Читать книгу: «Her Sister’s Secret»

For Fran and Jim

Chapter 1

I did the wrong thing. Just once. And there is a weary inevitability about what happens next; me in a stranger’s car, sunshine tricking, morning heat ticking, with a throwaway look before I leave. Truth is, I slipped off the picture months ago, way before the terror set in.

Maybe it’s connected to the heat, the dog days of summer inducing a kind of craziness but, no matter how hard I try, I can’t catch a break. Can’t. And four fingers of vodka don’t change a thing.

I stare at the lonely road ahead. There’s the odd worker bee but mostly traffic is quiet. Nobody to see or stop me. Checking the rear-view mirror, I take another sneaky swallow, not enough to dent my reactions, but enough to make me bold. Unaccustomed to the rip and burn of booze on an empty stomach, I love it –feels perfect in the circumstances.

Perfect.

And will Nate care? I don’t know. Do I blame him for the sick chain reaction of events? Maybe. Will he feel guilty? Probably.

I’ll be honest, half of me is terrified to tear a hole in an unimaginably beautiful day, the other sad, but it’s the best I can do to keep those dirty little secrets shovelled back into the earth and buried deep. It’s why something so wrong will be so right. You’ll see.

A glance at my watch confirms it’s time. Primed for speed, the four-by-four starts, its throaty engine snarling. Power thrills through my fingers, up my arms, and takes a spin around my brain. In that petrol-charged moment, I picture how it will play out after I’m gone. They will say I was drunk. They will say I was overworked and suffering from depression. Some will scream that I was mad and bad. Out of her mind, my mother will cry. Intoxicated maybe, but the rest is false. I could never feel more sorted. If someone threatens to topple the walls and bring them crashing down, you make damn sure they lie buried deep in the rubble beside you.

Sunshine smashes through the windscreen and briefly blinds me. I take one final slug of booze. For courage. For luck. For endings. Then, stamping on the gas, I drive.

Chapter 2

“How many men have you slept with?”

“What?”

I was less concerned with Lenny’s intrusive question than with the fact I still stung from the furious argument I’d had with my sister three days ago. With bitter words and angry accusations, I’d blown my stack. And it hadn’t ended there. The rest was a blur of emotion right outside any normal spectrum. At that moment in time I’d hated my sister for making me feel so bloody inadequate and unloved by my own mother.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

“Lenny,” I puffed, almost skinning my knuckles on the wall. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning. It’s bloody hot and I’ve not long had breakfast.”

Sweat poured off me due to the weight of the hefty set of mahogany drawers we were manhandling down a flight of stairs. You need to be strong in the house clearance business and, although short in stature, I was, but this piece of old tat was proving a right bastard. “We have a full day of humping—’

She flashed a killer smile.

“Shifting furniture,” I corrected, “and all you can think about is sex. What’s wrong with you?” In my experience men who banged on (no pun intended) about getting their leg over weren’t getting any. With Lenny, I simply didn’t know. Wind-up merchant, or genuine enthusiast?

She bumped down another step with such force I thought my arms would pop out of their sockets.

“Ouch. Watch my hand.” My biceps juddered and there was a faintly queasy sensation in my stomach. Motor-mouth didn’t pause for breath.

“You haven’t forgotten to return Mr Noble’s call, have you? He needs us to clear his grandmother’s house.”

“No.” I had forgotten actually. Mentally, I ran through my ‘to do’ list, which increased with each passing minute. The shop closed on Mondays, my time dedicated to admin and house clearance. I treated it as my weekly workout.

“Only he called again yesterday. You were supposed to get back to him a week ago.”

I didn’t dignify Lenny’s criticism with a reply. Too busy manoeuvring around a tight corner. A knob came perilously close to lodging itself between two spindles. With a superhuman effort, I altered the angle. Calamity averted.

With only a minor diversion in her train of thought, Lenny got expansive. “I reckon I’ve slept with thirty-three guys, give or take.”

“Bloody hell. What are you trying to do? Set some kind of record?”

“It’s not a lot for a healthy thirty-nine-year-old.”

When did you lose your virginity, I nearly said. In my head I furiously did the maths. I once, memorably, had sex in a store cupboard in an underground tube station on the Bakerloo line, and my last fling had been in a client’s home with Lenny’s predecessor, a guy who got clingy. In general, I was discreet about what I got up to in my down time, whether drinking more than was good for me or choosing unsuitable men to hook up with – often one inextricably led to the other. Scarlet, my goody-two-shoes sister, with her perfect husband, worthy career and perfect bloody life, would never stoop so low, and certainly not without her clothes on. I think I still loved her although I wished, in a complicated, sisterly way, that her halo would slip, trip her up and send her flying.

