Horrible suspicions took hold like weeds and I caught the first train out from Worcester, Shrub Hill the next morning to London.
Paddington Station was same as ever: busy, noisy and no grubbier than the average train station. Swinging my rucksack up onto my back, I headed out of the exit and towards Norfolk Square, a haven for budget hotels. It took me two minutes to find the hotel flagged in the notebook and where Scarlet had stayed, five minutes to find someone manning reception. Gave me plenty of time to observe the tired-looking furniture, narrow dark corridors that threatened a cellar and basement, and threadbare carpets.
“I’d like a room,” I said to a man who looked as if he’d been up all night. Dark hair stuck out at right angles above eyes that could have been brown but were mostly red. His tie was askew, and the cuffs of his shirt were grubby.
He turned his bleary-eyed gaze towards a computer manufactured in the early days of the technological revolution.
“Would it be possible to have room seventy-three?” I said.
Surprise flashed across his features. I wasn’t sure whether his animation was due to the unlikelihood of any guest paying a return visit, or because this particular room was used for nefarious purposes. I projected my best winning smile.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s already taken. I can offer a similar room on the same side.”
“No, thank you,” I said, feeling awkward. ‘Thanks for your trouble,’ I added needlessly.
I headed back to the train station. Praying I’d have more luck at my next stop, I retraced my steps and caught the first tube that would take me further down the line, to Harlesden.
The urban high street was like any other on a summer Sunday. Goods spilled out of shops, market style, and onto pavements. From an upstairs window, the sound of reggae lightened the mood, and the aroma of jerk chicken, coconut and sweet potato hung heavy in the heat. The only suggestion of criminality was the unmistakable pong of weed drifting across the pavement as two guys, in low-slung jeans and tattoos on steroid-fuelled biceps, walked past.
Rounding a corner, a police car sped by, siren wailing. Reminded me of Richard Bowen. Had he, as Rocco had done, used Scarlet for other purposes?
What if—
A fuse caught light inside my mind.
Cecil Vernon lived in an eight-storey high-rise block, a confection of seventies architecture and fifties-style facilities, with balconies across which gaily coloured washing hung, and the occasional bike lurched against railings. Out of my comfort zone, my white, comfortably off middle-class persona jarred with the surroundings.
The lift was out of order and I made my way up a stairwell that stank of urine. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact and hoped that others would not cotton on to the fear raging inside me.
I reached the top floor, rang the bell, immediately heard a dog barking, a female voice shushing it and a door opening and closing.
Next, a woman my height and build, with a hard expression, looked me dead in the eye. Her hair was scrunched back into a ponytail. Grey and de-oxygenated, her skin was a classic smoker’s. Lines snapped at the corners of her eyes and there was a Georgian fanlight of wrinkles above her top lip. She wore a tight top in a shade of Guantanamo orange over pale blue jeans. On her bare feet, toe-rings.
“Hi,” I said, forcing my best smile. “Is Mr Vernon at home?”
“You from the social?”
“No. I—”
“A copper?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “No way.”
“Then who the fuck are you?”
“My name’s Molly. I think my sister visited Mr Vernon some weeks ago.”
The woman crossed her arms. “I don’t remember.”
“Her name’s Scarlet, Scarlet Jay.”
I watched her eyes. The way they flickered from dull to something approaching a gleam, like she was thinking and scheming. I smiled encouragement.
“Pretty, nice manners, respectful?” She stared at me in a way that suggested I was a very different kind of animal.
“That’s her. Is your father in?” I shifted my stance, did my best to peer into the space behind her.
“Away on holiday. Spain. Had a bit of good fortune, lucky sod.”
I felt my face fall, along with every hope. I’d come all this way for absolutely nothing, unless; “Do you know what they talked about?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
I bit my lip, tears of frustration and grief sparking at the corners of my eyes. “She died.”
“Sorry about that.” There was no fluctuation in her facial expression.
“Please, can you help me?” I said in desperation. “It’s important.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, tilted her head, sizing me up. “Your sister paid Dad for the information she had off of him.”
My mind reeled. For Scarlet to do such a thing, she must have been as certain, as she was desperate. I had no choice but to follow her lead. “I can give you money.”
“What are you like?” She rolled her eyes. “Should have said so before. There’s a cosy little boozer down the road. You’re buying.”