I switched on the TV, watched programmes without listening or understanding. Betrayal, on top of sudden violent loss, had robbed me of my faculties. The oppressive heat of the night didn’t help.
I woke with a hangover. I was feverish and queasy and unutterably cold. My legs ached and the inside of my mouth felt sore. A check in the mirror told me my tongue was a mess of mouth ulcers. Unable to develop any thought that was vaguely coherent, I dropped into the shop at lunchtime. Lenny picked up on my sombre mood. No jokes. No gossip. “I’d like to pay my respects on Monday,” she said.
“Put a notice in the window before you leave tonight. Say we’re closed for the day. Actually, make it two.” Could make it a week for all I cared.
“You’re sure?”
“Look at the place,” I said bitterly. “It’s like a morgue.” Normally, she’d laugh. We both would. Trade had taken a nosedive since Scarlet. In a small town like this, word got round. Death, however it came calling, was bad for business.
“Molly?”
“Yeah?”
“You look terrible. How are you sleeping?”
“So-so.”
Lenny ducked down behind the counter, pulled out her bag, rummaged through it like a Springer Spaniel digging up sand. She fished out a blister pack of pills, offered them to me. I viewed them with suspicion.
“Diazepam,” she said.
“Valium?” I took a step back. “No way.”
“They’re a tiny dose, two milligrams.”
“How come you take them?” Lenny didn’t seem a likely candidate.
“I’m a tooth-grinder. See?” She tilted her head back and opened her mouth wide, pointing vaguely to a molar. I peered in reluctantly. Caverns and mines sprang to mind. “My dentist prescribed them. Relaxes the jaw, helps you sleep.”
I looked at her doubtfully.
“Go on. Big day on Monday.”
“I am exhausted,” I admitted.
“Take them with you,” she said, pressing them into my hand.
I drifted around the house for the rest of Saturday, expecting Rocco to call. I’d prepared a show-closer of a speech should he be foolish enough to contact me. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t email.
Used, frustrated and abused, I thought about Dad’s big revelation. As for Clive Mallis, I’d been looking for sinister goings-on that didn’t exist. Nothing Dad had said threw any light at all on Scarlet’s death. Binns was literally a dead end. The only potential lead: the money.
I didn’t have a key to Scarlet’s home. In any case, if there were any incriminating evidence, the police would have unearthed it already. Fact is, Scarlet was too smart. She hadn’t left a trail because she didn’t want anyone to follow. Unless—
I drove to my parents and was surprised to find them out. I let myself in and received an effusive welcome from Mr Lee. After assuring him that he was the best dog in the world, he padded into the living room where I knew he’d take advantage and hop up onto the nearest sofa.
Wandering into the hall, I noticed the door to Dad’s study open. Glancing over my shoulder, listening hard for the sound of tyres on gravel, I shot inside. The room smelt of wood smoke, old books, aftershave and leather. It was a good room, a sanctuary, and the kind of place you went to when things weren’t right.
Sunlight tumbled from the window, splashing onto Dad’s desk, and shining onto a notepad beside the phone. My eyes slid automatically to Dad’s handwriting, a collection of indecipherable squiggles. Among the lower-case script, a name in capital letters: ROGER STANTON, followed by a mobile number, both heavily underlined three times. Dad had acted quickly, like I knew he would, and yet something in the heavy script made me twitchy.
I’d never been through my dad’s belongings and private papers before and, although it was terribly wrong, I couldn’t help myself. It was as if an unseen force had taken hold of my mind against my will and I was powerless to resist.
Was it possible that Dad knew more about Scarlet than, so far, he’d been prepared to reveal?
Nerves shredded by such an unwelcome thought, I tried and failed to contain a tidal wave of panic surging up inside. Stress, I told myself. Getting myself in a state, Mum would say.
Still, I looked.
The deepest drawer in my father’s desk contained files, which ranged from household bills and bank statements to invoices and quotations for jobs. A separate file contained drawings for current projects. Typically, and as expected, everything was arranged with meticulous care. Two drawers above held no shocks or surprises. Aside from a copy of a Home Office publication, entitled ‘Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984,’ there wasn’t a single reference to Dad’s former occupation or the case that had finished his career. Relief trickled over me. It wasn’t long before it puddled at my feet.
On dad’s desk, a half empty mug of coffee obscured a pocket-sized notebook, which he used as a coaster. I slipped it out and was surprised to find that it was an ‘Internet Address and Password Logbook.’ How anyone involved in law enforcement could be so lax, I’d no idea. All my passwords were safely stowed inside my brain. I guess it flagged up the difference between the older and younger generation.
Armed with his password, which was pants from a security point of view, I switched on and logged in. With another password, I had access to his emails. In Scarlet’s name, I convinced myself that I had the right to do whatever was necessary.
With a fast glance over my shoulder to check the drive was still empty, I took a breath and hacked in. Aside from dense work-related email traffic between him and Nate, my dad was clearly one of those people who didn’t send but received. There were tons of communications from building suppliers, most of which hung around his inbox like a bad smell. The only personal emails were those to me after I’d drawn his attention to something of interest, like articles on construction and design. Not a thing from or to friends, or ex-colleagues, including Clive Mallis.
Ditching his email correspondence, I cruised through folders, which again were work-related, including details of planning applications sent to councils with their responses. Dad kept all his insurance documents in one folder, legal and accountant stuff in a couple of others. About to log off, I stumbled across a file named ‘Operation Jericho.’ With its association with walls tumbling down, it felt stupidly significant.
I double-clicked it and found access blocked, as if someone said, ‘Not so fast’.
With damp fingers, I flicked through Dad’s notebook, searching for the code to the only password-protected file.
It didn’t take me long to discover it. By comparison to his other passwords, this was relatively complicated, including lower and upper case letters, numerals and a dollar sign. Standing solo on a page, near the back, this had to be it.
The silence of the room stuck to me like tar. I could log out, switch off, replace the notebook under the mug and walk away, never to return. Maybe I should. Scarlet wouldn’t have snooped on Dad or invaded his privacy like this.
But I was not my sister.
As the file opened, I blinked at the volume of information. Dating back thirty years, to when my dad worked for the MET, there were lists of names, including police officers by rank, dates and details of police activities. Scrolling down, and to my untrained and unprofessional eye, it seemed like a diary of events that, perhaps, any police officer might keep. Nothing dinged my alarm bells. The only anomaly were two names and addresses itemised at the end of the document: Cecil Vernon and—oh my Christ, Charlie Binns.