“Would you sleep with a married man?”

At this, I practically screeched. “As taboo as doing drugs.”

“A bit of blow never hurt anyone,” Lenny chirruped.

One stern look from me took the tweet right out of her twitter. Pink zinged across her milk-white cheeks

“Sorry, Moll, I forgot about your brother.”

“A bit of blow, as you put it, was what got Zach started.” After that he snorted cocaine that made him over-excited and unpredictable, and heroin that turned him into an octogenarian overnight with memory problems and a tendency to fall asleep any time, any place and anywhere.

Lenny zipped it and, together, we flogged down the last two stairs, setting the drawers down with a mighty thump.

“Pit stop?” she said, suitably chastened, a rarity for Lenny.

About to answer, my phone rang.

The caller display indicated it was Dad. Some of my friends disregarded calls from their parents when at work. My dad was different. A former senior police officer he’d taken early retirement and authority coursed through his DNA. Quietly spoken, quiet in every way, he was not an easy man to ignore, although my big brother, Zach, had managed it with ease for all his teenage years, most of his adult too.

“Where are you?” Dad said.

“Barnard’s Green. House clearance.”

“Can you come home?”

“Now?” I pulled a face at Lenny.

“Scarlet’s been in an accident. An RTA.”

I took a sharp intake of breath and translated the copper-speak; car crash.

“Is-?”

“It’s bad,” he said, a catch in his voice.

I spiked with alarm, not so much because of what he said, but how he said it. My softly spoken father sounded at least ten decibels louder than normal. “Dad—”

“I’m going to the hospital and I need you to stay with your mum.”

“But—”

“Molly, she has one of her migraines and is definitely not fit to travel.”

God, she’d be doing her pieces. “I’ll be right there. You’ll keep in touch?” The line went dead.

I gawped at Lenny who, from simply reading my expression, cottoned on that catastrophe had struck.

“Go, I’ll deal with things here.”

“But the van?”

“You take it. I’ll shift as much as I can and pile it in the hall. I can load it later.”

Knowing I could trust her, I flew.

Blood sprinting, guilt poking, I was consumed by the darkest of thoughts: was I the reason Scarlet had crashed?

Chapter 3

It took ten minutes to reach my parents’ house in Malvern Wells.

Mr Lee’s claws clattered across the hall the second he heard my key in the lock. Barely stopping to ruffle his soft Shih Tzu ears as he yapped and snuffled at my ankles, I headed straight upstairs and slipped into my parents’ bedroom.

In darkness, light peeped through the curtains, leaving a golden criss-cross pattern on the sheets. My mum lay, starfish-style, in the middle. Absolutely still. Eyes closed. Skin deathly pale, blonde hair a storm on the pillow. Even though I was her daughter, even though she was unwell, I saw how beautiful she was. Exactly like Scarlet who, with her generous mouth and petite nose and elfin features, took after Mum.

“Molly, is that you?” At the sound of her voice, Mr Lee darted inside, hopped up and parked himself at the foot of the bed. He cast me a reproachful look and rested his chin on Mum’s legs. Proprietorial. My mummy.

I kissed her forehead and sat down on dad’s side of the bed. Mum took my hand and gave it a squeeze. Even my sister’s fingers, long and fine, were like my mother’s. Only the nails were different. Scarlet’s were nurse short, mum’s long and highly polished. Me, with my dark hair, scary eyebrows and olive colouring, took after Dad. I got my practicality from him too. Unfortunately, my shortness of stature – I’m a shade over five foot – belonged to a throwback somewhere down the family line.

“It’s all right. It will be all right,” I said, not really knowing if it would. Suddenly ashamed, I wondered whether Scarlet had confided in Mum about our argument just days earlier. The anger of our exchange suddenly swamping me:

“You what?” I blazed. “I’m not as pretty as you. I’m not as clever as you. I’m certainly not admired like you. Was that what you were going to say?”

“Don’t be silly.” Scarlet spoke quietly, hurt in her eyes. “All I was going to say is that you need to speak to Mum and Dad. This isn’t my fault.”

With a superhuman effort, Mum’s eyes opened, tears pooling at the corners, bringing me out of my painful thoughts. “Oh Molly, it sounds so awful. They had to cut her from the wreckage.”

An icy shiver tiptoed along my spine. “Mum, I’m sure it will—”

“Her beautiful face.” While the situation seemed dire, I sensed that Scarlet’s face would be the least of her problems. Oh God.

