Her Sister’s Secret

Chapter 20

Despite Nate’s protestation, I told Nate that he had a duty to drop in and see Mum and Dad before we went to mine. It’s what they’d expect, and it would be unkind not to. We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey. Noise from the car’s squeaky brakes, the result of an extended period of hot, dry weather, bored through the silence. Gave me time to turn things over in my head. Murder and money, those incestuously connected twins. How the shooting of a man fitted into things I’d no idea, but it slotted in somehow.

The nearer we got to Malvern, the more the hills laid claim to the town. I’d always thought of them as quintessentially British. Today, they seemed like foreign invaders.

Pulling up outside Mum and Dad’s, Nate grasped the thorny silence prickling between us. “Promise you won’t say anything to your folks?”

I slammed on the handbrake. “It’s bit late for that, isn’t it?” He briefly closed his eyes, covered his mouth with his hand. He was sweating. A lot.

“You do realise that Dad could win super-sleuth of the year?” Which was a problem. If he found out half of what I knew so would Mum and it would kill her.

Nate issued a gale of a sigh in response. “He hasn’t worked for the police for years.”

As if this made a difference. “He still has connections. You want my advice?”

“Go on,” he said, shrinking, as if trying to bury himself in the foot well.

“Be as honest as you can without destroying them.”

Nate pitched forward, scrubbed at his face then his hair, and mumbled something indecipherable.

“And don’t forget what I told you about the partnership,” I added.

At the sound of the car doors opening and closing, Mr Lee went crazy and didn’t quieten until we were inside. I bent down and was overwhelmed with a blast of slobbery doggy breath.

Dad appeared, visibly harassed. “Bloody newspaper hacks. Phone hasn’t stopped. Nate,” he said, softening, arms extended, pulling my brother-in-law close. Always tactile, it was one of the things I loved about my father. “How are you holding up, son?”

Nate glanced across, caught my eye, anxiety scribbled all over his face. “Okay, I guess.”

Dad patted Nate on the back and pulled away. “Any updates from the police? Only my source appears to have dried up. Can’t seem to get a word out of anyone.”

I made a big play of stroking our dog. Close to Nate, I could feel the friction coming off him in waves. Tense and perplexed, my dad looked from me to Nate. “Well, erm— my family liaison officer, a guy called Childe,” Nate began in a strangled voice, “he visited this morning, confirming the results of the post-mortem.”

Dad flicked an uneasy, expectant look.

I studied the floor as Nate revealed the toxicology results.

“Drunk?” Dad said, astounded.

“The vehicle examiner’s report corroborated witness statements. They seem to think that Scarlet was unstable.”

I could see Dad hanging on Nate’s every word. His cheeks sagged in dismay. “I don’t understand.” I caught the distraction in his voice. For once, my father’s sharp mind was slow to catch on.

“They believe she intended to commit suicide,” Nate said in a low tone.

It was as if we’d all tumbled into a void. Pain that was almost physical accelerated through me. It was some time before my father recovered the power of speech.

“How could we have missed the signs?” He pressed a hand to his temple, as if trying to put pressure on the thinking part of his brain. “I don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to ask you, son. Did Scarlet leave a note?”

Nate swallowed. His hands clenched tight, knuckles virtually bursting through his skin. I tried to catch his eye again, but he refused to make contact.

Dad viewed me in a way that told me he’d twigged he wasn’t getting the full story. “Let’s go into the study, Nate.”

Ignoring Nate’s cornered expression, I said, “Where’s Mum?”

“In the sitting room. Had a few drinks.” Code for she’s drunk, which was hardly surprising if not exactly helpful.

“I’ll keep her company,” I said, as Dad turned on his heel, Nate gloomy, loping along behind him.

Dressed in an old tracksuit, Mum sat on the floor surrounded by boxes of old photographs. Engrossed, she didn’t look up. Against the shuttered light, the smell of booze hung heavy. I slid onto the floor beside her.

