard Bowen. “Feelings are running high right now. It will pass.” I said neutrally. “Will it? I know how we were made to feel. I was there. You weren’t.” Red-faced, I stammered an apology. “Oh Molly,” she said abruptly contrite. “It’s me who should be sorry. We mustn’t fall out with each other.” I blindly agreed. I had no such reservations about my brother. “Truly, I’m glad you weren’t with us this morning,” she continued, trying to make amends. “I still can’t understand what happened.” A thought flickered in my temple. “Did you see tyre marks on the road?” I needed to know if Scarlet had tried to brake or swerve, basically to avoid what happened. “None on Scarlet’s side. It’s odd, isn’t it?” Scarlet’s death, or rather her life, had created questions with no slick answers for all of us. My sister wouldn’t be the first person to die and leave a legacy of secrets behind, yet the questions that remained over a murdered man, a loan asked for and rejected, together with the carnage in my carport that morning elevated Scarlet’s death to a whole new level. Neither a sick joke, nor retaliation for a life lost. Was the dumping of roadkill symbolic? A message to back off, a warning? It was small consolation that the individual responsible had made his first mistake. For who in their right mind would, a little less than twenty-four hours since Scarlet’s death, act with such reckless and ruthless speed? It spoke of someone running scared and intent on issuing a warning, for reasons as yet unknown. That person banked on a blatant threat intimidating me. Who else knew that I had misgivings about the accident? What was it they feared? But that didn’t quite make sense because only I knew what was going on inside my head. I’d expressed my reservations to nobody. As hard as it was to admit, my wild imagination was probably getting the better of me. Strung-out over Scarlet’s death, I was thinking ‘threat’ rather than ‘sick joke’. Either way, as shaken and frightened as I was, it was the biggest come-on ever. Chapter 16 (#ulink_c149fd40-c3e9-5d69-a486-4b7431761038) I barely noticed the dawn as it crawled out of bed, or the birds bashing out a chorus, or even whether I was awake or asleep. I had so much stuff circling my mind, I couldn’t tell the difference. When the first blade of sunshine stabbed a hole in the curtains, I sloped off to the bathroom. After making a pot of builder’s tea, I switched on my laptop and scoured for news of Charlie Binns’ murder. I found it care of the local Brent newspaper. ‘A murder investigation has been launched after the shooting of a sixty-eight-year-old man in Gladstone Mews, Brondesbury at 10.47 p.m. on 5 June. Armed police officers arrived at 11.00 p.m. after neighbours reported hearing several shots fired. The victim, who was shot at close range, was pronounced dead at the scene in what has been described as a ‘professional hit.’ Detective Inspector Neil Judd said, “Detectives are at the scene, working to build a clear picture of the circumstances of this attack. A contract killing is one of several lines of inquiry that police are pursuing. I want to appeal to anyone with information to contact the police as a matter of urgency. No arrests have been made.” A police spokeswoman later refused to confirm claims that Mr Binns was an informer. A friend who did not wish to be named said that Mr Binns was a very private individual, a true gentleman and would be greatly missed.’ I sat back, wide-eyed. What was Scarlet’s interest in this man? Was it sheer happenstance that Bowen was a police officer, or did he have a professional connection to Binns? Reaching for my phone, I checked through my last texts from my sister. Anodyne and unrevealing, nothing leapt out. I had absolutely no inkling of what she was up to. If Scarlet had a wild, secretive side, she’d kept it hidden. Nothing conveniently explained the tragic turn of events. All I saw was difficulty and complication. All I remembered was bitter rivalry and angry words. Was this what was really driving me, a strong desire to relieve my guilt for accusations that I should never have made? I made a brief call to the shop to check that everything was ticking along. If it weren’t for Lenny, I’d have stuck a closed sign on the door and locked up for the week, the month, the year, however long it took to work things out. Afterwards, and still trying to think the angles through, I scavenged the fridge for eggs and milk and knocked up an omelette. My mobile rang as I fished breakfast out of a frying pan. It was Nate. Speaking in a dark, urgent tone, he didn’t mention the potential booze in Scarlet’s system, or the alleged affair, his or hers. He didn’t muck about. “There was no note.” “But —” “I burnt it.” I sat bolt upright. “You did what?” “Had to be done.” “You destroyed potential evidence, Nate. You’re interfering in a police investigation.” Making