“My phone,” Mum burst out, edging up onto the pillows, agitating. “What if your dad calls?” Her gaze darted in the direction of the window. “It’s over on the dressing table.”

I stood up, located her mobile and placed it in her hand. Meanwhile, Mr Lee snored softly, completely out of it. I wished I were dreaming too.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” I said. “Was Nate with her?” Nate was Scarlet’s husband. An architect, he worked with my father on his renovation projects. I jolted. Whatever must Nate be going through?

“No, Molly,” Mum said, with icy patience. “Nate called your father.”

“Sorry, yes. Any other vehicles?”

“A motorcyclist.”

“God. Poor him. Or her,” I added.

Mum’s expression briefly darkened. Bad form to express pity for anyone other than my sister. “Pass my water, would you?” Her voice was tight and clipped. I passed her the glass from the side of the bed and she took a sip.

“Do you know where the accident happened?”

“Not really, but I’m guessing she was nearly home. She’s working nights this week.”

“Perhaps Scarlet was tired and took her eye off the road.”

Mum’s jaw stiffened. “Scarlet would never make a mistake. She’s always so careful.”

I considered this. A beautiful day, summer sun already up, and Scarlet travelling on a road with which she was familiar. “Do you know what time the crash happened?”

Mum hitched her shoulders. “Judging by Nate’s phone call, between 7.30 and 8.00 a.m. Why, oh why, do I have to get one of my migraines now?” Mum placed the back of her hand against her forehead.

“Have you taken anything?”

“I’m trialling a new nasal spray. Scarlet suggested it.” Her mouth creased with pain at the mention of my sister’s name. Parents aren’t supposed to have favourites, but I’d known for as long as I could remember that my mum adored my sister and cared for her more than me. Zach remained more difficult to categorise. Whenever Mum spoke about her firstborn and only son her voice would tremble with emotion, but it was Scarlet who remained the centre of her universe.

I nodded sympathetically. We didn’t speak. “I wish your father would call,” she said, fretting. “He promised he would.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Do you think we should try Nate?”

Definitely not. “Honestly, Mum, I know it seems like an eternity, but I’m sure everything that can be done is being done. If anyone can sort things out, Dad can.” My dad, in all our eyes, was the most capable of men, mentally, emotionally and physically too. He’d always been sporty, and now his building work kept him lean and healthy.

She forced a smile and sank back miserably into the pillows. “It was probably his fault.”

“What?” I said, startled.

“That biker. Bloody speed merchants.”

I took a breath, counted to ten, and told myself that my mum was understandably upset and already scratchy due to feeling unwell. “Probably too early to say.”

“There are so many damned lunatics on the road.”

“A bird could have flown out. It might be nobody’s fault.” Or it might be mine. Oh My God. The room suddenly bloated with dry heat. Squirming, I stroked Mr Lee’s head.

Don’t let it be as bad as everyone thinks.

Let there be a mistake.

I promise I will never fight with my sister again. I will be nice. I will never blame her for anything.

“We should call Zach,” I said. “Let him know.”

She tensed. “Know what? At the moment there is nothing to tell.”

I stifled a sigh. Contact with my brother was sporadic and difficult. To be fair, this was largely his choice and his fault. If we’d remained in Cheltenham, I could understand his aversion to possibly running into his druggie friends, but he had no connections in Worcestershire. That chaotic stage in his life was over, so I didn’t really get it. Having put my parents through hell, he remained a touchy subject with Mum and Dad. Whatever the ancient history, I believed he should be told about the accident, although, admittedly, maybe not right now.

“Tea?” Despite the heat, it seemed the right beverage to drink. You couldn’t drink vodka at quarter to nine in the morning even if Mum would not be averse to the idea.

“Please.”

I padded out of the room, keen to escape, anxious to be doing something so that I didn’t have to consider what might or might not be happening. Like a virus attacking my nervous central system, all I could think about was my sister, the crash, the fallout, the blame.

I put the kettle on and took the jolly cups and saucers – my mum’s favourite – from the cupboard and went through the motions. Spoonful of sugar for me. Light dash of milk for her. While it brewed, I tried my dad on his mobile. My call went straight to his messaging service, his voice sombre in a way I’d never noticed before. An omen? A scoot around local Gloucestershire news online revealed absolutely nothing. Before I got drawn into what was trending on Twitter, the kettle boiled.

Arranging everything on a tray, the way my mum liked, I took it upstairs.

“I’ve tried your father. No reply,” she said, brittle with frustration.

“Maybe he can’t respond. Could be driving, or at the hospital.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.

