Rocco Noble, dressed down in a black Superdry T-shirt and skinny jeans, looked quite different. His easy on the eye physique belonged to a plasterer: strong arms, slim hips. Expensive sneakers too, with a crocodile embossed pattern on the leather, and zips up the side. Lenny’s voice echoed through my head. He fancies you. I did my best not to gawp.
“You’re keen,” he said.
“I’m early. I’d like to get on with—”
“It’s okay, I get it.”
I looked in the direction of a fat mahogany sideboard glowering from behind a dining room table with thickset legs. “We’ll start with the heavy pieces.”
It’s quite an intimate act to shift furniture with someone. There needs to be a level of synchronicity, give and take, an intuitive knowledge of whether someone can or can’t manoeuvre a sideboard, for example, around a corner or through an exit or entrance. The doorways to the cottage were narrow and my spatial awareness that day was off. To get the right level of clearance, we were forced to upend a long refectory table with a stretcher base. God knew what it weighed. More than once, Rocco and I mirror-imaged each other’s moves, in close quarters; breathing heavily, sweat pooling, fingertips grazing. Every time we connected it was like being struck with a cattle prod. And his eyes, bloody hell, they were the colour of bourbon and he never took them off mine. It wasn’t only the heat that was hunting me down. When we went upstairs to clear the garret-like top, I thought I might vaporise.
Rocco had boxed his grandmother’s less important items. The bed, thankfully, stayed put so we had the van packed in no time. I squatted on my haunches, knackered.
“Cold drink? I bought sparkling elderflower and Pepsi.”
“I need a caffeine hit.” I mopped my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt – not very ladylike and definitely not very sexy, yet he stared at me in way that was searching, haunting and intense. I flushed under his unnerving gaze. It was as if he knew every part of me: body and soul. Instinctively, I knew this man could mash me up inside. But that wasn’t all. I was vulnerable and knew it. Images of dead creatures and knives in places they shouldn’t be assailed me.
“You’re allowed, you know.”
“Allowed what?” I failed to rein in the shaky note in my voice.
Cool as you like, he answered my question with another: ‘How many days has it been?” Rocco didn’t need to spell it out.
“A little over a week.”
“There’s no right or wrong way to feel.”
“Not sure others would agree.” I should be at home in sackcloth and ashes and mourning. With me agitating, I only made things worse with my parents. And now there was the threat of litigation against my brother-in-law to add extra pressure.
I glanced up at Rocco. Maybe, he could be useful if I got him on a subject with which he was familiar. With his experience of medical insurance claims, he might be able to throw some light. I explained the threat of legal action.
“Outside my field, but a spouse, nearly always the wife will submit a claim of dependency. Was the dead man the sole breadwinner?”
“No idea. He had two children.”
Rocco thought for a moment, eyes sparking with insight. “Is there any suggestion that your sister was driving dangerously?”
I told Rocco about the booze, to which he raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t ask.”
“Were there witnesses?”
“Yes.”
“And the police are actively investigating?”
I nodded.
He rubbed his jaw. “Technically, the widow could submit a claim against the estate of the negligent party, in this case, Scarlet’s.”
“On the grounds that she was culpable?”
“’Fraid so. You know there’ll be an inquest?”
“Uh-huh.” I wondered what the ruling would be and, clasping my knees, rested my face in my lap. I felt drained of every bit of energy.
Rocco disappeared and returned with drinks. He rested the ice-cold glass against the side of my hand. It made me start, like he’d pressed a lighted cigarette to my skin. I took it, glanced up, met his eyes. “Shit situation,” he said.
I agreed. No other way to describe it.
Feeling instantly disloyal for discussing family business, guilty for working, confused about my brother, anxious about connections I couldn’t connect, fearful from when the next threat might come, I headed straight to my parents to see if peace had been restored. There was also a chance that the police had supplied more information. Like Dad said, they would dig up Scarlet’s contacts.