me an accessory by default. “Destroying it doesn’t materially alter the enquiry.” It sounded like my father speaking, except Dad would never condone Nate’s action. “The cops will still do what they have to,” he said, scratchy, heading off any argument from me. Damn right, my responding protest was loud and long. “Do you want Scarlet’s name to be dragged through the mud any more than it is already?” Nate demanded. “Of course, I don’t.” “What with drink driving and killing a police officer, it’s intolerable.” Never mind Scarlet’s interest in a man shot dead miles away. I went to interject but Nate beat me to it. “It’s best we never had this or any other conversation on the subject,” he finished. Breathless. Furious. Desperate. My jaw uncomfortably clenched. “Nate, tell me what the fuck is going on.” The silence that ensued could penetrate reinforced steel. Time to brandish a diamond-cutter. “That man you thought Scarlet was having an affair with, Charlie Binns?” “What of the bastard?” “He was a pensioner.” “So is Mick Jagger.” “Binns was murdered.” I could almost feel Nate’s brain revolve through 180 degrees. “What, in God’s name, are you suggesting? You surely don’t think —” “Are you playing away, Nate?” “Molly, I —” “What made her so miserable?” I want to know what you did to her, what drove her to do what she did and get mixed up in all kinds of mess. No way did I believe my brother-in-law had associations with a contract killer, but he obviously wasn’t the innocent he portrayed himself to be. “Bloody hell, Molly.” “You know I won’t give up.” Another silence. I could practically hear Nate weighing up the odds. “It’s difficult.” I’ll bet. I sat still, feeling a bit sick, thinking and unthinking, everything inchoate and slippery and way out of reach. “Shit happens, Moll.” “Don’t call me that.” I was cold, unmoved and threatening, “All right, all right. Yes, I was having an affair. Things went a bit south between me and Scarlet.” “I’m coming straight over.” My planned visit to Zach could wait. “Might be awkward. My family liaison officer will be here in a couple of hours.” At this I smiled. FLO’s existed to support victims. They also played an important role in chasing down any investigation. If dodgy stuff were going on with nearest and dearest, they were demons at unearthing it. “Excellent,” I said. “Molly, for Chrissakes.” “Don’t worry.” My tone assured my brother-in-law that he should be very worried indeed. “See you in a bit.” Outside Nate’s and Scarlet’s home, two men and a woman hovered like buzzards preparing to consume carrion. Beady eyes swivelled in my direction. I had no doubt they were from the press, an observation confirmed when the woman stepped towards me and asked if I knew the family of the ‘dead nurse’. Issuing my best ‘fuck off’ look, I swept past and rang the bell. Someone, I presumed to be a police officer, answered the door. Sandy-haired, a little receding, not terribly tall, and with a flinty expression, he had that whole authoritative, commanding and suspicious vibe going on. One look and I felt guilty of nameless crimes. “I’m Molly Napier, Scarlet’s sister and Nate’s sister-in-law,” I said. “Warren Childe, family liaison officer.” His voice sounded as if it had a crack running down the middle of it. “Sorry for your loss. Best come in.” I glanced over my shoulder at the gathering ghouls. He nodded in sympathy and stepped aside. As I swept down the hall, I heard him direct all enquiries to the press office. “And guys, can you please respect the privacy of the family at this difficult time.” I found Nate seated on the sofa in the small sitting room with his face in his hands. He barely moved as I sat beside him. Seemed to be waiting for Childe. “Tell her,” he muttered, when Childe came in. I looked up questioningly as Childe cleared his throat. “The post-mortem threw up some anomalies.” Anomalies. Cold. Analytical. Factual. Full-on police mode. I knew what was coming next. Except I didn’t. Not quite. “Your sister had 240 milligrams per 100 millilitres of blood in her system – around three times the legal limit for driving,” Childe explained. “What about Bowen?” Nate said. “Had he been drinking?” “No evidence of substance abuse of any kind,” Childe said smoothly. “Preliminary enquiries suggest that the pre-collision mechanical condition of the vehicle was good. There were no tyre or skid marks on the road to suggest that Scarlet was forced to take evasive action.” Childe looked with an ‘are you with me so far’ expression. I responded with a dull nod. “Witness statements suggest that the driver of the jeep —” “My sister,” I protested. “Deliberately,” he said, raising his voice a decibel, “drove into the path of the oncoming motorcyclist.” I stared wide-eyed. Inside, a silent scream yelled No. Chapter 17 (#ulink_05c8e02a-1c5b-5a94-bf1e-ffdbea2e1fa5) My head felt as if