way that meant money would never be a problem again? My mind careered into overdrive. “How did she seem when she told you everything was okay?”
“Relieved. Good. Her mood lifted. She seemed better.”
Isn’t that how people who are about to commit suicide behave when they finally make up their minds?
It seemed important to understand the chronology. I had to understand. Mentally, I built a timeline of Scarlet’s last weeks and months on earth. By my estimation, Scarlet’s change of mind occurred after her trip to London. Fliss crashed through my thoughts.
“How’s Zach taken the news?”
“Like Zach takes any news, as if he’s impervious.”
She tilted her chin. “Scarlet often talked about him, more so lately. I think she worried he was about to relapse.”
It would be a miracle if Scarlet’s death didn’t tip him over the edge. I reflected on my visit to my brother yesterday. Subdued, a little odd, but no more weird than usual, yet there had been something. I’d neither forgotten his opening question: What’s she done? Nor that sense he knew something I didn’t.
Fliss angled her face at the sun, a light warm breeze lifting her long hair. “He was quite twitchy the last time she visited.”
“When was this?”
Fliss frowned in concentration. “Must have been shortly before she told me she no longer needed the cash.”
Fear tripped through me. That didn’t fit with what Zach had told me. Which meant one of them was lying, and I didn’t think it was Fliss Fiander.
Dazed, I wondered what twenty-five thousand pounds would have bought my sister; freedom from her adulterous husband, or something else? And how did Charlie Binns figure? If he figured at all in this unravelling mess. As for Zach, was his inexplicable memory loss the residue of a druggie past, or because he was deliberately hiding something from me?
I climbed into my car and called the grotty hotel in which Scarlet had stayed. My enquiry was greeted with a yawned, wish I was still in bed “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said brightly. “My name’s Molly Napier, and my sister Scarlet Jay stayed in room seventy-three.” I gave the exact dates. “Thing is, her companion mislaid his sunglasses – they’re rather expensive – and he’s sure he last had them at your hotel. It’s a long shot but I’m coming to London next week and wondered whether I could collect them.”
“Hold one moment.” A tinny rendition of the soundtrack from the Titanic cut in. Mercifully, on the second chorus, the guy on the desk returned. “No, nothing found.”
“You’ve spoken to the housekeeper?”
“Yup.”
“For Room seventy-three?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Miss, I already told you. We don’t have a gentleman’s sunglasses and, in fact, there was no gentleman registered to that room.”
I thanked him and cut the call. It wasn’t what you’d call hard evidence either way. For that I’d need to take a road trip. Next stop: Kensal Rise and the mysterious Charlie Binns.
It took me the wrong side of two hours to drive to Paddington, where I parked the car at a rate that made my eyes water. From there, I headed for the underground where I hopped onto a tube on the Bakerloo Line. Twelve minutes later, I was standing with my back to a big cemetery, squinting against the sun and looking at a map on my phone that told me I needed to walk via College Road and Leigh Gardens to Chamberlayne Road.
If I’d been less focused on locating Charlie Binns, I’d have noticed that this area of the borough of Brent was up and coming and lively, that there were plenty of pubs, restaurants and bars, and had a cultured, arty vibe. All of which appeared to escape Mr Binns, I thought, standing outside a door sandwiched between a tile shop and bookies. Big ugly picture windows with thick heavy curtains, which were drawn, loomed down from the maisonette above. Not a promising start. I rang the bell, inclined my face so that my mouth was close to the speaker. I hadn’t rehearsed a speech. I’d have to blag my way in.
No reply.
I tried again, with the same result. Maybe the people in the tile shop would be able to help. I wandered inside and approached a middle-aged man at the counter. He had a pencil tucked up behind his ear and was avidly studying a holiday brochure. “Wonder if you could help me,” I said, “I’m looking for Charlie Binns.”
He licked the pad of his thumb and flicked over a page. “Funny, but you’re the second punter to come knocking on his door recently.”
My heart gave a little thump. “Did she give a name?” The thought of me following in Scarlet’s footsteps excited and terrified me in equal measure.
“She did not.”
“Was she tall, slender, pretty, in her thirties?”
“Barking up the wrong avenue, love. The she was a he.”
“Oh,” I said, crestfallen.
Settling on another page, he removed the pencil from behind his ear and made a mark against Tenerife.
“I do need to talk to Mr Binns and it’s quite urgent.”
Rattled by the interruption, he looked up, his deep-set gaze fixed on mine. “I’ll tell you what I told him. Unless you have supernatural powers, you’ll have a job. Charlie got offed a month or more ago. The only place you’ll find him is at the cemetery.”
I almost choked. “Murdered?”
“Shot dead, a few streets away.”
As the shock of the revelation hit me, two thoughts swam to the surface. Why did Scarlet have the name of a murdered man in her bag, and who the hell was the guy asking exactly the same questions as me?
“YES?” A lorry driver had just cut me up and boxed me in. I was so bloody strung out and exhausted, I’d failed to screen the call.
“I owe you a huge apology.”
His voice was the equivalent of chucking a bucket of crushed ice over my head. I checked my rear-view, flicked on an indicator, shoved my foot down hard and pulled out. Fuck you. Let Mr Noble dig himself out of the hole he’d dug.
“It was unforgivable.”
“I’m not in the business of granting absolution.” To be fair, I had one too many sins of my own.
“I completely understand but I wanted to apologise for my rude behaviour and say how sorry I am for your loss.” The sentiment sounded respectful and genuinely meant. Creep. “You caught me unawares, I’m afraid. I know what it’s like to lose someone.”
I only felt marginally less pissed off. I definitely didn’t appreciate him doing an emotional number on me.
“Long time ago.” And yet from the tone of his voice, I reckoned it still felt like yesterday to him. Is this how I would feel in ten or twenty-years’ time?
“Does it get better?” I wanted him to assure me that it did, that this raw, helpless feeling would one day disappear, that the guilt would shift too.
He paused, appeared to choose his words with care. “Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise, but you never get over it. In time, it doesn’t feel so powerful and overwhelming,