Her Sister’s Secret
- -
- 100%
- +
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
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
“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
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
“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’.