Her Sister's Secret

by E. V. Seymour

  I drove to Zach’s in a dismal mood. Revelations clattered through my head. Scarier still, Rocco’s parting remark.

  Tanya came out to greet me.

  “You okay?” She looked shy, danced from one bare foot to the other. Her silk dress spun and swirled, catching the sun and dazzling like a firework, yet her face was pinched, her naked arms crossed tight, hands clutching her elbows as if she were frozen with cold, odd in the twenty-eight degree heat.

  “I’ve been better,” I said honestly. “How’s Zach?”

  “Oh, you know. Tuned out a little bit.”

  “He’s not using, is he?” Alarm shot through my question.

  Tentatively, she smiled. “I think he’s frightened of seeing your folks.”

  “It’s been a long time,” I admitted. “But today is about Scarlet. I don’t think Zach need worry.”

  “Yeah,” she said with another clunky little smile.

  Zach appeared on the steps.

  “Blimey, where did you find that?”

  Warily, Zach looked down, touched the cuffs of his shirt. “The suit is one of Chancer’s cast-offs. Doesn’t fit him anymore. Is it okay?”

  “It looks great. You look so smart.” My gaze dropped to his feet. Thank God, he’d washed them. “Shame about the flip flops.”

  “You’re a funny woman.” There was no smile. I met his eye, sad to think that it took the day of our sister’s funeral to bring about such a transformation in his appearance and in his heart. As he climbed into my car, Zach’s return felt like that of the prodigal son.

  We were halfway to the church when I broached the subject of Scarlet’s trip to London.

  “Jesus, can’t you leave it?” Zach’s hand shot to the door and I had a horrible vision of him opening it and tumbling out.

  “Okay,” I said quickly. “Sorry.” Choosing less contentious ground, I told Zach about my random cup of coffee with Edie. “Did you know Chancer hit her?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Edie.”

  “She’s a liar.”

  “She was very convincing.”

  “Convincing is part of the deal,” he said without rancour. “Takes one to know one.”

  Occasionally, my brother’s self-awareness took me by surprise. “But why would she spread such a terrible rumour?”

  Zach shrugged one shoulder. “People do.”

  “She also said that Chancer called time on the divorce. I thought it was the other way around.”

  Zach stared out of the window at the countryside whizzing by. “Does it matter?”

  It didn’t require a reply.

  The vicar was a jolly-faced woman with a scrubbed appearance and gap-teeth. She looked better suited to serving sausages than dispensing comfort. I had a dark suspicion that we’d be handed tambourines, encouraged to wave our hands in the air and bellow ‘Hallelujahs’.

  Mourners were notable by their absence, which only went to prove that having over three hundred followers on Facebook was no guarantee of a good turnout. Lenny would be proud of me for my admission.

  Childe and Stanton sat at the back on the right-hand side. Glancing to my left, I was drawn to the face of a man I recognised yet couldn’t place. As I walked past, he nodded imperceptibly. The man in the shop, I realised with a jolt. Too shocked to speak, I didn’t react, kept walking, frozen, staying as close to Zach as possible.

  Sleek and polished and dignified, the Fianders sat mid-way down the church. I acknowledged Fliss and Louis, Samuel nowhere to be seen and probably parked with grandparents. A few of Scarlet’s nursing colleagues were present, scattered among the aisles but, as for those who knew and admired her, there were many absentees.

  I caught Dusty and Lenny’s eye. Some of my parents’ friends were in attendance. Poor Mum, I thought, as we slipped into the pew at the front, Zach next to her and me next to Zach. Dad and Mum murmured something to my brother and my mother slipped her arm through his. Pale and empty-eyed, she looked terrible. Nate sat on Dad’s left. He leant forward a little. I did not greet my brother-in-law.

  As the service was about to start, a disturbance at the back heralded a wave of people entering the church. I twisted round and watched the entire Chancellor family proceed down the aisle. Stephen, granite-faced, pushed his wife’s wheelchair, Edmund, his eldest son, behind them, followed by Chancer. Behind him, several paces back, Edie too. She nodded at me, grave and big-eyed. She’d done something weird with her hair, which was the colour of arterial red. Dad turned in the same direction and smiled vaguely, pleased that they’d all turned out in a show of solidarity.