“Remember this?” She glanced up, her face, without make-up, puffy with crying. She showed me Scarlet’s graduation photograph. Goofing around, her mortarboard askew, you could see the happiness radiating out of her. The only person bursting with more pride than Scarlet on that day had been Mum. She touched the print tenderly, tracing the line around my sister’s face, dropping a kiss onto it before planting it carefully next to a line of others. Method in her madness, the photographs were arranged in date order, from babyhood to childhood, adolescent and young adult. Millions of them, more even than Zach, her firstborn.

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. In the space of forty-eight hours, she’d lost weight, felt as fragile as spun glass. “And this,” I smiled, picking out a photo of Scarlet and me on holiday in Cornwall. The weather had been atrocious, I remembered, although it hadn’t deterred us from riding our bikes in full wet weather gear. Sodden and smiling for the camera, we couldn’t have looked more pleased. A volatile explosion of grief took me unawares, hot tears unexpectedly surging down my cheeks. I checked them with the back of my hand.

Haunted, Mum reached for her drink, the sound of ice clinking against glass as familiar to me as her smile. “Did I hear Nate’s voice?”

“He’s with dad in the study.” I wondered whether I should warn my mother of what was to come. I never expected drama and denials. This was not my father’s way, but the effect of his displeasure was no less punishing. What I hadn’t told Nate was that, as Scarlet’s protector, Dad would demand to know why his eldest daughter was so unhappy and what part his son-in-law might have played in her distress. To Scarlet, family was all. My parents’ commitment to her was no less strong. I imagined Dad listening quite reasonably then narrowing his eyes, getting Nate in his sights, speaking softly before he did the equivalent of pulling the trigger with a few well-chosen words. Dread dripped into my ear. “I expect they’ll be out soon,” I reassured Mum.

Mum selected another photograph: Scarlet in her nurse’s uniform. “Her patients adored her.” She slurred her words and took another deep swallow of gin. How I’d like to reach for the bottle and tip the contents down the sink, but I did what I always did and nodded blandly.

As if suddenly remembering Nate, she stood up, made for the door, unsteady on her feet. I called after her, scrabbling, about to give chase when Dad and Nate bowled in.

“Nate, darling.” Mum flung her arms around him. “You poor poor man.”

“He’s going to stay with us for a few days, Amanda,” Dad said.

“Of course. Absolutely. You must, Nate.”

Looking over her shoulder, Nate looked me straight in the eye. He didn’t look flustered. He didn’t look apologetic. He didn’t look ashamed. I couldn’t read him at all.

Chapter 21

Zach looked as if he hadn’t moved since my last visit. Sitting down, shades on, thighs spread, soaking up the sun. The only difference: Tanya sat beside him cross-legged on the dry ground, as if someone had taken a pair of shears to her hair and tipped a pot of Dulux over what was left. ‘Lady in Red’ sprang to mind. As soon as she spotted me, she unfurled, lithe-limbed, and threw her arms around me in a hug. Sandalwood and sweat, incense and ingenuousness. Goodness knew what she saw in my brother. “Zach told me,” she whispered in my ear. “So sorry.” Drawing away, she asked after my parents even though she’d never met them. Probably never would.

I trotted out a neutral ‘as well as can be expected’ reply.

Much to my amazement, Zach had managed to prise himself out of his seat, stagger to his feet and engage in normal social niceties.

“Hi,” he said watchfully. Sizing me up.

“Is there somewhere we can go and talk, Zach?”

Catching on, Tanya said she needed to check on an ailing chicken.

“Sure, I —”

“Darling Molly,” a smooth educated voice, tidal in its delivery, one instantly recognisable, boomed over our heads. We did a collective turn and watched as Chancer bounded down the steps of what had once been a Romany caravan. He carried more weight than I remembered, the buttons of his white, open-neck shirt, which hung loose outside his jeans, competing with flesh and gravity. Fuller-faced too, a little dissolute around the eyes, he looked as though he’d returned from an all-night party. Before I knew it, I was grabbed and spun off my feet. Startled, I briefly forgot that I was in mourning. So had he, it seemed.

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