Her Sister's Secret

by E. V. Seymour

  I swelled with disappointment. Naively, I thought this would be so much easier. Every time I came up with what I assumed were cast-iron facts, Rachel dismantled them. “I don’t really understand.”

  “Cause of death could be drowning. Manner of death: now that’s open to interpretation.”

  “So, it could still be murder?”

  “Could be. Might not be. The head injury might have happened shortly before death but the primary and only cause of death was drowning. If, on the other hand, the victim was assaulted, resulting in her falling into water and drowning, the primary cause of death would be drowning, and the secondary cause the head injury.” She tapped the tip of the pen on her notebook. I wondered how many times she’d done that during her career. “If what you say is true, your father took extreme action, which would indicate he wished to protect his son. It’s a nasty question but do you believe that your brother was involved in Drea’s death?”

  “Zach is weak, vulnerable and easily led, but he’s no murderer.”

  “Fuelled by drugs, even the weak can become killers.”

  She was right, but something niggled. “What would have been Zach’s motive?”

  “Any number. Who got the lion’s share of the drugs they were taking, a spat about money, sex?”

  Fear took another shot at me. Zach had fancied Drea. So had Chancer and every red-blooded male within spitting distance of her.

  “Do either Zach or your father know you’re here?”

  I shook my head.

  “You realise they’ll be arrested, interviewed, questioned and required to give statements?”

  One word bashed me over the head: destruction. “There is another possibility about how she died,” I said. “Maybe there was a third party.”

  “You’re suggesting a random assault?”

  “The house is in a very secluded spot. If you’d been there, you’d understand that there was nothing chance about the attack.”

  Rachel scratched her chin, weighing me up. “Where is the house exactly?”

  I described the road out of Winchcombe and the way the drive snaked into nowhere.

  “I’ll take a look this afternoon.”

  I thought my heart would explode with relief. “Thank you. Then what?”

  “One step at a time.” The wait and see approach sounded too much like kicking the can down the road. I waited a beat. “There’s something else.” I bent down and took the notebook out of my bag and handed it to her. Haran said she wanted evidence, not theories. Well, this was the best I could do.

  Chapter 72

  She reached for a pair of reading glasses and, scouring the pages, ran an index finger down each list. I watched her face, saw the light of recognition in her eyes, the quiet satisfaction in her expression, like a woman who has spent years mastering a difficult language and suddenly finds she’s fluent. She glanced up. “Where did you get this?”

  I told her. “I know what it is. It belongs to Clive Mallis.” Haran’s top lip curled, and her eyes dulled to the colour of finely rolled steel. The notebook held significance for her all right.

  I could have told her about Binns and how he was gunned down. If Haran was as intelligent as I thought, she’d make the connection and work it out for herself. All I cared about was justice for Drea and Scarlet.

  “What do you know about policing in the 80s?”

  “Only what my dad told me.”

  “Did he tell you that it’s regarded as the heyday for police corruption?”

  My throat tightened and there was a bitter taste in my mouth that was not attributable to the coffee.

  “My job was to root out bent officers,” Rachel explained. “You may not understand this but there are degrees of corruption. There are those officers who will turn a blind eye to irregularities. Their only interest is to do the shift, pay the mortgage, get their kids through education and pick up their pensions. Then there are others swinging dicks, if you’ll pardon the expression, who don’t play by the rules and are willing to cut corners in order, as they view it, to see justice done.”

  “But—”

  “These are not intrinsically corrupt men and women. In other words, the number of bad apples is very few, but those that are, tend to be rotten to the proverbial core.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “And my father was one of them?”

  Her expression was cross, her words direct. “Capable, dependable, assiduous and respected, your father was an excellent police officer. Frankly, I’m struggling to believe your father would engage in anything of a criminal nature.”

  As character references went, it didn’t come any better. Tina Vernon had already confirmed as much. Hearing it from the legal side of the fence packed greater punch. Most of me felt relief, a slim part confusion. “But not Mallis?”

  “He was in a different category. I’m afraid I can’t divulge details.”

  “I know my Dad worked with Mallis.”

  “They worked professionally, as they did with other officers. At the time, your father was a DCI and Clive Mallis a young DI.”

  “How do you explain the fact that they’ve remained in touch for so long?” My father had hung on to the notebook, long before more recent events. Despite Mum’s explanation, I wasn’t sure I bought it.

  Rachel sat back, crossed her long legs. I pictured her doing this before charging a criminal after lengthy interrogation. Her expression remained closed. If she had an opinion, it wasn’t one to share with me. “I do not believe that your father was on the take. It doesn’t chime with the man I knew.”

  And that was the problem.

  “You didn’t find anything else?” Rachel said.

  “Like what?”

  “Files, photographs? Back then, we had a particular issue with information going walkabout or missing.”

  “I guess this was before computerised systems.”

  “Exactly. No digital footprints.”

  “I found a folder on my father’s computer called ‘Operation Jericho.’

  “Never heard of it. What was inside?”

  “Day to day stuff about police activities.”

  “Not exactly dynamite,” she said airily. “In any case, without a warrant it can’t be accessed.”

