I knew about incident rooms following major investigations, how they became the hub, the visual memorial of a victim’s life. To be honest, most of my knowledge on this score came from television dramas and documentaries, usually connected to murder cases. If I had to mock-up a scene, this would be it.
A large whiteboard covered one wall. On it were maps, location shots, photographs and names. Arrows, drawn heavily in black marker pen, connected these to addresses and phone numbers. Resembled the work of a mad mathematician. Blitzed with thoughts I was unable to process; I was drawn to a picture of a woman in her mid to late twenties with laughing green eyes. Wild dark hair framed a strong-featured face that told me she knew her own mind. Her lips were sensuous. You could imagine playful words dancing out of her mouth. She wore studs in her nose and above her right eyebrow. Her clothes were layered, peacock bright, mad and adventurous. Bohemian. Vibrant. The pose was unstudied, spontaneous, as though she was unaware of being snapped. But here she was in Rocco Noble’s bedroom. No, not in it, stalking it. Who is she?
My mind raced in a ton of different and wildly divergent directions. I’d held my breath for so long, firecrackers showered before my eyes. Breathing deeply, I tore my gaze from the mysterious woman to the maps. One featured Winchcombe, an Anglo-Saxon market town seven or so miles from Cheltenham, another: Box, in Wiltshire, not far from Bath. How the disparate pieces of information fitted together, I couldn’t fathom. In shock, vision working independently of my mind, my brain locked onto a name written that stood out beyond all others. Written in the same hand as had appeared on Rocco’s shopping list: Scarlet Jay.
Terror took a pot shot at me, caught me smack between the eyes. Sweat exploded from every pore in my skin. If only my sister could speak to me from the space between the living and the dead and give me a steer in the right direction.
I dragged my eyes back to the other names: Rod Napier, Zach Napier and;
Me.
Swallowing hard, I turned to a mess of newspaper cuttings pinned to a corkboard. Only the headlines made it to my brain: YOUNG WOMAN VANISHES ON NEW YEAR’S EVE. MISSING WOMAN FROM GLOUCESTER FOUND DEAD. MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED AS MISSING DREA TEMPLE. WOMAN IN DISUSED MINE DROWNED.
The tattoo on Rocco’s arm. The special girl. Feeing faint, I shot out a hand, placed it flat against the adjoining wall to steady myself. How did Drea Temple fit into his life? And how come my family were included in his macabre wall of fame?
Whole paragraphs of newsprint blurred before my eyes. Why her? Why Scarlet? Why me? Three women and two of them dead. Was I standing in the lair of a fantasist, or something worse?
Inescapably, I saw how I’d been chosen, groomed and seduced. All those questions and suggestions he’d tried to persuade me to read as concern and interest. When Rocco had delivered flowers to my parents’ home, he’d been checking them out. Immediately, Lenny’s warning boxed my ears. Rage coursed through my veins at how I’d defended him and all the while he’d been screwing me – and for what? Did everything come back to Scarlet? Was she pivotal? Move over Charlie Binns. Drea Temple now appeared central to the reason Scarlet had died.
I straightened up, reached for my phone, held it as steady as I could, and snapped everything on both walls. Then I did what I wished I’d done the second I stepped inside Rocco’s flat: I got the hell out.