a lump of lead was where my brain should be. Nate, next to me, physically jolted, his body lifting off the sofa by an inch. “What witnesses? Who are these bloody people?” “The driver in the vehicle behind Bowen.” “How fast was he travelling?” I said irritably. “Saw it all. Said that Bowen braked at the very last second but, by then, it was too late.” “You’re suggesting that my sister used her vehicle like a weapon, a battering ram?” “I wouldn’t put it like that.” “Then how would you put it?” Nate interjected, cold with anger. “I understand this is upsetting, but —” “She could have blacked out, had a heart attack, or sneezed, for God’s sake,” I cut in. Throat raw and exposed, my voice was too loud. “There could have been oil on the road.” “There wasn’t,” Childe said. “You said witness statements. You mean more than one?” “There was a pedestrian.” “On that busy road?” “A jogger,” Childe clarified. “This corroborates an initial vehicle assessment of an absence of corresponding tyre and skid marks. Scarlet never braked. Quite the contrary; we think she actually sped up.” I nodded blindly. What else could I do? “I’ve explained to Nathan that we need to talk about Scarlet’s mental health.” “They think she was suicidal.” Nate’s tone was a mess of cynicism. Only I could detect the fake ring in it. The message left for Nate had been a suicide note, and he knew it. Instantly, I thought about Fliss’ observation, the way Scarlet seemed suddenly sorted, the relief she felt. I had to admit that suicide suddenly seemed a strong possibility. But I also knew my sister. “If she’d wanted to kill herself, she wouldn’t have hurt someone else. She was a nurse. She believed in saving lives, not taking them.” “I agree,” Nate said. “And, if that was her plan, which I definitely don’t buy, she would have targeted something a great deal more solid. A brick wall, tunnel or bridge is more final, isn’t it, more likely to do the job?” Articulating it made me go hot and cold and hot again. Childe remained deadpan. “It’s only one avenue of enquiry.” What other lines were they pursuing? Suspicion pinched my nerves. Childe viewed the pair of us as if we were nobly defending my sister’s honour, which we were. He returned to his favourite theme. “Were you aware of any difficulties your sister had?” I swallowed, shook my head, glad that the scream inside, this time, was silent. “No history of depression?” “None.” “Never attempted to take her own life?” “Of course not.” “Was she a heavy drinker?” “I told you she didn’t drink,” Nate piped up, frustrated, simply not buying this particular piece of evidence. “She’d been on night duty, for God’s sake. She drove home early morning.” Childe returned to the facts and, punch-drunk with information, I tuned out. Glancing through the window, I noticed people walking into town, heading off for appointments, some carrying bags of shopping. On the other side of the road: loud men with loud music erecting scaffolding. Life churning. Everything the same and yet nothing the same and wouldn’t be again. Oh. My. God. I noticed a woman marching along the pavement. Hair scraped off her face and manacled in a ponytail, her complexion spotty and slightly pitted beneath the tan, she had pale blue, luminous eyes and her full mouth curved down, carving deep lines from the corner of her lips to her chin. If anyone could be described as looking murderous, she did. Childe followed my gaze. “Jesus,” he cursed, and dived out of the room. Taken aback, Nate also looked and we both watched, mystified, as the woman flung open the gate, shot down the path, one hand diving into her handbag, the other clenched into a fist, ready to rap on the front door. In strides, Childe got to it first. “Heather, we’re all understandably raw right now —” “I’m not interested in what you feel,” she exploded, “I want that bastard inside to know what his slag of a wife was up to.” Slag. Should I give her a mouthful? Nate tensed, turned to me and silently mouthed No. “Heather,” I heard Childe say sternly. “Go home. Your kids need you.” “Damn right they do, and whose fault is that?” Her eyes shot to the window. Automatically, Nate and I shrank back. “You’re not thinking straight, love. Sam Holland’s your FLO, right? I’ll give her a call.” I had to hand it to Childe. He was the epitome of cool composure and warm compassion, yet no way was the woman setting foot over the threshold. “I have Sam on speed dial,” the woman spat back. “If I need her, I’ll ring for her. Here,” she said. “Give Mr Jay this. It’s all I came for.” Next, fast footsteps followed by the gate smashing open and banging against its hinges. Childe returned inside. He looked more shaken than he’d sounded seconds ago. “I’m sorry about that.” “Who was that bloody woman?” Nate said. “Richard Bowen’s widow.” I let out a groan, regretting my first instinct, which was to have laid into