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 made her so miserable?” I want to know what you did to her, what drove her to do what she did and get mixed up in all kinds of mess. No way did I believe my brother-in-law had associations with a contract killer, 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.