  I glanced down at my hands. Bunched into fists, I’d dug my fingers into my palms so hard they’d left indentations. I slowly unclenched them. Rachel topped up our coffee.

  “What happened to Mallis while he was at the MET?” I said.

  “Nothing. He applied for a transfer. Although it pains me to say it, we were glad to see the back of him.”

  Rachel stood up. She clutched the notebook. “Are you happy to leave this with me?”

  “If it helps,” I said emptily.

  She walked me to the door.

  “Don’t look so glum. I still have contacts but, as I’ve made plain, I need to be sure. If there’s any truth in your allegations, the case is open and ripe for investigation, and we have luck on our side.”

  Luck, fortune, fate sounded great, I thought, perking up.

  “Mallis did what he always did: he shipped out and moved on.”

  “He did more than that. He climbed a rank to Detective Chief Inspector.’

  “Unfortunately, it happens, but rest assured that any officer reviewing the case will be utterly impartial and do so with fresh eyes.” This would be good. Not so good, I feared that my flaky brother would be required to give evidence and I might be required to testify. I asked Rachel.

  She viewed me kindly. “Nobody is making accusations at this juncture but, if the evidence points that way and if it’s there, Zach and your dad clearly have questions to answer. If they’ve broken the law, I don’t need to explain the consequences, especially for your father.”

  Hollowed out, I glanced around the room with the nice furnishings that spoke of an ordered life. I’d not got what I’d come for and now Rachel wanted me to validate all those months or years of working on cases that had frustrated and tak
en her nowhere. I understood. I really did. Silly me for failing to think her angle through.

  Rachel had one last question. “Rocco Noble, is he aware of your findings?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’d advise you to keep your own counsel.”

  “Doesn’t he have a right to know?”

  “Until the facts are established, it might be unwise.”

  I wasn’t sure I could do as she asked and said so.

  “This man is important to you?” She held my gaze. Fact was I hadn’t fully grasped how much he mattered until now.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You trust him?”

  I shouldn’t after the way he’d behaved, but I did. “I do.”

  Her smile was full, exposing small white teeth. “Then you must act as you see fit.”

  She patted me on my shoulder and opened the door. “You’ve done well. The irony is that you’d make a fine detective.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  Chapter 73

  I left Rachel Haran’s wishing I felt calmer. All she had was a battered notebook and hearsay. And my father had been a good man, a good police officer. Everyone said so.

  I didn’t drive home. I took the M5 and joined the M50. It took me almost two hours to drive the sixty miles to Hereford, the place that had a special spot in Rocco’s heart. Timing was almost perfect too. A little over a week ago, we’d sat outside in a courtyard café on our first official date.

  Where I’d ripped him to shreds.

  I parked the car on a meter in Gaol Street and cut through towards the Castle Hotel and cathedral. Without a flicker of breeze, a sheet-metal sky bore down on crushed and dry earth. Only rain and storm would clear it.

  With school out for summer, buildings and buses belonging to the cathedral school took a long siesta. Nothing stirred as I strolled past and into cathedral yard where a solitary stonemason, sweat pouring off him, worked alone, sanding a column to precision smoothness.

  I searched the faces of every person sitting on the grass in front of the ancient building, some stretched out to catch the sun at its deadliest, others ate picnics in the shade. Rocco was not among them.

  Hoping he might be inside, I disappeared into the cool interior, the size and magnificence of the cathedral as powerful the second time around and confirmation that I was only a tiny player in the grand scheme of life.

  Walking to one end of the cathedral, I crossed over and stopped before Ascension, the new art installation honouring the SAS and their families. Beneath windows of vibrant blue stained glass, in an abstract design that defied you to turn away, a striking piece of sculptured stone. Engraved at its base, the SAS regimental badge and motto, and the words ‘Always A Little Further.’ The message spoke of endurance and courage in adversity and, as far away as I was from the soldiers it celebrated, it chimed with me. Mesmerised, I got exactly what Rocco had seen and half expected him to walk out of the shadows and join me.

  But Rocco didn’t come.

  Dispirited, I stole back outside and cut down Church Street to the café where we’d argued, or rather I’d argued. Every table in the garden was taken. Hopes sagging, I made my way back through. About to step into the street, a waitress I dimly recognised from our last visit stepped towards me.

  “It’s okay, I’m not stopping.” I was only too keen to escape what was a fool’s errand.

  “Are you Molly Napier?” Her accent was French and her smile hesitant, as if she’d been handed a Photofit and wasn’t sure whether the person she was accosting was really on the run or not.

  I twisted round, suspicious. “Erm, who wants to know?”

  “A man with a big smile.”

  Rocco. It couldn’t be anyone else. “Yes,” I said, “that’s me.” Delight shone out of her eyes. She couldn’t look more pleased if she’d won the lottery. “This is for you.” She handed me a piece of paper, with a number written on it in Rocco’s unmistakeable handwriting. Before I had a chance to thank her, she turned to serve a customer who wanted to pay a bill.

  *

  “How did you know?”

  I coursed with lust when I saw him. When he drew close and kissed my lips, I felt ridiculously happy, safe even.