her verbally. Nate pitched forward, hands clasped over his head. “I’m sorry but can either of you identify this?” Childe extended his arm. In the palm of his hand nestled a gold and diamond bracelet. It belonged to my sister. Chapter 18 (#ulink_307a6e0f-8af1-5d9e-af07-3f822437e6b5) “I’ve never seen it before.” The conviction in Nate’s voice blew me away. Like me, he knew it was Scarlet’s bracelet and yet he’d lied. The thought of how it had fallen into Mrs Bowen’s hands made me queasy. Slag, she’d said. Christ, if Scarlet had been involved in a relationship with Richard Bowen, it changed the entire picture. “And you?” Childe said, hawk-eyed. “Me?” I said. “Yes.” The muscles in Nate’s thighs, inches from mine, tightened, the sofa complaining under his silent protest. “I can’t be sure,” I lied. Childe’s eyes locked on mine. Buckling under his gaze, I mumbled, “She might have had something similar, but I’m not certain it’s the same one.” It was a pretty rubbish attempt to blur the truth. “Okay,” Childe said, in a way that assured me it was not okay at all. He got straight on his phone, all the while glaring at the pair of us. After reporting the incident with Mrs Bowen, he mentioned the bracelet. When someone spoke back, he stepped out into the hallway. I heard him say something about ‘escalating the investigation’, which could only be bad. Nate turned to me, fury in his expression. “Why, in God’s name, did you admit it could be hers?” “Don’t have a go at me. Why did you lie?” I spat back. “To protect my wife’s reputation.” “Are you sure it’s not your reputation?” I conveniently parked any suggestions about my sister’s private life. “You’re a hypocrite, Nate.” His jaw clenched. At that close proximity, I could almost hear his teeth grind his fillings to dust. “According to Fliss Fiander, Scarlet suspected you were having an affair. Hell, she probably knew.” “She had no damn right to say such a terrible thing.” “Scarlet or Fliss?” I sniped back. Nate tensed. Lines carved deep grooves in his forehead and his eyes became angry slits. “It’s none of your business.” Given the circumstances, I strongly disagreed, and I was furious with Nate for making me his secret-keeper. “How do you think Scarlet’s bracelet wound up in Heather Bowen’s hand –by teleportation?” Nate didn’t wait for an answer. “The woman must have gone through her husband’s things and found it.” As one picture smashed in my head, another ugly image revealed itself. The note now assumed new significance. Scarlet was apologising for what she was about to do, not something she had already done. She’d planned it. That note, damn it, demonstrated a degree of premeditation. And Nate had burnt it. Tears sprung to his eyes. “Even if she were sleeping with Bowen or having sex with someone else, what the fuck does it matter? She’s dead.” He let out a weary ragged sigh. “Don’t you see that I’m trying to protect her?” The sincerity in Nate’s expression made my pulse jive. He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped. Childe was back. Focused. Determined. “We’re going to need to conduct a search of the property, Nate.” “Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.” “We know that,” Childe said, with a modicum of sympathy. “And I genuinely understand.” “Do you? Have you ever lost a wife?” “No,” he said plainly. “But I have plenty of experience of those who have.” “Not quite the same thing, is it?” “Nate,” I said, glancing at Childe, desperate to dial down Nate’s bellicosity. “The guy is simply doing his job, trying to help.” It’s what Dad would say. “Molly’s right, Nate,” Childe said, flashing me an appreciative look. Nate glowered then let out an enormous sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” “Good.” Childe seemed glad the conversational dynamics had altered in his favour. “Did either of you have laptops or computers?” Nate’s pallor turned a shade lighter. “Well, yeah.” “We’ll need those too.” Nate closed his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, not angrily, as if he was cursed but as if the game was up. Was Nate worried a taste for porn would be disclosed, or concerned that emails to a woman he was sleeping with would be revealed? And what about Scarlet? Everything seemed to be running away, notching up several gears. “Isn’t this a little over the top? It’s not a murder investigation.” As my words broke loose, I sparked inside. If the police could prove beyond any reasonable doubt that Scarlet deliberately targeted Bowen, she would be branded a murderer. “Standard procedure in the circumstances,” Childe cut in. “Along with checking Scarlet’s phone records and call log.” “Fuck’s sake.” A vein in Nate’s temple stood out proud. “Is that a problem for you, Nate?” Childe’s tone was even, but his expression razor sharp. Nate tilted his head, jutted out his chin. Guarded. I shot him a look. “Nope.” “Good,” Childe