We drank in silence. Her hands trembled. God knew what was travelling through her mind although none of it could be good. Eventually she eased back down the bed. Hid beneath the sheets.

I sat and stared off into the distance. For a second time I considered calling Zach. He and Scarlet had never been close, and it was always me who tried to maintain family ties.

“Can I get you anything else?”

She shook her head minutely. “The dog probably needs to go out.”

Only if I scooped him up and forced him, which was precisely what I did. Picking up on the bad news vibe, Mr Lee’s tongue darted out and licked my ear in a sort of ‘sorry you’re feeling sad’ gesture. I gave him a squeeze and carted him downstairs, through the kitchen and conservatory and into heat resembling a fan assisted oven at 220 degrees centigrade. Too long outside and I’d be done to a turn.

I held back in the shade, watched as Mr Lee mooched across the lawn, skirted the vegetable patch and cocked his leg against one of the fruit trees. To the right, a teal-painted wooden bench where Scarlet and I once sat weeks before and prior to the row, the two of us gazing across the rooftops to the Severn valley, cold drinks in our hands after a blistering day at work. Peace between us. She’d seemed distant, I remembered now, not her usual smiley self. When I’d enquired if she was okay, she’d told me she was knackered. To be honest, I hadn’t really bought her answer and wondered if there was something up between her and Nate. Looking back, I wished I’d pressed her because then I’d be able to make better sense of everything. But maybe exhaustion had led to the accident. Maybe it was nothing to do with me. Maybe.

The dog ambled back, cocked his leg again, this time against a flowering shrub on a patio bleached white with heat. I jagged in irritation because the weather felt all wrong. The sun wore a stupid happy-clappy grin on its face. It was way too lovely a day for unfolding events that I couldn’t call, couldn’t predict.

Retreating inside, I ran water into a bowl for Mr Lee.

The house seemed unsettled and empty, like a home in which a warring couple declare they are going their separate ways. Was it possible that we were all over-reacting? Might someone have got mixed up, identified the wrong driver? Was my sister really at home, sunning her rear and snoozing in the sun, while some other poor woman lay trapped in wreckage? Buoyed, I took out my mobile, punched in Scarlet’s number. Nothing. Switched off. Dead.

Steeling myself, I went back upstairs.

“All right?” Mum asked in the way people do when they don’t require a truthful answer.

“Yes.”

“Dog had a drink?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sorry, you had to leave work.”

“Doesn’t matter. Lenny is managing fine without me.”

“Even so—” She broke off, stirred, eyes flickering toward the doorway, to where Dad stood. Tall and solidly built, there suddenly seemed less of him in that moment. Purple shadows etched upon his face and underneath his eyes gave him the appearance of the gravely ill. As he walked silently towards us, I read all kinds of emotions in his brown eyes. That’s when I knew. Indubitably. And so did my mother. Her hand gripping mine told me so.

My throat cramped. “Dad?”

In a voice stained with pain, he said, “Scarlet died this morning.”

Chapter 4

Silence, like the split-second before an ancient tree, cut down, hits the earth.

Dad started forward, every step an exercise in agony. Mum, slack-jawed, let go of my hand, gripped and twisted the cotton top sheet through her fingers, a metaphor for a life irrevocably screwed. When Dad reached out and put his arms around her, she let out a deep-throated howl. I slipped off the bed, made way, excluded. Numbed, I couldn’t really take it in.

There were tears. I’d never seen my big tough dad cry. Not when Zach got expelled from school – again – not when he’d OD’d, not when my brother went to rehab that would make most prisons look like recreational facilities, not when Dad walked my sister down the aisle. Not ever. But he cried now.

“There must be some mistake.” Mum’s sobs were dry. Excruciating.

“No, my darling.”

“But—”

“I identified her.”

Mum pulled away. “You did?” She spoke in a small, wondering, vulnerable voice. “Surely, Nate—”

“Too much for the boy. I offered.”

“And you’re sure? You’re certain?”

“She’s gone,” he confirmed tearfully.

Mum wrenched back the sheet. “Then I must I go to her.”

“No, Amanda.”

“I have to see her, Rod.”

Stricken, I held my breath, watched as Dad put his solid hands on Mum’s shoulders, looked into her eyes. Firm. Back in control. All his ex-copper credentials showing through. “We can take flowers once the scene’s secured and preserved.”

Her mouth tightened, ugliness in her expression. “I don’t want to take fucking flowers. I want to see my baby.”

Dad glanced anxiously over his shoulder at me. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Maybe he was embarrassed because my mum never swore, and he wasn’t great with the drama. Maybe he feared the miasma of emotions about to break loose. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from what I already knew. My mother could live without any one of us, but not Scarlet.

