but he obviously wasn’t the innocent he portrayed himself to be.
“Bloody hell, Molly.”
“You know I won’t give up.”
Another silence. I could practically hear Nate weighing up the odds. “It’s difficult.” I’ll bet.
I sat still, feeling a bit sick, thinking and unthinking, everything inchoate and slippery and way out of reach.
“Shit happens, Moll.”
“Don’t call me that.” I was cold, unmoved and threatening,
“All right, all right. Yes, I was having an affair. Things went a bit south between me and Scarlet.”
“I’m coming straight over.” My planned visit to Zach could wait.
“Might be awkward. My family liaison officer will be here in a couple of hours.”
At this I smiled. FLO’s existed to support victims. They also played an important role in chasing down any investigation. If dodgy stuff were going on with nearest and dearest, they were demons at unearthing it.
“Excellent,” I said.
“Molly, for Chrissakes.”
“Don’t worry.” My tone assured my brother-in-law that he should be very worried indeed. “See you in a bit.”
Outside Nate’s and Scarlet’s home, two men and a woman hovered like buzzards preparing to consume carrion. Beady eyes swivelled in my direction. I had no doubt they were from the press, an observation confirmed when the woman stepped towards me and asked if I knew the family of the ‘dead nurse’. Issuing my best ‘fuck off’ look, I swept past and rang the bell.
Someone, I presumed to be a police officer, answered the door. Sandy-haired, a little receding, not terribly tall, and with a flinty expression, he had that whole authoritative, commanding and suspicious vibe going on. One look and I felt guilty of nameless crimes.
“I’m Molly Napier, Scarlet’s sister and Nate’s sister-in-law,” I said.
“Warren Childe, family liaison officer.” His voice sounded as if it had a crack running down the middle of it. “Sorry for your loss. Best come in.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the gathering ghouls. He nodded in sympathy and stepped aside. As I swept down the hall, I heard him direct all enquiries to the press office. “And guys, can you please respect the privacy of the family at this difficult time.”
I found Nate seated on the sofa in the small sitting room with his face in his hands. He barely moved as I sat beside him. Seemed to be waiting for Childe.
“Tell her,” he muttered, when Childe came in.
I looked up questioningly as Childe cleared his throat. “The post-mortem threw up some anomalies.”
Anomalies. Cold. Analytical. Factual. Full-on police mode. I knew what was coming next. Except I didn’t. Not quite.
“Your sister had 240 milligrams per 100 millilitres of blood in her system – around three times the legal limit for driving,” Childe explained.
“What about Bowen?” Nate said. “Had he been drinking?”
“No evidence of substance abuse of any kind,” Childe said smoothly. “Preliminary enquiries suggest that the pre-collision mechanical condition of the vehicle was good. There were no tyre or skid marks on the road to suggest that Scarlet was forced to take evasive action.” Childe looked with an ‘are you with me so far’ expression. I responded with a dull nod.
“Witness statements suggest that the driver of the jeep —”
“My sister,” I protested.
“Deliberately,” he said, raising his voice a decibel, “drove into the path of the oncoming motorcyclist.”
I stared wide-eyed. Inside, a silent scream yelled No.
My head felt as if a lump of lead was where my brain should be. Nate, next to me, physically jolted, his body lifting off the sofa by an inch. “What witnesses? Who are these bloody people?”
“The driver in the vehicle behind Bowen.”
“How fast was he travelling?” I said irritably.
“Saw it all. Said that Bowen braked at the very last second but, by then, it was too late.”
“You’re suggesting that my sister used her vehicle like a weapon, a battering ram?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that.”
“Then how would you put it?” Nate interjected, cold with anger.
“I understand this is upsetting, but —”
“She could have blacked out, had a heart attack, or sneezed, for God’s sake,” I cut in. Throat raw and exposed, my voice was too loud. “There could have been oil on the road.”
“There wasn’t,” Childe said.
“You said witness statements. You mean more than one?”
“There was a pedestrian.”
“On that busy road?”
“A jogger,” Childe clarified. “This corroborates an initial vehicle assessment of an absence of corresponding tyre and skid marks. Scarlet never braked. Quite the contrary; we think she actually sped up.”
I nodded blindly. What else could I do?
“I’ve explained to Nathan that we need to talk about Scarlet’s mental health.”
“They think she was suicidal.” Nate’s tone was a mess of cynicism. Only I could detect the fake ring in it. The message left for Nate had been a suicide note, and he knew it.
Instantly, I thought about Fliss’ observation, the way Scarlet seemed suddenly sorted, the relief she felt. I had to admit that suicide suddenly seemed a strong possibility. But I also knew my sister.
“If she’d wanted to kill herself, she wouldn’t have hurt someone else. She was a nurse. She believed in saving lives, not taking them.”
“I agree,” Nate said.
“And, if that was her plan, which I definitely don’t buy, she would have targeted something a great deal more solid. A brick wall, tunnel or bridge is more final, isn’t it, more likely to do the job?” Articulating it made me go hot and cold and hot again.
Childe remained deadpan. “It’s only one avenue of enquiry.”
What other lines were they pursuing? Suspicion pinched my nerves.
