Her Sister's Secret

by E. V. Seymour

  “It’s not me you need to tell,” I said chippily. “It’s her.” And there was me thinking that she was an overdramatic fantasist.

  “I know, and I have, but do you see that we simply can’t go on together?”

  “If Edie can forgive you, then why not?”

  “Because I don’t love her.”

  “You must have done once.”

  “I never have.”

  “Hell, Chancer, then why marry the woman?”

  He looked across, enquiringly.

  “Oh, please,” I said, heat spreading across my face and neck, which had nothing to do with the route march.

  He reached out, took my hand and drew me close. “Why didn’t I choose you, instead of Edie?”

  His body pressed against mine. It felt all so familiar. I looked up into his eyes, saw the Chancer I used to know before life had moulded and distorted him into something unrecognisable and quite different. I didn’t know whether this was down to an overbearing father, a difficult, unfulfilled marriage, the pressures of working in a dog eat dog industry, or something dark and unspoken. If it was, my last vestige of belief in someone from my past was dead and buried. I repeated the mantra I’d repeated at the time. “I’m not from your world.” Or the right set.

  “That was all in your pretty little head.”

  I remembered how Chancer had been, for a short space of time, my guilty secret pleasure. Nobody knew, not even Zach. When it got serious between us, I’d got scared. I’d been hung up about being outside ‘the in crowd’, never quite fitting in, and money, or the absence of it in my case, and not being as smart or as well-educated as his friends. His family terrified me, particularly Stephen Chancellor. I’d gone travelling in a lame effort to help me straighten out my mind. As one month drifted into another, we lost touch and, when I came back, Edie was on the scene.

  He leant in, dropped a single soft kiss upon my lips, not at all like Rocco who felt as if he were devouring me. Yet it still felt wrong. “We can’t.” I pulled away. “It’s too late.”

  “Is this because I lost my temper once?”

  “Because it’s not fair on Edie.”

  “Fuck Edie.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’m not in a good place.” There’s Scarlet and Rocco, and Zach and my dad who colluded to cover a crime, and my mother who kept her mouth shut, and a girl called Drea Temple.

  “But with time?” He looked expectant and fearful. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. “Look, you don’t have to make a decision,” Chancer said with forced jollity. “Let’s head up towards the quarry.”

  In reality, the way ahead to Gullet Quarry was barred and with good reason. A notorious spot for wild swimmers and skinny dippers, or people wanting to cool off in the mistaken belief that is was a safe environment, too many young men had lost their lives in its unfathomable depths. Steep-sided and with murderous drops, it wouldn’t have been my first choice for a swim – not that I was much good at it in any case.

  “Race you to the top,” Chancer said. Unable to resist a challenge, I took to my heels. I was fitter but Chancer was stronger. We level-pegged it and then, in a final spurt, I nudged ahead. Chancer caught me and spun me off my feet, swinging me round. “Put me down,” I giggled, my hands drumming his shoulders. It seemed so long since I’d last laughed like this. Carefree. Like the old days before things turned ugly. “See,” he said, planting me down carefully. “What’s not to like?”

  I gave him a wry smile. Chancer had always been so persuasive, but I could be persuasive too. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Did you ever meet a woman called Drea Temple?”

  I expected a strong and immediate reaction. Either an emphatic, “No,” or silence followed by him dropping his arms, drawing back, with an expression of stunned numbness. I expected him to speak in an empty tone. Instead, his hold on me tightened and so did his voice. “Yes, but if you’re asking me whether I had anything to do with her death, you’re wrong. As importantly, why are you interested in a woman who disappeared a decade ago?”

  Chapter 69

  By mutual consent, we agreed to continue the conversation in the nearest pub. The walk down was as silent as the walk up. We took the only route along a path flanked with bramble and nettles and pitted with tree roots, rabbit holes and badger setts. The path briefly widened out to where someone had started a fire and the chalk-white sides of the quarry were visible. Impossible to evade the sense of danger only a few feet away, I stayed clear of the massive drop on the other side of the fence. Trees, so impossibly green, made your eyes squint.