“Amanda, listen to me. You have to be very brave.”

“I can’t,” she gulped. “I just—”

“You can. You must. For Scarlet.”

“Oh my Christ,” she burst out. “She always said she wanted to donate her organs. We can’t let that happen, Rod.”

“That’s not an issue at the moment.”

I frowned. What did Dad mean?

“But there will be a post-mortem,” he continued.

“No,” she snapped. “You tell him, Molly. Tell him it can’t happen.”

I stared from one to the other, my breath staccato and shallow. “Mum, I wish I could but—”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Ripping herself from dad, she tore out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Naked and unsteady feet crashed against polished wooden floorboards.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, but the accusing light in her eyes said it all. When she’d needed me most, I’d failed her.

Dad stood up, met my wounded gaze. “She doesn’t mean it, Moll.”

My expression told him that she did.

“Leave her. She’ll —” He was going to say ‘calm down’ but, too late, realised the futility of it.

He sat. I stood. Lost. A hot ember of grief lodged so deep in my chest I thought it would never cool. I didn’t know what to say, or how to feel, other than crashing grief and guilt. I’d never be able to make it up to my sister now.

“Come,” he said, with a sad smile.

I went to him and threw my arms around his neck and rested my cheek against his big wide chest. As he stroked my head the years rolled back, except that Scarlet was no longer there to share them with me. Scarlet was a lonely shadow.

I pulled away, ran a knuckle underneath each eye. “How’s Nate?”

“In bad shape. Went to pieces at the hospital. I left him with his parents. There’s an FLO with him too.” Family Liaison Officer. I was fluent in my dad’s cop lingo.

“And now?”

“There will be an accident investigation followed by an inquest. Standard procedure.”

“What did you mean about organ donation? Scarlet believed in it so much.”

He let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know the RP SIO but, as a former police officer, I might be able to extract some inside information.” I dredged my brain. Dad meant Road Policing Investigating Officer. “It’s a confused picture but I got the impression that the police were holding something back. The fact that they want to prioritise the post-mortem indicates as such.”

I didn’t like the sound of this at all. I understood that reports could take a week or so, although initial findings could be disclosed earlier.

Dad continued, as if on autopilot. “Every fatality on British roads is treated as a suspicious death and in this instance there’s two. In the normal course of events, a Collision Officer will identify and preserve records and review witness evidence, and a Vehicle Examiner will check out the vehicles.”

I didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t. I tried to absorb the news. Failed. “Dad,” I said gingerly, “When will they find out what happened?” I had to know.

“Sounds like a high-speed collision.”

“You think Scarlet was driving too quickly?”

“Maybe.” He shook his head. “But don’t tell your mother I said that.”

I squeezed his arm; saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. We both knew that my mum would never recover from this. “It might or might not be a factor, but Scarlet wasn’t driving her car.”

“How come?” I said, puzzled.

“Remember that prang she had a month or so ago?”

“Hit a gate-post.” Which was right out of character, I remembered with a twinge of anxiety. Scarlet was a good driver. Smooth. Fluid. Safe. Not like me with my tendency to curb it and poke my nose out too far at junctions.

“The Golf was in for bodywork repairs. She’d rented an off-roader for the week.”

“Maybe she didn’t know how to handle it.”

“A possibility,” he agreed.

“How long had she had it?”

“Three days.” Yes, I remembered now. She was on her way to drop off her car and pick up the courtesy vehicle when I’d picked a fight.

“Surely, she’d take it steady simply because she wasn’t used to driving the vehicle.”

“I have to admit it does seem odd, especially as she was on the wide straight stretch on the Old Gloucester Road, after Hayden.”

I knew my sister’s regular route. The speed limit was 50 mph, but drivers often took it more quickly. Me included.

A hard lump swelled in my throat, making it virtually impossible to swallow. Still the tears wouldn’t come. “Was it really awful, Dad? Seeing Scarlet?”

He glanced away, jaw bracing, his normal dark colouring a pale imitation. When he spoke his voice sounded raspy, dry and old. “I’ve seen many dead bodies, but nothing prepares you for—” He shook his head. Broken.

“Here,” I said, clumsily handing him a tissue. He took it, dabbed his face and blew his nose. “We have to tell Zach.”

“My job,” he said, stoic and uncompromising. A pulse ticked in his neck, his expression reminding me of the bad old days when Zach was in thrall to his druggie friends. He hung out with crazies back then. Dad knew most of them in a professional capacity. It wasn’t so much what Zach was doing to his body, destructive as it was, as what he was doing to our lives, Dad’s especially.

