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’.
Either way, as shaken and frightened as I was, it was the biggest come-on ever.
I barely noticed the dawn as it crawled out of bed, or the birds bashing out a chorus, or even whether I was awake or asleep. I had so much stuff circling my mind, I couldn’t tell the difference. When the first blade of sunshine stabbed a hole in the curtains, I sloped off to the bathroom.
After making a pot of builder’s tea, I switched on my laptop and scoured for news of Charlie Binns’ murder. I found it care of the local Brent newspaper. ‘A murder investigation has been launched after the shooting of a sixty-eight-year-old man in Gladstone Mews, Brondesbury at 10.47 p.m. on 5 June. Armed police officers arrived at 11.00 p.m. after neighbours reported hearing several shots fired. The victim, who was shot at close range, was pronounced dead at the scene in what has been described as a ‘professional hit.’ Detective Inspector Neil Judd said, “Detectives are at the scene, working to build a clear picture of the circumstances of this attack. A contract killing is one of several lines of inquiry that police are pursuing. I want to appeal to anyone with information to contact the police as a matter of urgency. No arrests have been made.” A police spokeswoman later refused to confirm claims that Mr Binns was an informer.
A friend who did not wish to be named said that Mr Binns was a very private individual, a true gentleman and would be greatly missed.’
I sat back, wide-eyed. What was Scarlet’s interest in this man? Was it sheer happenstance that Bowen was a police officer, or did he have a professional connection to Binns?
Reaching for my phone, I checked through my last texts from my sister. Anodyne and unrevealing, nothing leapt out. I had absolutely no inkling of what she was up to. If Scarlet had a wild, secretive side, she’d kept it hidden. Nothing conveniently explained the tragic turn of events. All I saw was difficulty and complication. All I remembered was bitter rivalry and angry words. Was this what was really driving me, a strong desire to relieve my guilt for accusations that I should never have made?
I made a brief call to the shop to check that everything was ticking along. If it weren’t for Lenny, I’d have stuck a closed sign on the door and locked up for the week, the month, the year, however long it took to work things out.
Afterwards, and still trying to think the angles through, I scavenged the fridge for eggs and milk and knocked up an omelette. My mobile rang as I fished breakfast out of a frying pan. It was Nate.
Speaking in a dark, urgent tone, he didn’t mention the potential booze in Scarlet’s system, or the alleged affair, his or hers. He didn’t muck about. “There was no note.”
“But —”
“I burnt it.”
I sat bolt upright. “You did what?”
“Had to be done.”
“You destroyed potential evidence, Nate. You’re interfering in a police investigation.” Making me an accessory by default.
“Destroying it doesn’t materially alter the enquiry.” It sounded like my father speaking, except Dad would never condone Nate’s action. “The cops will still do what they have to,” he said, scratchy, heading off any argument from me. Damn right, my responding protest was loud and long.
“Do you want Scarlet’s name to be dragged through the mud any more than it is already?” Nate demanded.
“Of course, I don’t.”
“What with drink driving and killing a police officer, it’s intolerable.”
Never mind Scarlet’s interest in a man shot dead miles away. I went to interject but Nate beat me to it.
“It’s best we never had this or any other conversation on the subject,” he finished. Breathless. Furious. Desperate.
My jaw uncomfortably clenched. “Nate, tell me what the fuck is going on.” The silence that ensued could penetrate reinforced steel. Time to brandish a diamond-cutter. “That man you thought Scarlet was having an affair with, Charlie Binns?”
“What of the bastard?”
“He was a pensioner.”
“So is Mick Jagger.”
“Binns was murdered.”
I could almost feel Nate’s brain revolve through 180 degrees. “What, in God’s name, are you suggesting? You surely don’t think —”
“Are you playing away, Nate?”
“Molly, I —”
“What