  My gaze eventually dropped, mesmerised by shifting shapes in the water below that had claimed so many. Some said there were hidden rocks and obstacles, but shock was the primary factor in almost every death. I knew that sudden immersion in water that never had a chance to heat up had a stunning effect on the human body. Rapid cooling, restricted blood flow followed by panic as muscles refused to respond and fatigue set in. Is this what befell Drea Temple after the smack to her head? Not a great way to go, although better than smashing yourself to bits in a car crash.

  Finally, we arrived at the bottom. The sun beat down on a rocky shore and semblance of a beach, giving it a deceptively benign appearance. This is where the sun-worshippers had assembled and, from here, taken to waters of dubious quality. Despite the beautiful day and sunlight glinting off the surface, it bled with unknowable terrors.

  I let out an involuntary shiver as we travelled past barbed wire and an easy to scale five-bar gate, police notices and signs warning, in no uncertain terms, of the dangers. At the end, where the land met the road, boulders like sentinels sat squat and immobile to prevent cars from driving through.

  The short distance to the car park was down a narrow road piled high with bracken on either side. A kiosk open for teas and ice cream did a mean trade with those who were there for the eats rather than the walking.

  Silently, I climbed into Chancer’s Jag. In close confines, the air felt dense and heavy as if a storm were brewing. Chancer didn’t particularly look like a man caught in a bind. He seemed capable, in charge, as if he had the drop on me.

  He drove a little way to the nearest pub, a place that served home-cooked food and local craft ales. I wasn’t driving and ordered vodka, Chancer a pint of beer. All sorts of things were burrowing through my mind, none of them nice.

  Chancer took a gulp and eyed me. “So, what’s this all about?”

  I shook my head. “You first.” He leant back expansively, legs apart, a gesture I knew so well. “Don’t try and bullshit me.”

  He met the warning note in my voice with an amused smile. “What has Zach told you?”

  His side of a sorry story. “I’m not interested in Zach,” I said, with what I hoped was sincerity, “I want to hear how you knew her.”

  “Simple. Zach introduced me.” Chancer scratched the side of his cheek. “If memory serves me correctly, we first met at The White Hart.”

  “You met her more than once?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Two, or three times? More?”

  “Jesus, Molly, you make it sound like a date. There was a group of us. I was going out with Edie, in case you’d forgotten.”

  Low blow. “I hadn’t forgotten. Did Edie meet her?” Had Edie lied?

  “No,” Chancer said vehemently. “She hated the White Hart. More of a lad’s boozer back then.”

  “What was Drea like?”

  “Completely bonkers.”

  “In a good way?”

  “A lovely way. I liked her a lot. Off the wall, a little bit alternative, she had bags of personality.”

  “Did you find her attractive?”

  “Whoa,” Chancer said, as if he’d spotted a trap an inch before he was about to step into it. “If you’re trying to suggest something, don’t.”

  “It’s a simple enough question.”

  “Which you’re blatantly pushing. Every r
ed-blooded male in the room found her attractive.”

  “Sex-magnet?”

  “Zach certainly thought so. He was embarrassing to be around.” As I feared. “What is this, Molly? You seriously don’t think Zach had anything to do with her disappearance?”

  I narrowed my eyes. How much did Chancer actually know? “You knew Drea and Zach were drug buddies?”

  Chancer took another drink, by way of an answer.

  “Come on, you must have known.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I don’t believe this.” Any warmth in Chancer’s voice had evaporated. A shiver passed through me. I was glad I was in a public place in a bar packed with people. I stood my ground.

  “Were you with Zach on that New Year’s Eve?”

  His voice lifted in anger. “I was not. I was at my folks celebrating. I saw Drea a couple of days after Christmas and I never saw her again.”