  We sat outside in the shade of a courtyard bar and restaurant, a hidden surprise off the High Street. With the lunchtime rush over, and two bottles of Fentiman’s lemonade apiece, we were alone. Rocco looked good. A close-fitting T-shirt hugged his gym-fit physique, and his eyes were bright, shiny and rested, more than could be said for mine.

  “I didn’t know you’d come. I hoped.”

  “Hell of a long shot.”

  His face cracked into a big grin that made me laugh. “It was pretty much an act of faith. Sorry about the cloak and dagger.”

  “That’s when I knew it had to be you rather than some random nutter. How did you persuade the waitress?”

  “Charming, isn’t she? I ate breakfast there every day for a week and I’m a generous tipper.”

  “You actually moved here?” Which was dumb of me because how else could Rocco be in the right place at the right time? “What about your grandma’s house?”

  Some of the shine faded from his eyes. “I feel bad about it but I’m going to sell up.”

  “Not because of me, surely?” I would have hated that.

  “Because life is too short not to be where you really want to be.”

  I wondered what he was doing for money and asked him.

  “Got a job in a bar in the new leisure development across town.”

  “Seems you have it all sorted.”

  “Seems,” he said with a difficult smile.

  I shifted position; acutely aware that I had things to say that would not come easy. Perhaps I should heed Rachel Haran’s advice. Perhaps now was not the time. My eyes darted to the entrance of the bar. I could almost hear Scarlet’s voice urging me not to change my mind now I’d come this far.

  “Are you okay?” Rocco said, leaning towards me, his hand on top of mine.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.” I thought I was crazy.

  “What makes you think I don’t already?”

  Suddenly afraid of revealing what I knew, I drew my hand away, wiping the frisky smile from his face. I’d spoken to Rachel Haran without much effort, but Rocco was different. Rocco mattered. I dreaded his reaction as if, by virtue of the fact it was my family who played a part in suppressing the truth, he would find me guilty too.

  Gentle and expectant, he took my hand again, looked deeply into my eyes, turning my insides to mush, straining my resolve.

  “Lies destroy, Molly. Honesty will only hurt for a short time.”

  I sat up a little straighter and, before I changed my mind, told him precisely what had happened to his sister.

  From shock and fury to disappointment and pain, every emotional reaction was mapped in his expression. Not once did his grasp slacken or let go.

  By the time I was done, my chest was tight. Sad-eyed, he didn’t speak.

  “And now you know why you were leant on.” Whatever Haran said, I was certain Stanton and, possibly, Childe had bowed to pressure from my father. My dad might have been a good copper, but it didn’t make him immune from bending and breaking the law to protect his family.

  Hands tell you a lot about a person. They carry tension and grief, kindness and hate. Rocco’s balled into fists.

  “When I think of that bastard, Mallis, how he lied to my family, even told my mother to back off.” Clipped and justifiably angry, Rocco’s ire was visceral. Thankfully, it wasn’t aimed at me. “Why would that snake protect your father?” he said, incredulous.

  “Because my dad had dirt on him.” I explained.

  “And he threatened you? Why didn’t you say?”

  Because I didn’t trust you. I gave a lame shrug.

  He glanced away, thinking and raging. “If only your father had done the decent thing all those years ago.” I knew this only too well. “You really bel
ieve Zach is innocent?”

  I’d been so sure, but what if I were wrong? “He’s not guilty,” I said doggedly.

  “Then if not him, who?”

  I shrugged and quietly told Rocco about my visit to Rachel Haran. He didn’t look thrilled when I mentioned that she was open to the idea that Drea’s death was accidental. “Trust her?” he said, with a penetrating look. “Forgive my cynicism.”

  I smiled warmly, took his hand. “Rachel is not my father or Mallis. She didn’t admit it, but I think she tried to investigate Mallis for corruption when she was a serving police officer at the MET. She’d like nothing more than to bring him to justice.”

  “And your dad?”

  “I’m less certain how it will pan out. My father won’t confess, but Zach might.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t have a choice.” Sitting there with Rocco only confirmed what I already knew to be true. I couldn’t condemn myself to living the rest of my life with lies and duplicity.

  Rocco absently rubbed his thumb against the top of my hand. “I’m sorry for me, but I’m sorry for you too.”

  His expression scorched me. I didn’t want his pity. I’d never wanted that. To divert him, I asked a question that had bugged me since the night Rocco had broken into my house.

  “You said your gran told you something when she was dying.”

  Rocco nodded. “She received an anonymous note, telling her to look into your brother.”

  Who from, I wondered. Couldn’t be either Bowen or Scarlet. Bowen was too eager to exploit the situation and Scarlet was hell-bent on taking the secret to her grave. There was only one person I could think of, not that it mattered anymore because he too was dead, and that was Barry Bevan, Richard Bowen’s biological father. It would have been one last hurrah and a finger up to the man who’d threatened him.

  “So, what happens next?” he said, puncturing my thoughts.

  “Next?”

  “To us.” He scrutinized me as if examining a rare piece of porcelain. Did he think I would break into pieces without him?

  “Rocco,” I said solemnly. “I’m not sure.”

  “I meant what I said the last time we spoke.”