room number seventy-three.”
The second I got home I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped off the top and drank straight from the bottle. What seemed certain, the post-mortem would throw up the ethanol in Scarlet’s bloodstream. It might not be lorry loads of the stuff but, for a committed non-drinker, even small measures could have Dutch courage effects. If Scarlet was guilty of causing the accident, the entire constabulary of Gloucestershire would be keen to blacken her name. With everything I believed in suddenly turned upside down and inside out, I wondered what other horrors lay in wait.
Rear on the sofa and feet parked on the coffee table, I fired up my laptop and switched to online local news in Gloucestershire. Sure enough, a factual report detailed that the police were investigating a fatal collision. The location was given, and an appeal made for witnesses to come forward with information. A later piece identified Detective Sergeant Richard Bowen as the motorcycle victim. Aged forty-two, he had an exemplary police service record and had received awards for heroism. An accompanying photograph of him dressed in uniform portrayed a sleek-looking man, not dissimilar from Nate in appearance, with a majestic smile, the picture of respectability. To my shame, it dismayed me. Already I could picture how the story would play out: courageous police officer and family man versus drunk driver. Didn’t matter that Scarlet was a nurse with a glowing reputation. Her last inexplicable act was how she would be remembered, and it would sink her. Closing my eyes tight, I prayed the post-mortem the next day would prove she was sober. Maybe Bowen was in the wrong. Driving too quickly. Taking unnecessary risks.
Next, I tapped my way straight to Google and the name of the hotel Nate had given me. Shabby, with peeling window frames on the ground floor, the hotel in which Scarlet stayed for the non-existent conference charged less than fifty quid for a standard room. Unless the pictures were out of date, it didn’t look the best location for seduction, but the type of place where unfortunate families were given temporary B&B accommodation by the council. What on earth was Scarlet doing there?
My phone rang. I picked up, saw it was Dad and braced myself. My father could identify a liar at fifty paces. I’d have to box clever to conceal what I knew.
“I found out the name of the motor cyclist.” Dad told me much of what I’d already discovered. “Poor bastard left a wife and two youngsters. One of my old contacts informed me this evening,” he explained, verifying that the information came from a reliable source. “Thank God, the man wasn’t working.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“A world of. It’s mandatory for the IPCC to be involved if one of their officers is on duty.” Independent Police Complaints Commission, I registered.
“In case he was pursuing a suspect, or something?”
Dad went quiet.
“Dad?” I was sure I could hear the cogs in his brain in full motion.
“I should have thought of it.” He spoke like he was kicking himself for being remiss.
“Thought of what?”
“Bowen was travelling home after a shift. If he was knackered, having worked excessive hours, the IPCC may still get involved and any investigation could take weeks.”
And that would make a terrible situation worse, I thought in dismay.
“Either way, it won’t be long before it hits the nationals.”
“Really?” I was horrified. The thought of our private grief trawled through by strangers was hard to bear. That it might also provide some hack with a sensational story along the lines of ‘Drunk Nurse Kills Police Officer’ was intolerable
I expected Dad to say something about the allegation that Scarlet was drunk. He didn’t, and, from the clipped tone, I had the strong impression it wouldn’t be wise to reveal it.
He didn’t speak for a moment but, even on the other end of the line, I could tell he was thinking and trying to get a handle on the chain of events. “You weren’t aware of any problems? Something she was upset about that might have made her distracted?”
I pushed every horrible thought away about the name of a mystery man scribbled on a piece of paper, the suggestion of suicide, a mysterious visit to a crappy hotel in London and the whopping lie Scarlet had told her husband. I told him I didn’t know. “How’s Mum?”
“Exhausted. I persuaded her to take a sedative. She’s sleeping now.”
“Dad?” I blurted out. “Do you mind if I don’t come with you and mum tomorrow?”
“Oh,” he said, obviously taken aback.
“Sorry. It’s —”
“Of course, Molly, I understand.” Except he didn’t. Until seeing Nate, I’d been determined to go, wanted to, but now I had plans.
First thing the next day, I texted Fliss Fiander, Scarlet’s best friend, and asked if I could visit that morning. She replied: Any time after ten. So very sorry, Molly.
To reach my car, I routinely take the scenic route down the garden where I have a home office over a carport. This is where I park the vehicular love of my life, a flashy white Fiat 500.
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