  The service passed in a blur. Cold gripped my chest, crushing my heart and lungs. Fliss’ fluting voice, reciting a poem I’d never heard of, the only bit I remembered. While Louis delivered a eulogy, my mind hooked on Binns and Vernon, and Mallis and my dad, connections and circles within circles, with Scarlet at the centre. Somehow, I needed to grab hold of the cold and analytical traits inherited from my father, and suppress the hot, crazed, grief-stricken part of me. I need to cut through the crap and think straight and true and clear.

  When the coffin was wheeled forward for cremation and the curtain closed behind it, my mother let out a howl that would pierce the soul of a psychopath. Zach braced and I cringed inside with despair.

  Back at the house, after the service, and about to go inside, Zach grabbed my elbow, “Don’t leave me.” He trembled and his eyes shot wide with panic. The nagging sensation that Zach’s fear was unconnected to sobriety or large gatherings would not go away.

  “Please, Molly,” he said, his grip stronger.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “We don’t need to stay long, do we?”

  “Zach, we really can’t—”

  “They’ll understand.”

  “They won’t. It’s unthinkable, you idiot.”

  “But, Molly, you know how it is. All those people. I can’t. Just can’t.” He scratched an imaginary itch under his arms, and was so agitated and jumpy, I wondered if he’d slipped illicit pills into his mouth when I wasn’t looking. I asked him.

  “NO.” We were eyeball to eyeball, and a fleck of spittle landed on my cheek. I exhaled, wiped it away.

  “Good. Fine. Now don’t be wet.” Like escorting a prisoner to a cell, I half-dragged him and propelled him inside. “Get a drink and go and talk to Chancer. Look, he’s over there, with Dusty.” I pointed to one of the sofas in the sitting room. “And look, there’s Edie.” She cut a lonely figure, standing over by the French windows. Against her pale complexion, her freshly dyed hair made her look vaguely vampiric. Catching my gaze, she smiled hopefully. I gave her a little ‘see you in a moment’ wave. Zach looked across but didn’t move. “I need to speak to Mum,” I insisted in irritation. “Fuck’s sake, Zach, go.”

  I watched as he trotted off, obedient. The strange thing about my brother was that, like a little boy lost, he responded to firm instruction. I was searching out Mum when Stephen Chancellor cornered me in the hall. In a beautifully tailored linen suit, with a pale blue shirt that matched his eyes, he looked as though he’d stepped off a big game reserve.

  “Molly, my dear, I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  I looked up, felt the heat of his gaze on my cheeks. The man exuded power and authority; there was no escape. “Thank you.”

  “How long has it been since we last spoke? Several years, I should think.”

  “Must be.” Stephen had changed very little. His fine shock of hair was greyer than blonde and contributed to his distinguished appearance. His eyes were the same, slightly more hooded maybe, and his expression, penetrating and inescapable. I’d hate to be up against him in court. In common with my dad, Stephen Chancellor could reduce a man to mush with one rapier-like look. Perhaps that’s why they hit it off. It struck me that they both recognised the effect they had on others.

  “I must say you’ve positively blossomed. You used to be such a shy little thing.” His lips twisted into a full
smile. Gave me the creeps.

  “I noticed Lavinia earlier,” I said.

  “Ah, the wheelchair.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Sudden onset MS, I’m afraid.”

  “Very sorry to hear it.”

  “It’s life. Nothing much to be done other than to endure.” He turned on his heel and walked away. I watched for longer than was necessary, remembered Edie’s words. They were all fucking nuts.

  I found Mum in the kitchen. She poured two glasses of wine and handed me one. “To Scarlet.” She swayed a little unsteadily and I realised that she’d already sunk a few. We chinked glasses. I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound stupid. I think she felt the same. We simply viewed each other, hollow-eyed.

  “If there’s anything I can do,” I began.

