and hats. I smiled as I picked out the mad fascinator that Scarlet had worn for her hen night. I didn’t bother with a plain box marked ‘Nate’s crap’. Of the bracelet, there was no sign. Nothing weird or out of place either.
Setting the chair back, and about to head out to the landing, I spotted a navy rucksack hanging loosely on the back of the door. It wasn’t really Scarlet’s style, but I lifted it off to take a look. There was no phone in the designated zip up section and the main compartment was empty apart from a small pack of unopened tissues. Plunging a hand into an interior section, I grazed something the size of a receipt or car parking ticket and fished it out. Torn from a lined jotter, a scrap of paper, with writing on it. I stared at a London address in a hand I didn’t recognise, a name below read: ‘Charlie Binns.’ Neither meant anything to me.
With the note in my pocket, I returned to the kitchen and sat down next to Nate.
“No luck?” he said.
I shook my head.
“I’ll need to close her social media accounts,” he said randomly. “Have you seen the tributes?”
“God, so soon?” It seemed peculiar that death, a private matter, should be made public when I hadn’t even had a chance to grasp what had happened.
“People she worked with. Lots of lovely things said about her. Your sister was uniquely beautiful, inside and out.”
A feather of guilt sneaked along my spine. I reached out, rested my hand over his.
“There’s going to be so much shit to deal with.” He was breathy, and his eyes were wild. “I’ll have to cancel her credit cards and then there’s the legal stuff.”
“What legal stuff?”
“She died intestate.”
I blinked in ignorance.
“Without a will,” he explained.
“I’m sure Dad will know how to handle it.”
Nate nodded sadly, put his glass down, scrubbed at his face with his hands. Again, the mad-eyed look. If I didn’t handle this right, I’d lose him.
“Nate, what did you want to talk to me about?”
He looked at me with big soulful eyes. “You might need a stronger drink.”
“The motorcyclist was an off-duty copper with the Gloucestershire force.”
My jaw slackened. Why it should make a difference was stupid and yet, somehow, it did.
“Coming back from a shift and heading towards Gloucester,” Nate explained. Hence the head-on, I realised. “With both of them involved in challenging jobs, I reckon fatigue was the primary factor.”
It would be the obvious conclusion. I shifted in my seat. The piece of paper in my pocket crackled. “What about the hire vehicle?”
“Jeep Cherokee four by four, beast of a motor. I teased her about it.” His expression was wan. If speed was an issue, I realised that it would be in the accident report. Nate’s shoulders slumped. “Took them half-an-hour to cut her out of the wreckage.”
I baulked. Somehow, I’d thought she was killed instantly. “My God, she was conscious?” The thought appalled me. “And the police officer?”
“Never stood a chance,” Nate said darkly. “Apparently he was thrown twenty feet in the air on impact.”
Blood thundered in my ears. “Was he driving too fast? Maybe he swerved onto her side of the road.” Guiltily, I remembered how I’d scoffed at my mum’s speculations suggesting something similar.
Feeling grim at the prospect, we both fell silent. Nate was first to break. “Molly?”
“Yeah?”
“Scarlet was drunk.”
If Nate had produced a hammer to thwack me over the head, I couldn’t have felt more astonished. Scarlet was a classic teetotaller to the point of boring for Europe on the subject. I’d received enough lectures on what alcohol did to your physiology from her. Strangely, I don’t ever remember Scarlet reprimanding our mum, a more worthy candidate. The thought of possible ramifications made my airways narrow and tighten. “That can’t be right. She didn’t drink.”
“A smashed bottle of vodka was found in the wreckage.”
“So what?”
“One of the firefighters cutting her free said he could smell alcohol on her breath.”
“That’s ludicrous.”
“Exactly what I said.”
“But —”
“Look,” he said, abruptly testy, “I’ll know more after the post-mortem. Promise you won’t breathe a word?”
“Of course.” It wouldn’t be hard. I swallowed my beer to make the point that the allegation was ridiculous.
A cagey light entered his eyes. “When I was looking for Scarlet’s bracelet, I found a note.”
“Yeah?” I said, pretty cagey myself. Should I tell him I already had it in my pocket?
“From her to me. Here.” He pulled out a sheet of writing paper from underneath a cookery book and planted it in my hand. With trembling fingers, I straightened it out. Definitely Scarlet’s stylish, all loops and curls, writing. It read: Nate, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Love you, babe. S xxx
I spiked with alarm. Did this imply suicide? “Forgiveness for what?”
“Search me.” Nate took another pull of whisky. Quick and sharp and guaranteed to make me back off. He snatched the note off me and set it aside, out of reach.
Surely, our row couldn’t have precipitated such a catastrophic turn of events. My blood chilled at the thought. That left another alternative: Scarlet had been in trouble somehow. But if she was, would I know? I thought we were close. Except — “Have you shown it to the police?”
“No.”
“You’re going to, aren’t you?”
“Molly, the meaning isn’t clear. There’s nothing even faintly emotional about it.”
“That’s not really an answer. The fact she left a message at all could explain why she wasn’t taking as much care on the road.” Spectral fingers dug me in the back. “Maybe she meant to do it?”
Nate’s expression darkened. “Suicide?”
I bit my bottom lip and nodded.
“It’s not dated,” Nate argued. “It could have been written any time.”
