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
“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
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 mobil
e 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
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.”
Her Sister's Secret Page 6