He pulled out his mobile.

“Wouldn’t it be better and kinder done in person?” In any case, Zach never answered his phone and, rarely, if ever returned a call.

Dad opened his mouth to speak then hesitated, whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the sound of a loo flushing and running water.

“Let me tell Zach,” I murmured.

“No, I —’

“I want to, Dad.” I needed to be alone, to think and work out whether I was condemned to a lifetime of guilt. I shuddered to think that Scarlet was so upset by our row that she’d not paid attention on the road. Had I argued with her when she was already at a low ebb? Jesus Christ.

His sad eyes met mine. “Are you sure? You’ve had one hell of a shock.”

“Honestly, I want to help.” And do something of practical use. “It won’t be a problem. Promise.”

He clutched my arm. “Are you okay to drive?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” His grip on me tightened.

“I am.”

Anxiously, his eyes darted to the en-suite. “I’ll take care of Mum. You go to Zach.”

Chapter 5

My brother lived a simple life in the arse-end of nowhere. It took me forty-five minutes to get there and then another fifteen through winding roads, flanked by high hedges hissing with heat, to reach the commune where Zach had lived for a decade. Thoughts fastened solely on my sister, my eyes clouded at the thought of never hearing her voice, never seeing her smile again. By the time I reached the potholed drive that led to Zach’s home, I was shackled by grief.

Parking up on a patch of scrub, the ground rutted and dry from two months of hot weather without rain, a kaleidoscope of images clattered through my mind. Scarlet pale and clammy with shock. Scarlet bleeding. Scarlet dying.

Eventually, I forced myself to get out of the van towards what was effectively a scattering of ramshackle dwellings surrounded by vegetable patches, washing lines and pens with livestock.

Gareth, a skinny silent man from the Rhondda, was adjusting a halter on one of his horses. He supplemented his meagre living with woodcarvings and strange sculptures made from scrap metal. Nearby, two small children grubbed around in a makeshift sandpit. Think gypsy encampment meets Glastonbury on an unusually dry day and you get the picture. In front of the largest hovel, a raised piece of decking on which sat benches and old easy chairs with sagging bottoms, two semi-naked women sunbathed in the obliterating heat while Zach lay stretched out in a deckchair, legs apart, narrow feet bare. Clean for years and embracing abstinence with the same zeal with which he’d smoked crack cocaine, he looked reasonably healthy. If you didn’t know it, you’d never cotton on that he’d once been a hair’s breadth away from death.

He wore baggy shorts and a tie-dyed vest that exposed muscles rope-hard from manual labour. His weathered olive-skin looked as if it had been dipped in creosote. Like me, he had a wide brow, although his eyes were blue, like Scarlet’s. A hybrid variety, he had Mum’s pert nose and Dad’s full mouth. Beneath his dreads, his eyes were shut tight against the sun; they popped open at my approach, a loose smile spreading across his face that vanished the second he caught my mangled expression.

“Sis,” he said, climbing out of the chair. “Something wrong?”

“Is Tanya around?” Tanya was Zach’s long-suffering girlfriend. I thought it best if she were there too. As much as anyone had a steadying influence on my brother, she did.

“Craft market in Ludlow,” he said. “Selling cards and shit.”

“Right,” I said uncertainly.

“So, what is it? You look like someone tramped over your grave.” The smile attempted on his face, packed up and retreated.

“It’s Scarlet,” I said bleakly.

At the mention of her name, he started. “What’s she done? Look, if she’s said something—”

“Done?”

He blinked. “You’re making me nervous. I meant what’s happened?”

Whether it was the compressed heat or emotional overload, I caught that uniquely chilling vibe only a sibling can identify. Zach’s was no ordinary slip of the tongue. I thought back to before the argument, sitting in the garden at Mum and Dad’s, Scarlet preoccupied. Did Zach know something I didn’t?

“Moll,” he said. “For Chrissakes, tell me.”

When I did, he made a sound, half groan and half exhalation. Brain fried a long time ago; his emotional responses were complex at the best of times.

A woman, with a flat nose and cracked lips, stirred. “Man,” she said. “That’s bad.”

“Real bad,” the other drawled, raising her head, turning over, in preparation to flash-fry her back.

Expecting a shedload of questions, I waited for Zach to fill in the gathering silence. But Zach wasn’t like other people. Hands cupping his elbows, he stood mute, blinking rapidly from the sun or distress, or both.

Unsolicited, I gave him a précis of what Dad told me. “I want you to come home,” I said.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m all right.”