said. “Is there somewhere close you can go for a few days?” “He can stay with me.” This time Nate shot me a look. From the expression on Childe’s face, he clearly favoured my suggestion. “We may need to ask further questions.” My thoughts entirely and the only reason I was about to take Nate captive. “What sort of questions?” Nate said. Clues to whether Scarlet had a prior relationship with Richard Bowen, whether or not she had a motive to harm him, I thought. I bet her bracelet would fall under the forensic microscope too. Whatever I believed or wanted to believe; I couldn’t argue with the facts. “Simply routine,” Childe said, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Ridiculous.” Forcing a breezy note into my voice and looking Childe directly in the eye, I said, “That’s settled then.” And before Nate could protest, I added. “I’ll give you my address and contact number.” Chapter 19 (#ulink_b195e610-a8dd-51bc-beeb-12039a8cc78d) Begrudgingly, Nate got his shit together. His words, not mine, and we set off. As if to taunt us, signs that said ‘Think Bike’ appeared at regular intervals along the route. “Those witnesses should have their eyesight tested,” he grumbled. “Never mind them. I’m going to stop the car and you and me are going to have a chat.” “Christ, do you have air conditioning in this thing?” Dutifully, I rotated the control on the air con. “Don’t change the subject.” “I’m not. Pull over.” “So that you can do a runner? No chance.” “So we can talk.” I cast around, thinking I’d need to choose exactly the right spot, somewhere Nate would feel comfortable, but also not the kind of place he could easily make a break for it. Turning off the main road, I found a place a few miles on. Random. Surrounded by fields. Nearest house half a mile away. I pulled up next to a tree stump that resembled an animal carcass. Blinking away unwanted memories, I killed the engine. Turning around to face my brother-in-law, I thought he resembled a man about to chuck himself off a multi-storey. His skin was pearly white, almost translucent. All I saw were his eyes, which were deep dark squirming pools. “Did you know that Scarlet asked Fliss for a loan?” Nate half-smiled, disbelieving. “That’s rubbish. Fliss must be mistaken or she misunderstood.” I repeated what Fliss had said. Nate’s body seemed to fold in on itself. “I don’t understand.” “Maybe she wanted to start a new life.” “And leave me? Never. Not her style.” I was no longer sure what my sister’s style was. Why else would Scarlet need ?25k? If she’d changed her mind about taking a loan from Fliss because she’d found another source, it would show in her bank statements to which the police had access. She’d hardly be in receipt of ?25k in used tenners. If anything of a financial nature was uncovered, the police were bound to follow the money trail. They always did. “Maybe she planned to take off with Bowen and got cold feet.” “You’re suggesting that the accident was the result of a lover’s tiff?” Nate scoffed. “A crime of passion?” Chill seized hold of my vertebrae. The scenario was believable, but would confirm my sister as a murderer, something I found hard to comprehend. Nate crossed his arms. “I don’t believe it.” “It would explain the content of the note.” “What note?” “Don’t you damn well dare,” I said, half-crazed with frustration. “The one you destroyed!” Nate was becoming a specialist in moody looks, this one a variation on the resentful version he’d performed for Childe. “I should never have shown you.” “Well, you did, and you haven’t answered my question.” Shoulders bunched up around his ears, he turned away and stared out of the window. “What else could Scarlet’s note mean?’ He turned back, flicked up the palms of his hands. Getting somewhere. “You need to be as straightforward and honest with the police as possible.” I wasn’t thinking for Nate’s sake. I was thinking of my parents. “No way.” “If you say nothing and they discover she left a note, you’ll get into trouble for not coming clean.” “But they aren’t going to find out, are they Molly?” What he meant was that the only way they would was if I told them. My stupefied expression got a lot more stupid. “Are you going to tell them about the money?” I didn’t like the challenge in his voice. “Well, no, because —” I lost my train of thought. Money was my Achilles heel. Money was the spark that had lit the fuse for my fight with my sister. I’d always had to struggle to be financially independent. Any money my parents gave me was always a loan. Whereas Scarlet only had to click her fingers and loot would be forthcoming, no strings, which was why it was so disturbing that she’d gone to Fliss for cash and not our parents. Unable to come clean and speak about my own resentments, I didn’t finish. “If we breathe a word it will be like trashing her memory.” Nate’s tone was a lot more