The air, dense with thunder bugs and flies, clung to me as I stepped out of the car. A hum of voices drifted from behind the gate that separated the drive from the garden. At first, I thought it was Mum and Dad. The nearer I drew, the more identifiable one of the speakers became: Dad. The other male voice I didn’t recognise. Something about the estuary accent, the pitch, not high but low and insistent, told me that the discussion was private. I wondered where Nate was. Was he the reason for the clandestine conversation? I edged forward, heart throbbing, pulse tripping, and the sound of gravel under my trainers give me away. l
“Molly.”
Hand on chest, I spun round and came face to face with my mum’s numb expression.
“What are you doing?”
Snooping. Eavesdropping. Earwigging. Take your pick; none of them put me in a flattering light. “I thought it was you and dad.” Truth or lie, she’d be cross either way.
She let out an exhausted sigh. Fresh shadows had appeared under her eyes giving her the spectral appearance of one who never sleeps. Shoulders hunched, her once tall, lithe body looked shorter, reduced and stooped. My heart creased with pain because I could see how lost she was.
“Mum,” I said, starting towards her. To my shock, she backed away.
“Your father is talking to an old colleague.”
My stomach somersaulted. “What about?”
“A phone call made from a pay phone to Richard Bowen’s mobile.”
“So what?”
“It was from the hospital.”
“You mean where Scarlet worked?”
Mum nodded, pale and sad.
I made a face. “It’s a little tenuous, surely? Do the police know the content of the call?” Could they even do that? Mum hitched her shoulders. She didn’t know either. “It could have been anyone calling,” I insisted.
“It was made an hour before the accident.”
“How long did it last?”
“Seconds.”
Fear tripped through me as I imagined Scarlet’s voice whisper in my ear. Meet me. Had she set Bowen up? I expected my mother to be bullish and stubborn and uncompromising in defence of my sister. Instead, she appeared ready to fold. I could read the expression in her eyes: weary, defeated and dismantled.
“What does it matter? Maybe Scarlet did call the man. Maybe there was a relationship. Oh yes, I know what people are saying. I’m not stupid.” Her voice climbed with hysteria and then abruptly came to a halt. Squinting against a sudden stab of sunshine, a single tear tracked down her cheek.
“Oh, Mum.”
“Please don’t.” She raised a hand, warding me off.
I stared in consternation. I needed her to reach me as much as I longed to reach her, yet she was erecting all kinds of barriers. Her gaze concentrated on the ground; she spoke with neither malice nor anger. It would have been better if she had. “Why did you hate her so very much?”
I gasped. “Mum, how could—”
She looked up, questioning, still with the same quiet tone. “Scarlet told me about your row, what you said, how you accused her.”
A shiver rolled down my spine, from the base of my neck to my sacrum. Denial was pointless. “It was stupid and nasty.”
“Days before she took her own life.”
“I didn’t mean it. None of it.” I was gasping. Memory burnt a hole in my head. Shame savaged me. “I’d had too much to drink and—”
“Envy is one of the deadly sins, Molly.”
Speechless, I watched as she turned and walked away. The ground fled from underneath me. Mum had known all along and hadn’t said a word. Worse, Scarlet had been devastated. And now she was dead. The fear I’d held back for days smashed right through me. What if this were the real reason she’d got drunk, took her eye off the road and died? What if all the other avenues I’d pursued were nothing more than white noise, irrelevancies and blind alleys?
I listened, really listened. As daft as it was, I hoped that Scarlet’s voice would transcend time and space and somehow speak, reassure and convince me that I was not the cause of her distress. The only sound was my mother’s brisk footsteps crunching across the gravel.
Half mad, I fled to my car, fired up the engine and pressed my foot flat to the floor. Gravel spitting. Blood pumping. Nerves aflame. In no time at all, I was back at the cottage I’d left only minutes before. Rocco Noble instantly opened the door, the ‘nice surprise’ smile on his face vanishing when he registered the stricken expression on mine.
“I’ve done something terrible,” I cried, throwing myself at him. “It’s all my fault. Oh my God, I killed my sister.”