“You’re all right?” I was accustomed to my brother wittering on about his guilt, bad vibes and not wishing to further upset ‘the folks’, but what had started out as distance and separation, over the years had taken on the shape of a feud, the reason for its existence long forgotten by both parties. In the present tragic circumstances, it was pointless, ridiculous and a waste of energy, which is what I told him.

“I didn’t mean it the way you twisted it,” Zach said petulantly.

“They need you, Zach. Hell, I need you.” Why couldn’t he see it the way I saw it?

“Aw Molly, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what? Jesus, Zach, this isn’t about you.”

“I never said it was.”

“Fuck’s sake, don’t you care?”

“Of course, I fucking care. She was my sister too. And it’s horrible what’s happened.”

“Well, then.”

“Transport’s a problem. I’m not exactly on the doorstep.”

“I can take and drop you back. It wouldn’t need to be for long.” I was pleading with him.

“I have to be here.” He tilted his chin in the direction of the nearest hedge, bullish, as if he had urgent business on the other side of the privet.

“For what exactly?”

“Don’t you get it? They won’t want me around. Especially now.” His hands flew to his head, like he’d been caught in an explosion and was trying to protect himself.

I knew my brother and he was hiding something, all right. And Zach’s initial question, about what Scarlet had done, had given them both away. A victim in a tragic accident, Scarlet was dead. Nothing could change that fact. But my brother and sister had shared a secret. And I had to find out what it was.

Chapter 6

“When did you last see Scarlet?” We sat in the shade with homemade lemonade. The citrus tang hit the back of my throat like a blade.

Zach scratched his belly. “Last year, maybe.”

“That long ago?”

“Christmas,” he said emphatically.

“Not around her birthday?” Four months previously.

Zach tweaked his moustache, shook his head, dreads swinging. “She was going to come over at Easter but there was a change to her rota.”

“Speak to her much on the phone?” I sounded like a Grand Inquisitor, but Zach had always been an impressive liar – rather came with the drug-ridden territory. Directness reduced his wriggle room.

“Now and then. Seemed okay.”

“She didn’t mention a disagreement?” I tried to sound casual. The root cause of my row with Scarlet was not about money, although to an outsider it might look that way, but about favouritism and the way she, according to me, sucked up to our parents. If Scarlet had confided in Zach, he’d probably pass it off as a scrap between sisters. Cash, or the lack of it, had never featured heavily in Zach’s life, because he was so adept at sponging off others.

Zach’s brow furrowed. “Who with?”

“Doesn’t matter. According to Dad, there’s going to be an inquest,” I said, not so skilfully deflecting.

Zach nodded thoughtfully. “How is he?”

I hiked an eyebrow. “Apart from being devastated?”

Colour spread across Zach’s high cheekbones, shame and anger in his expression, most of it aimed at me. “I meant in general. No matter,” he said. Waspish.

“He’s doing his best to look after Mum.” I kept my voice soft and conciliatory.

“God, yeah, how is she?”

“Taking it very hard.”

Zach nodded, met my eye. Unlike me, he said it how it was. “Scarlet was always her favourite.”

“Which is why it’s important we rally round. It’s what Scarlet would have wanted.”

His answer to my lousy suggestion was to take a gulp of lemonade and top up his glass. “What happens next?”

“Post-mortem.”

Zach visibly shivered, the hairs on his arms standing proud. There was an irony that Scarlet had danced with death every day in her professional life as a nurse, and would probably be matter of fact about lying on a slab and being pored over by a stranger, but the thought completely did me in.

“Dad wants to visit the scene to lay flowers,” I said.

Zach gave a silent respectful nod. I could see that me trying to draw him out wasn’t going to cut through or penetrate his lassitude.

“Zach, what did you mean earlier when you asked me what Scarlet had done?”

He let out a laugh, dry and arid. “Jesus, Molly, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

“Well, it was a peculiar—”

“Nothing. I meant nothing.”

Odds on, from my set expression, Zach recognised my bullshit detector had flicked on. I might not have a degree, but I had an honorary in truth finding. I was like my dad in this regard.

We fell silent. I couldn’t take any of it in. Not Scarlet. Not the surreal conversation I was having with my big brother.

Zach drummed his fingers on the table, searching around for something to say. When he spoke next, he was quick to change the subject and asked about business. He had as much interest in my shop as he had in earning a living. I read it as his cue for establishing that my time with him was up and gave a bland reply. Zach reciprocated with one of his own.

“Saw Chancer last week.”