dialled down. He briefly touched my arm in what was meant as a shared moment of understanding and complicity. Grubby little fingers closed around my throat and gave it a good squeeze. Silence lengthened in the car. Now came the hard part. “I promise to keep your affair, fling, whatever, safe on one condition.” He looked incredulous and grateful. “You’re a gutless bastard, Nate, and the only reason you’re making a big deal about Scarlet’s affair is because you can’t stand the heat and attention on your own.” “That’s not —” “Save it. I’m only doing this to protect Mum and Dad. If you have a shred of decency, as soon as the funeral is out of the way, you’ll break your business partnership with Dad and clear off out of our lives.” Chapter 20 (#ulink_55b14f39-53ee-5a40-a46f-d13ab8f5f357) Despite Nate’s protestation, I told Nate that he had a duty to drop in and see Mum and Dad before we went to mine. It’s what they’d expect, and it would be unkind not to. We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey. Noise from the car’s squeaky brakes, the result of an extended period of hot, dry weather, bored through the silence. Gave me time to turn things over in my head. Murder and money, those incestuously connected twins. How the shooting of a man fitted into things I’d no idea, but it slotted in somehow. The nearer we got to Malvern, the more the hills laid claim to the town. I’d always thought of them as quintessentially British. Today, they seemed like foreign invaders. Pulling up outside Mum and Dad’s, Nate grasped the thorny silence prickling between us. “Promise you won’t say anything to your folks?” I slammed on the handbrake. “It’s bit late for that, isn’t it?” He briefly closed his eyes, covered his mouth with his hand. He was sweating. A lot. “You do realise that Dad could win super-sleuth of the year?” Which was a problem. If he found out half of what I knew so would Mum and it would kill her. Nate issued a gale of a sigh in response. “He hasn’t worked for the police for years.” As if this made a difference. “He still has connections. You want my advice?” “Go on,” he said, shrinking, as if trying to bury himself in the foot well. “Be as honest as you can without destroying them.” Nate pitched forward, scrubbed at his face then his hair, and mumbled something indecipherable. “And don’t forget what I told you about the partnership,” I added. At the sound of the car doors opening and closing, Mr Lee went crazy and didn’t quieten until we were inside. I bent down and was overwhelmed with a blast of slobbery doggy breath. Dad appeared, visibly harassed. “Bloody newspaper hacks. Phone hasn’t stopped. Nate,” he said, softening, arms extended, pulling my brother-in-law close. Always tactile, it was one of the things I loved about my father. “How are you holding up, son?” Nate glanced across, caught my eye, anxiety scribbled all over his face. “Okay, I guess.” Dad patted Nate on the back and pulled away. “Any updates from the police? Only my source appears to have dried up. Can’t seem to get a word out of anyone.” I made a big play of stroking our dog. Close to Nate, I could feel the friction coming off him in waves. Tense and perplexed, my dad looked from me to Nate. “Well, erm— my family liaison officer, a guy called Childe,” Nate began in a strangled voice, “he visited this morning, confirming the results of the post-mortem.” Dad flicked an uneasy, expectant look. I studied the floor as Nate revealed the toxicology results. “Drunk?” Dad said, astounded. “The vehicle examiner’s report corroborated witness statements. They seem to think that Scarlet was unstable.” I could see Dad hanging on Nate’s every word. His cheeks sagged in dismay. “I don’t understand.” I caught the distraction in his voice. For once, my father’s sharp mind was slow to catch on. “They believe she intended to commit suicide,” Nate said in a low tone. It was as if we’d all tumbled into a void. Pain that was almost physical accelerated through me. It was some time before my father recovered the power of speech. “How could we have missed the signs?” He pressed a hand to his temple, as if trying to put pressure on the thinking part of his brain. “I don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to ask you, son. Did Scarlet leave a note?” Nate swallowed. His hands clenched tight, knuckles virtually bursting through his skin. I tried to catch his eye again, but he refused to make contact. Dad viewed me in a way that told me he’d twigged he wasn’t getting the full story. “Let’s go into the study, Nate.” Ignoring Nate’s cornered expression, I said, “Where’s Mum?” “In the sitting room. Had a few drinks.” Code for she’s drunk, which was hardly surprising if not exactly helpful. “I’ll keep her company,” I said, as Dad turned on his heel, Nate gloomy, loping along behind him. Dressed in an old tracksuit, Mum sat on the floor