  “On your own?”

  “Like I said, it wasn’t what you think.”

  Something in the back of my mind detonated. And like magic, it all made sense. I’d never questioned Chancer’s bond with my brother. Others had but never me. I’d believed that their relationship was based on loyalty and friendship. How stupid I’d been. How naïve. ‘Quality’, Zach had said. And a high-end product requires someone to provide it, who moves in the right circles, is good at numbers, percentages, returns, someone connected who didn’t necessarily sample it, although might if his deal worked out and he felt like celebrating.

  I wanted to scream, and I wanted to run. And I was furious that he’d duped and let me down so badly.

  “You supplied him. You supplied her too.”

  “Fuck this,” Chancer said, snatching up his keys.

  “I never took you for a fraud.”

  He stood up. Fuelled with anger, an ugly twist to his mouth, he seemed bigger and bulkier and more than capable of hitting a woman. The pub fell silent. Drinkers turned. Chancer threw me one last eviscerating stare and strode out. My face on fire, I watched him and then took out my phone and shakily ordered a cab.

  Chapter 70

  At ten in the morning, Moreton-in-Marsh, with its wide streets and independent cafes and delis, bubbled with shoppers, tourists, tractors and old-world charm.

  Nerves shattered; I was out of sorts. On the passenger seat beside me, my bag contained the notebook with a litany of wrongdoing huddled inside.

  Heeding Dusty’s advice, I arrived early and found a space outside one of several estate agents in town. From there, I headed down the high street to The Manor Hotel where I used the loo and ordered coffee from the appropriately named Beagle Bar. I sat in a leather bucket chair in a tiny alcove between the bar and the main corridor, and with a serene view of the garden. Anonymity mattered. When someone smiled there was no edge, no false move, no sly intent, no tricks. Here I could pretend that the world was a sane and ordered place and that I fitted into it.

  Afterwards, I drove to a newish development of modern houses made to look old. With homes of various sizes and configurations, it was more village than estate. Rachel Haran lived in a creamy stone double-fronted number. It had leaded casement windows. The brass knocker was traditional, no nonsense. Before I had chance to use it, the teal-coloured front door swung open. A smiling woman around Dad’s age greeted me. Ultra-short grey hair framed a face that told stories. She had sharp, searching hazel-flecked eyes, giving the impression that lying to her would be a pointless waste of time. When she shook my hand there was warmth in her palm, strength in her fingers.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

  “Please accept my condolences.”

  She ushered me into a ‘living the Cotswold dream’ sitting room, all greys and greens, stone and neutral fabrics, and asked if I’d like coffee. Despite already downing enough caffeine to power me to the moon and back, I accepted. While she was gone, I sat down on a two-seater sofa where my eyes fastened on a photograph of Rachel Haran as she was several years ago. Dressed in uniform, she was smiling broadly as she received a commendation from the then Metropolitan Police Commissioner.

  Rachel returned with a tray on which a large cafetière took centre stage. There were no biscuits, simply two fine china mugs, a small jug of milk, and bowl of brown sugar. It was a million miles away from the flapjack fiasco in Jacqueline Bevan’s home. She asked how I liked my coffee and I watched and waited as she poured for both of us.

  “How do you know my aunt?” A standard social icebreaker seemed the best way to begin the conversation.

  “We met at a fund-raising event many years ago and became friends.”

  A ‘clean’ talker, she wasn’t the type to waste time on embellishments.

  She took a sip of coffee, eyed me over the rim, smiled and placed the mug carefully on a side table. “What’s this all about?” she said, taking charge.

  Either I jumped one side of the moral divide to protect my family, as everyone involved wanted me to do, or I leapt the other way and gave them up wholesale. If I could have found another path, I would have done. There seemed no middle ground.

  “I believe my father has covered up a murder.”

  Shock tightened her features. “That’s a very serious and dangerous allegation.”