  She shook her head slowly then did something really odd and out of character. She leant towards me, cupped my chin in her hands and gazed at me with such a sad smile. “Sweet of you, my love, but no. You’re a good daughter. All I want is for you to grab life and live it. Don’t look back, Molly. Ever.”

  “Mum, I—”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” Two promises to my parents in less than a couple of days. Strange times. Then she kissed me on the cheek and slipped away to join the other mourners.

  Chapter 56

  But I broke my promise to Mum immediately: I did look back. I looked back on two little girls dressing up in our mother’s clothes and shoes. I looked back on a smoke-filled kitchen, burnt pizzas and buns. I looked back on mud on our faces and salt sea wind in our hair. I looked back on sulky tears and scraps like only sisters have. I looked back on laughter that made our ribs ache and tummies hurt. And then I looked back to a string of newspaper cuttings about my sister and another dead woman and thought that, no matter what my lovely Dad told me, there was a connection – there had to be a connection.

  Exhausted, I staggered out of bed early. The view from the bedroom window revealed a sky bloody with red. Fiery light caught the tops of volcanic-looking hills, making fools of them

  I took out my phone. No messages. One flick of the camera setting took me to images from Rocco’s room. Undeleted from my phone. Dad would be furious if he knew.

  I stared until my eyes popped. Words and pictures and questions, but where was the angle? Rocco had sprung into action shortly after his grandmother’s death, something she’d told him the trigger. I wished I’d pursued it. As I stared at the players in Rocco’s hall of fame, I realised that one of them was missing.

  Despite the unrespectable hour, I called Heather Bowen. It was a long time before she answered. When she did, she sounded muzzy, thick with sleep. Suited me. I wasn’t looking for intellect. I wanted truth.

  “Did Richard know a man called Rocco Noble?”

  “No. Why? And Christ, do you know what time it is?”

  I apologised unreservedly.

  “It’s bloody inconsiderate,” she barked. “Wait a minute, how the fuck did you get my number?”

  “I … um—must have been in the papers from your solicitor to my brother-in-law.” I squeezed my eyes tight at the stupidity of the lie and my own hypocrisy. I’d gone mental at Rocco for snooping on my phone. Either Heather was too dozy to see through my obvious deception or she didn’t care.

  “What’s this Noble character got to do with anything?”

  I couldn’t say because I didn’t know. “His half-sister went missing ten years ago from Gloucestershire and was found dead in a mine in Wiltshire.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “Her name was Drea Temple.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Richard never referred to it?”

  “I’ve just told you.”

  “Never mentioned Clive Mallis, a police officer last operational ten years ago?”

  “No.”

  I stifled a sigh. Like trudging through a bog, I was sinking.

  “Heather, when you talked about Richard, you described a man who always got what he wanted.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Whether it was the hour, or she’d had second thoughts about me, she was a lot more guarded. “Did you see a different side of him in the weeks and months before he went down with ‘flu?”

  “For goodness’ sake.”

  “Did you?”

  There was a long pause. “He was agitated.”

  “In what way?”

  “Excited. As if he were on to something. Happens all the time with coppers.”

  “Connected to a personal relationship, do you think?”

  “No, I can spot the difference. This was professional.”

  A police matter involving police officers, one of whom was bent? Sure as hell, Bowen wouldn’t breathe a word of it to his wife.

  If Bowen’s interest was sparked by Mallis, maybe Binns’ name came up during Bowen’s investigation and private chat with his mate in the MET. Binns became a figure to pump for information, simply to get the lowdown on Mallis. Similarly, Bowen’s motivation for taking up with Scarlet was because my father had an association with Mallis.

  Empowered, it put a fresh idea in my head. “What did Richard’s real father do for a living before he became sick?” I wondered if he too was a police officer, someone connected to old unexplained cases.

  “Cab driver.”

  “And his adopted dad?”

  “Engineer.”

  I chewed my lip in frustration. “Did his biological dad have a wife?”

  “No he never married. Lived with his sister, Jacqui. She took care of him during his last illness. Richard used to go and visit them.”

  “Do you have her address?”

