But I broke my promise to Mum immediately: I did look back. I looked back on two little girls dressing up in our mother’s clothes and shoes. I looked back on a smoke-filled kitchen, burnt pizzas and buns. I looked back on mud on our faces and salt sea wind in our hair. I looked back on sulky tears and scraps like only sisters have. I looked back on laughter that made our ribs ache and tummies hurt. And then I looked back to a string of newspaper cuttings about my sister and another dead woman and thought that, no matter what my lovely Dad told me, there was a connection – there had to be a connection.
Exhausted, I staggered out of bed early. The view from the bedroom window revealed a sky bloody with red. Fiery light caught the tops of volcanic-looking hills, making fools of them
I took out my phone. No messages. One flick of the camera setting took me to images from Rocco’s room. Undeleted from my phone. Dad would be furious if he knew.
I stared until my eyes popped. Words and pictures and questions, but where was the angle? Rocco had sprung into action shortly after his grandmother’s death, something she’d told him the trigger. I wished I’d pursued it. As I stared at the players in Rocco’s hall of fame, I realised that one of them was missing.
Despite the unrespectable hour, I called Heather Bowen. It was a long time before she answered. When she did, she sounded muzzy, thick with sleep. Suited me. I wasn’t looking for intellect. I wanted truth.
“Did Richard know a man called Rocco Noble?”
“No. Why? And Christ, do you know what time it is?”
I apologised unreservedly.
“It’s bloody inconsiderate,” she barked. “Wait a minute, how the fuck did you get my number?”
“I … um—must have been in the papers from your solicitor to my brother-in-law.” I squeezed my eyes tight at the stupidity of the lie and my own hypocrisy. I’d gone mental at Rocco for snooping on my phone. Either Heather was too dozy to see through my obvious deception or she didn’t care.
“What’s this Noble character got to do with anything?”
I couldn’t say because I didn’t know. “His half-sister went missing ten years ago from Gloucestershire and was found dead in a mine in Wiltshire.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“Her name was Drea Temple.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Richard never referred to it?”
“I’ve just told you.”
“Never mentioned Clive Mallis, a police officer last operational ten years ago?”
“No.”
I stifled a sigh. Like trudging through a bog, I was sinking.
“Heather, when you talked about Richard, you described a man who always got what he wanted.”
“What’s your point?”
Whether it was the hour, or she’d had second thoughts about me, she was a lot more guarded. “Did you see a different side of him in the weeks and months before he went down with ‘flu?”
“For goodness’ sake.”
“Did you?”
There was a long pause. “He was agitated.”
“In what way?”
“Excited. As if he were on to something. Happens all the time with coppers.”
“Connected to a personal relationship, do you think?”
“No, I can spot the difference. This was professional.”
A police matter involving police officers, one of whom was bent? Sure as hell, Bowen wouldn’t breathe a word of it to his wife.
If Bowen’s interest was sparked by Mallis, maybe Binns’ name came up during Bowen’s investigation and private chat with his mate in the MET. Binns became a figure to pump for information, simply to get the lowdown on Mallis. Similarly, Bowen’s motivation for taking up with Scarlet was because my father had an association with Mallis.
Empowered, it put a fresh idea in my head. “What did Richard’s real father do for a living before he became sick?” I wondered if he too was a police officer, someone connected to old unexplained cases.
“Cab driver.”
“And his adopted dad?”
“Engineer.”
I chewed my lip in frustration. “Did his biological dad have a wife?”
“No he never married. Lived with his sister, Jacqui. She took care of him during his last illness. Richard used to go and visit them.”
“Do you have her address?”
“I do, but—”
“Please, I’d like to talk to her.”
“It won’t help.”
“Please, Heather.”
“Okay, but on one condition.”
“I agree.”
“You don’t know what it is yet.”
“I’ll agree to whatever you want.” I winced at the pathetic plea in my voice.
She relented and gave me an address in Whaddon, a suburb of Cheltenham.
“Thank you, and your condition?”
“I never want to hear from you again.” The line went dead.