  It wasn’t the great start I’d hoped for. “Which is why I don’t make it lightly. I believe he wasn’t acting alone but in association with a former police officer, Clive Mallis.”

  At the mention of Mallis, Rachel Haran’s expression darkened. She didn’t say, ‘nasty man’ but she might as well have done. I told her how Mallis had confronted me with a thinly veiled threat.

  “You reported this?”

  “I’m reporting it to you.”

  “But I’m no longer a serving police officer.”

  “I’ve nobody else to turn to. I don’t trust the police, well, not the ones I’ve met recently.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re suggesting.”

  “Corruption and perverting the course of justice.”

  She leant forwards, touched her lips with an index finger. “You seem a sensible girl and I fully appreciate that this must be a rather emotionally charged time for you but—”

  “Makes no difference.”

  Her gaze was steel-plated. I didn’t budge. This was going to be the shortest conversation ever.

  “Can we get something straight?” Her tone contained a warning edge and she didn’t wait for a reply. “The vast majority of police officers are decent, dedicated individuals.”

  “Yes, but—”

  The flat of Haran’s hand shot up, silencing me.

  “All right,” she said, eyeing me in a way that made me feel very small. “Let’s start calmly with your story. If I can help, I will. If not, I’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

  Chapter 71

  I started at the beginning, told her everything as accurately and faithfully as possible about Scarlet’s death, the names of the police officers involved, my discoveries about Richard Bowen, Rocco and the connection to Drea, and finally, the revelations about my father and Zach. Towards the end, my emotions got the better of me and I staggered to a halt.

  Rachel reviewed what she’d written. Panic feathered through me. Was this going to be another of those ‘no case to answer’ situations? Was I good enough as a character witness? Would she simply say: ‘Ta very much. Very interesting but I’m not a copper now so take it to someone who is.’?

  “I suppose it’s all so long ago,” I said unhappily.

  Rachel’s expression was cut-throat. “Ten years is nothing, thanks to improved methods in profiling DNA. Cold cases are being solved thirty years after they occurred. However, an investigation cannot be revived on hearsay. The facts would need to be verified.”

  “Yes, of course.” I felt more than a little stupid.

  She stud
ied me; sharp eyes slightly narrowed. I think she registered my lack of self-belief. “Okay,” she said crisply. “What do you expect?”

  Taken aback, I burbled something about truth and justice. She looked at me sympathetically, but I couldn’t help feeling that I had a lot to learn about the mechanics of the law.

  “The police need evidence and statements, not theories. Let’s start with the immediate issue. Whether or not Stanton or Childe made the wrong call with regard to failing to look more deeply into Richard Bowen’s death and the circumstances of the accident, whether or not they later put pressure on Richard Bowen’s widow, or your friend, Mr Noble, would be difficult to prove. Why would two police officers risk damaging their careers?”

  “Yes, I see.” Stupid of me.

  “But what about Drea Temple?” I pressed. To hell with Stanton and Childe.

  “I’m coming to that,” Rachel said in a tone that told me she was not a woman to be rushed. “What makes you think that either Mallis could contrive to pick up the Temple case, or that your father could ensure he did? Any number of others could have been assigned.”

  In one sentence she’d destroyed my argument. Under her searching gaze, I buckled. There was more.

  “As you know, moving a body and failing to lawfully bury it is a criminal offence. Do you know how Drea was transported?”

  “My dad’s car, I guess.”

  “And ten years’ on—”

  “He doesn’t have it.”

  She asked about make and model, which I could tell her, and about registration, which I couldn’t.

  “You say the coroner recorded an open verdict?”

  I nodded. “Neither one thing nor the other, I suppose.”

  “It’s usually recorded in the absence of other evidence.” She fell briefly silent. “What the police would need to establish is whether Drea’s death was accident or murder.”

  “But the blow to her head—"

  “Might not have killed her. Cause and manner can be two different things.”