surrounded by boxes of old photographs. Engrossed, she didn’t look up. Against the shuttered light, the smell of booze hung heavy. I slid onto the floor beside her. “Remember this?” She glanced up, her face, without make-up, puffy with crying. She showed me Scarlet’s graduation photograph. Goofing around, her mortarboard askew, you could see the happiness radiating out of her. The only person bursting with more pride than Scarlet on that day had been Mum. She touched the print tenderly, tracing the line around my sister’s face, dropping a kiss onto it before planting it carefully next to a line of others. Method in her madness, the photographs were arranged in date order, from babyhood to childhood, adolescent and young adult. Millions of them, more even than Zach, her firstborn. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. In the space of forty-eight hours, she’d lost weight, felt as fragile as spun glass. “And this,” I smiled, picking out a photo of Scarlet and me on holiday in Cornwall. The weather had been atrocious, I remembered, although it hadn’t deterred us from riding our bikes in full wet weather gear. Sodden and smiling for the camera, we couldn’t have looked more pleased. A volatile explosion of grief took me unawares, hot tears unexpectedly surging down my cheeks. I checked them with the back of my hand. Haunted, Mum reached for her drink, the sound of ice clinking against glass as familiar to me as her smile. “Did I hear Nate’s voice?” “He’s with dad in the study.” I wondered whether I should warn my mother of what was to come. I never expected drama and denials. This was not my father’s way, but the effect of his displeasure was no less punishing. What I hadn’t told Nate was that, as Scarlet’s protector, Dad would demand to know why his eldest daughter was so unhappy and what part his son-in-law might have played in her distress. To Scarlet, family was all. My parents’ commitment to her was no less strong. I imagined Dad listening quite reasonably then narrowing his eyes, getting Nate in his sights, speaking softly before he did the equivalent of pulling the trigger with a few well-chosen words. Dread dripped into my ear. “I expect they’ll be out soon,” I reassured Mum. Mum selected another photograph: Scarlet in her nurse’s uniform. “Her patients adored her.” She slurred her words and took another deep swallow of gin. How I’d like to reach for the bottle and tip the contents down the sink, but I did what I always did and nodded blandly. As if suddenly remembering Nate, she stood up, made for the door, unsteady on her feet. I called after her, scrabbling, about to give chase when Dad and Nate bowled in. “Nate, darling.” Mum flung her arms around him. “You poor poor man.” “He’s going to stay with us for a few days, Amanda,” Dad said. “Of course. Absolutely. You must, Nate.” Looking over her shoulder, Nate looked me straight in the eye. He didn’t look flustered. He didn’t look apologetic. He didn’t look ashamed. I couldn’t read him at all. Chapter 21 (#ulink_93824db7-4682-5386-8329-b4f94cefcf88) Zach looked as if he hadn’t moved since my last visit. Sitting down, shades on, thighs spread, soaking up the sun. The only difference: Tanya sat beside him cross-legged on the dry ground, as if someone had taken a pair of shears to her hair and tipped a pot of Dulux over what was left. ‘Lady in Red’ sprang to mind. As soon as she spotted me, she unfurled, lithe-limbed, and threw her arms around me in a hug. Sandalwood and sweat, incense and ingenuousness. Goodness knew what she saw in my brother. “Zach told me,” she whispered in my ear. “So sorry.” Drawing away, she asked after my parents even though she’d never met them. Probably never would. I trotted out a neutral ‘as well as can be expected’ reply. Much to my amazement, Zach had managed to prise himself out of his seat, stagger to his feet and engage in normal social niceties. “Hi,” he said watchfully. Sizing me up. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk, Zach?” Catching on, Tanya said she needed to check on an ailing chicken. “Sure, I —” “Darling Molly,” a smooth educated voice, tidal in its delivery, one instantly recognisable, boomed over our heads. We did a collective turn and watched as Chancer bounded down the steps of what had once been a Romany caravan. He carried more weight than I remembered, the buttons of his white, open-neck shirt, which hung loose outside his jeans, competing with flesh and gravity. Fuller-faced too, a little dissolute around the eyes, he looked as though he’d returned from an all-night party. Before I knew it, I was grabbed and spun off my feet. Startled, I briefly forgot that I was in mourning. So had he, it seemed. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=48654742&lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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