Her Sister’s Secret

He stared, frowned at the name and address on the paper and made a sound similar to the half grunt half sigh Zach had issued earlier. “Charlie Binns? Never heard of him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Who the hell is he?” He sounded accusing. I spread my hands, couldn’t say. “How much do you actually know?” The tone of his voice had that nasty ‘bad news’ ring to it – strange bearing in mind the morning’s breaking headline.

My tongue tangled in my teeth and I bit down painfully on the inside of my cheek because I was right to be suspicious. There was definitely more going on underneath the surface. Nate’s response pretty much confirmed it.

“How well did you really know your sister, Molly?”

Chapter 10 (#ulink_ab101388-d519-5336-a461-a9aadb693891)

He didn’t wait for a reply. “She’d been edgy and moody for a while. You must have noticed.”

I flinched, forced myself to face the unthinkable: I’d been too obsessed by my own feelings of resentment to notice my sister’s emotional state. Didn’t make me feel good.

“Naturally, I asked her what was wrong,” Nate continued, “but she never said. I thought it was the stress of work and suggested a weekend away. Then that conference in London came up.”

On Critical Care, I remembered, about three weeks ago.

“I suggested I could go with her, we could make it a long weekend, but Scarlet wasn’t keen,” Nate continued. “Used that old excuse about not mixing business with pleasure.”

“Seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

“Except the conference takes place later this month.”

“What? You mean —”

“Scarlet enjoyed a weekend away without me.”

I stared at the writing in my hand. “She definitely went to London?”

“According to the hotel she phoned from, but I’ve no idea who she was with. Maybe now we know,” he said, eyeing the piece of paper.

I pressed a hand tight to my forehead. For Scarlet to break her own moral code would be massive. It would have ripped her apart. And what about a lover? Was there some guy waiting for a phone call or a visit from her that would never happen? No, it wasn’t possible, I thought firmly. No way could I believe that Scarlet would have an affair. It just wasn’t in her DNA.

“To be charitable,” Nate said in a tone adopted by those who have right on their side, “she might have gone to London alone.”

Which still didn’t explain what she might have been doing there. “How did she behave when she got back?”

“Sunny as hell. Said the conference had been good. Informative, was the exact word she used.”

“And what did she say when you pointed out the lie?”

“I didn’t.”

I straightened up. “Your wife goes to a bogus conference and you don’t challenge her, you don’t breathe a word?”

“I wanted to wait it out, bide my time, see what happened.”

In similar circumstances, I couldn’t see me keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I was unsophisticated and impetuous.

“Certainly nothing on her phone or emails.”

“You snooped on them?” I didn’t hold with that.

Nate gave me a brazen look. Who are you to judge me now? His expression said. And he was right. I took a breath.

“What’s the name of the hotel Scarlet stayed in?”

Irritation chased across Nate’s features. “Leave it, Molly.”

“Nate, all we have at the moment are wild guesses. I want facts. I want the truth. I need to understand why Scarlet died.”

“There is no why. It was an accident.”

Yes, it was. Or I thought it was. “Bu — t”

“It won’t bring her back. It won’t do any good.”

“Nate, don’t you want to know?”

He sidestepped my question. “Your dad has it all under control.”

“If you don’t tell me the name of the hotel, I’ll ask Mum.” The expression on my face assured Nate that I wasn’t bluffing, and I wasn’t giving up. With bad grace, he gave an address near Paddington train station.

“And the room number?”

“Molly —”

“It might help to put your mind at rest, give you closure.”

“That, I doubt.”

“Please, Nate.”

“For God’s sake, room number seventy-three.”

The second I got home I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped off the top and drank straight from the bottle. What seemed certain, the post-mortem would throw up the ethanol in Scarlet’s bloodstream. It might not be lorry loads of the stuff but, for a committed non-drinker, even small measures could have Dutch courage effects. If Scarlet was guilty of causing the accident, the entire constabulary of Gloucestershire would be keen to blacken her name. With everything I believed in suddenly turned upside down and inside out, I wondered what other horrors lay in wait.

Rear on the sofa and feet parked on the coffee table, I fired up my laptop and switched to online local news in Gloucestershire. Sure enough, a factual report detailed that the police were investigating a fatal collision. The location was given, and an appeal made for witnesses to come forward with information. A later piece identified Detective Sergeant Richard Bowen as the motorcycle victim. Aged forty-two, he had an exemplary police service record and had received awards for heroism. An accompanying photograph of him dressed in uniform portrayed a sleek-looking man, not dissimilar from Nate in appearance, with a majestic smile, the picture of respectability. To my shame, it dismayed me. Already I could picture how the story would play out: courageous police officer and family man versus drunk driver. Didn’t matter that Scarlet was a nurse with a glowing reputation. Her last inexplicable act was how she would be remembered, and it would sink her. Closing my eyes tight, I prayed the post-mortem the next day would prove she was sober. Maybe Bowen was in the wrong. Driving too quickly. Taking unnecessary risks.

Next, I tapped my way straight to Google and the name of the hotel Nate had given me. Shabby, with peeling window frames on the ground floor, the hotel in which Scarlet stayed for the non-existent conference charged less than fifty quid for a standard room. Unless the pictures were out of date, it didn’t look the best location for seduction, but the type of place where unfortunate families were given temporary B&B accommodation by the council. What on earth was Scarlet doing there?

My phone rang. I picked up, saw it was Dad and braced myself. My father could identify a liar at fifty paces. I’d have to box clever to conceal what I knew.

“I found out the name of the motor cyclist.” Dad told me much of what I’d already discovered. “Poor bastard left a wife and two youngsters. One of my old contacts informed me this evening,” he explained, verifying that the information came from a reliable source. “Thank God, the man wasn’t working.”

“Does it make a difference?”