  “I do, but—”

  “Please, I’d like to talk to her.”

  “It won’t help.”

  “Please, Heather.”

  “Okay, but on one condition.”

  “I agree.”

  “You don’t know what it is yet.”

  “I’ll agree to whatever you want.” I winced at the pathetic plea in my voice.

  She relented and gave me an address in Whaddon, a suburb of Cheltenham.

  “Thank you, and your condition?”

  “I never want to hear from you again.” The line went dead.

  Chapter 57

  Jacqueline Bevan lived in a dull looking house identical to the dull looking house next to it. Everything was bland and plastic, including the window-frames and door, the latter the colour of an inflamed gum. Brilliant sunshine highlighted its drab appearance.

  Hovering outside, I spotted a notice that displayed ‘No Cold Callers.’ It wasn’t a great start. What would I say? Would she talk to me, a stranger? Before I had time to get my story straight, a morbidly obese woman filled the entire doorway. I should have come bearing cakes. Strangely, her face didn’t match her physique. It was as if someone had stuck her head on the wrong body. She had short, cropped grey hair, kind brown eyes and remarkably unlined skin. Her mouth was a small perfect rosebud. It was hard to imagine her putting anything into it.

  Before she had time to tell me to clear off, I launched in with a whopping lie. “Hello, I’m a friend of Richard Bowen. I wondered if we could have a chat?”

  Her face clouded and she went very pale. Her lips turned down, the rosebud mouth blooming, overblown and then dying. This was it. She was going to slam the door in my face.

  “Any friend of my nephew is welcome here,” she said, inviting me in.

  We drank milky coffee.

  “Have a flapjack. They’re homemade.” Jacqueline Bevan pushed a plate towards me. I wasn’t hungry but took one. We’d done the pleasantries and I’d told the lies. As far as she was concerned, I was Amy Pearson, (a bully I’d loathed at school) worked in the wine trade, travelled far and wide, and lived in Cirencester.

  “I didn’t see you at the funeral.” It didn’t feel like a statement designed to catch me out.

  “I was a
broad unfortunately, on business. That’s why I’m here now.”

  She nodded and sipped her drink tentatively. “So very sad. And to die like that,” she said with a shudder that made the tops of her arms wobble. “He was a lovely man. Oh, I know what people said about him having an eye for the ladies,” she said, heading off any possible criticism, “what with his mistress and child, but I speak as I find. He was an attentive and loyal son. Came every week to visit until Barry passed on.” She lapsed into a respectful silence.

  “Richard loved to see your brother.” True, according to Heather.

  A big girlish smile illuminated Jacqueline’s smooth face. She leant forward. The chair creaked in protest. “We don’t get many visitors and he was so made up when Richard made contact. Such a wonderful surprise. And him a police officer, too.” Her eyes widened with awe and delight. “Barry was really proud of that. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ He kept saying. Restored his faith a little bit.”

  “Oh?” I said in a tell me more tone.

  “It’s nothing really.” She lowered her gaze, removed an oat flake from the corner of her mouth. “These are rather good, aren’t they? The last lot were a little chewy. Do you cook?”

  I shook my head, desperately thought how I could shift the conversation back to Barry’s distrust of the police. Had he somehow come up against Clive Mallis, the man everyone loathed? Apart from my dad, that is, I thought grimly.

  “No time, what with your busy job, I expect.” She gave a sad sigh, giving the impression that she’d missed out on work, relationships too, on life in general.

  I looked around the room. Uncluttered. Sterile. Photographs on a sideboard displayed a younger Jacqueline standing beside a man half her size. I could tell at once they were brother and sister.

  I tilted my head. “Is that Barry?”

  “It is. Taken a long time ago on holiday in Brighton.”

  “You were close?”

  “Like peas in a pod.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “I do.” Crestfallen, her small white teeth rested on her bottom lip. A tear welled at the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. I touched her arm in sympathy. I was in her living room under a false pretext, but my reaction was true and honest. She patted my hand. I fished out a clean tissue, gave it to her and waited for her to recover. “We became especially close after Bethany left him.”