Chancer or Tristram Chancellor was Zach’s oldest friend. They’d been at school together. Unlike the rest of Zach’s mates, Chancer had stayed in touch, I suspected to keep a benevolent eye on my brother to ensure that he stayed on the straight and narrow. Weird really because Chancer was the opposite of my brother in every respect: successful, moneyed and happily married. The thought made me curdle inside. Long ago, I’d been smart enough to recognise that Chancer was way out of my league.

“He and Edie are having problems,” Zach continued.

As surprised as I was, I couldn’t give a damn. Exasperated, frustrated, I wished I could grab my brother and shake a normal emotional response out of him.

“Think the marriage is on the rocks, to be honest,” Zach said. “Needy Edie certainly seems to think so.”

“Don’t be horrible.” Edie was Chancer’s wife. She wasn’t simply in Chancer’s league; she sat astride it. The daughter of a wealthy investment banker, she came from a stocks and shares, Ascot, Wimbo and a jet-setting lifestyle. “What about the kids?”

Zach pulled a face and shrugged. I drained my glass and stood up.

Zach stood too. I read everything in his expression: Off the hook. She’s going. Thank Christ.

I could have asked him to reconsider his decision, to change his mind and come back with me right now, this minute, but knew it would only make us both angry. I had to face it. Even an event as momentous and monstrous as the sudden death of our sister was not going to drag Zach home, or turn him into the prodigal son.

He slung an arm around my shoulder, clumsily drew me close and kissed the top of my head and walked me to the van. “Give my love to Mum and Dad.”

I gave it one last shot. “Think about coming home, Zach.”

He looked down, scuffed the dry ground with a bare heel, kicking up dust. Not a chance in hell, I thought, climbing into the Transit and bumping back along the drive.

Chapter 7

Dispirited, I turned onto the main road and, after a few miles, pulled over into a lay-by from where I called Nate. My brother-in-law and me had always got on.

“Nate, I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say. I can’t believe it. I mean what the fuck? Straight road. Glorious day.” There was a long pause. “Jesus,” he said with a hollow laugh that battered the metal walls of the van, “me an atheist and I actually prayed and pleaded for her to pull through.”

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did his voice was all twisted up. “But Molly, how are you doing?”

To be fair, I didn’t have the words to adequately and accurately answer his question. Most of me was in denial. I mumbled clichés about expecting this kind of thing to happen to other people. “Is there anything I can do for you, Nate, anything at all?”

“Be good to see you.”

“What about your parents? I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.”

“They’ll go home. Mum, well, you know, her intentions are good, but what with the police updating me every five seconds, I need time to think and process and—” Nate broke off. At first, I thought he was crying, then realised that something was up. “Actually, I really need to talk. In confidence.”

“How about I drive over after I’ve finished up here? About sixish?”

“That would be good. I’ll see you then.”

I strained every sinew to focus on the road. What did Nate want to tell me in confidence? Was he going to reveal how upset Scarlet had seemed a few days ago? Was he going to ask me why? A fresh wave of shame flamed my cheeks.

I reached Lenny a little over an hour later. Single-handedly, she’d shifted all the furniture from upstairs. Stacked. Packed. Ready to roll. Red-faced and done in, she stood with her back to the wall.

As I slid down from the van, she walked towards me, solemn faced, with open arms. “Your dad phoned. I’m so sorry, hon.”

Solid, dependable, anarchic Lenny enveloped me in a sweaty embrace. A tight dry sob I’d bottled for hours escaped from the back of my throat.

I clung on, loss excavating a hole through my heart. I’d never dealt with this kind of news before. Scarlet gone. Scarlet dead. A moment longer and I’d start bawling and never stop. To head it off, I said, all business, “Could you run me home, then bring the van back to load up and take it to Flotsam?” This was my shop in Malvern Link. “I’ll pay you extra, of course.”

“No way,” she said, as we clambered into the van. “And don’t worry about the shop this week. I can handle it.”

A day ago, it would be unthinkable for me to consider relinquishing control. Now it didn’t matter.

I stared out of the window, remembering me and my big sister at my first pop concert; both of us poring over wedding dresses; a pub lunch when I’d shaken the ketchup and the top hadn’t been screwed on properly and sauce flew all over Mum and we’d cackled with laughter until we were nearly sick. Happy days. Light days. Would I ever feel that carefree again? As stuffy and hot as the day was, I suddenly felt as cold as winter. Lost, I could make no sense of anything.

We pulled up outside my house. “Any particular jobs that need to be done this week?” Lenny said.

I shrugged my shoulders. I still had Mr Noble to contact, I vaguely remembered. He’d have to wait. I had one concern only and it wasn’t to clear my conscience. I needed to understand what the hell happened on that road this morning.