“See you tonight?”
“Can’t, babe. Got some work to catch up on. I’ll give you a ring, yeah?”
I huddled under the sheets, fully intending to go back to sleep. Thick headed from drinking wine, scratchy and out of sorts, I gave up, got up and cleared up. As soon as it hit 8 a.m. I called home.
Dad answered. Difficult to ascertain his mood, there was no mention of our disagreement. Ill at ease, I asked how things were, more specifically how Mum was.
“Up and down. You know how it is. She’s busy with funeral arrangements after Nate phoned last night, out of the blue, and asked if your mother could take over. He’s finding it all extremely difficult. I’m worried about him, to be honest.”
Don’t be. “Oh?”
“He talked about dissolving the partnership.”
Good. “Understandable in the circumstances.” I bit down hard on my teeth, briefly endangering the enamel. “There are plenty of other decent architects you can work with, Dad.”
“Won’t be the same.” He sounded properly cast down. “It feels like another link to Scarlet broken.” I felt bad for my dad, but I’d have to be flayed alive before I whispered a word of Nate’s affair. It would break his trust and his heart. “Nate’s got it into his head that he needs to go travelling.” From Dad’s tone, I could tell he thought it a daft idea. To my mind, nowhere could be far enough away. “Which reminds me, could you collect Zach for the funeral?”
“He’s coming?”
“Of course, he’s coming,” Dad said, put out. “I spoke to him late last night.” I pinched myself. Two slippery individuals had actually taken my advice seriously or, in Nate’s case, threat. I told Dad I’d gladly chauffeur my brother. He gave me the details: funeral at a local crematorium, wake at the house. Mum had got her way. Cremation not burial; I wondered how Scarlet would feel about that.
“Hang on a second, I think Mum wants a word.”
I briefly closed my eyes and braced myself for a conversation I didn’t wish to have.
“Molly, darling, how are you doing?”
It was the best I’d heard her since Scarlet’s death. “So-so.”
We discussed flowers and readings. I chose a hymn, The Day Thou Gavest’ because we’d sung it at school, and it was Scarlet’s favourite.
“Do you think we should have something more uplifting on the way out?” Mum said, which took me by surprise. “I was thinking Morning Has Broken.”
“Great idea. What about dress code? I don’t have anything in black that’s really suitable.”
“How about that rather nice navy wrap-over with the short sleeves?”
“Not too informal?”
“I don’t think so. Scarlet always liked you in it.”
Then it was good enough for me. We chatted some more, mostly about the caterers she’d hired.
“Have you any idea of numbers?”
“A lot,” she said, without quantifying it.
After the rotten press Scarlet had received, I wasn’t so certain Mum’s expectations of a large turnout would be met.
I drifted around the house, took a shower to cool down and instantly wanted to take another. The second time, I had a little cry as cool water cascaded down my face.
Adrift. Lethargic. Gloomy. It felt as if something were brewing, like a low front coming in, or a seasonal ‘flu epidemic that would put me in bed for a month. Sadness swamped me, and I worried obsessively about what to write on the card to accompany my flowers for Scarlet. A couple of efforts on rough paper were screwed up and dropped in the bin.
Scarlet’s death might be driving me potty, but it didn’t affect my ability to function. I spent the rest of the morning mentally copying and pasting pieces of information, including short calls sent from payphones from the hospital to Richard Bowen’s mobile an hour before his death, Scarlet’s reason to shut up Bowen, the various police connections that seemed to run everywhere and nowhere. Finally, I asked myself whether steering a grieving widow down a particular path amounted to corruption.
Unable to make headway, I poured myself a glass of fruit juice, and padded outside, walking barefoot across the grass and, thinking I should get the mower out and give it a trim and water the plants, most of which were already frizzled by the sun. With no fixed idea in mind, I stepped onto the old fire escape and staircase that connected to my home office. The treads felt cold, almost damp, beneath my feet. By contrast, the office was stuffy with heat, oppressively so. I chucked open a window, let out a number of half-dead flies.
I never left my laptop in the office, which was great for security, but bad for order. Way too tempting to throw every piece of paper I possessed on top of the desk instead of filing it neatly away. To the untrained eye, it looked like chaos. To me, there was an unwritten symmetry, which was why I knew in an instant that someone had been through my stuff. A sharp blast of fear chilled my skin. It could be the individual who had already invaded my personal space. It could also be someone close. Maybe they were one and the same.
Rocco.
Chapter 46
Truth can be cruel. Rocco Noble didn’t want to get inside my knickers because he fancied me. He’d had an agenda from the start.
Anger consumed me. Hurt would come later. I’d never entirely trusted him. Why would someone as alarmingly good-looking as Rocco Noble be interested in plain old me?
At teatime, I was outside Worcester Cathedral, pretending to be a tourist. From the yard I had a good view of ContraMed. Who went in and, more importantly, who went out. I was taking a punt: Rocco could be one of those guys that worked at his desk long into the night.
He’d mentioned an apartment in town. I’d no idea where. I didn’t know if he flat shared, had another woman in his life, or lived alone. I’d guessed he was a singleton; too solitary to be anything else, but what did I know? Did he travel to work by car or bike? Please God, he walked.
The front door swung open. Two young women tripped down the steps, spilling out onto the street, laughing and joking, followed by a middle-aged guy in a suit. The second he hit the pavement he reached up and, with an exasperated expression, loosened his tie, obviously glad to see the back of the office for a couple of days. Minutes passed. I wondered whether Rocco had taken the afternoon off to work at home.
I tried to soak up the sun and achieve a sense of calm and control when purposeful footsteps, instantly recognisable, clicked against the pavement. I sharpened my gaze, caught a snatch of Rocco striding to the end of the street, turning left, pausing by an antique shop next to a pedestrian crossing.
Sliding into a group of office workers, far enough away not to be noticed, near enough to keep Rocco in my sights, I followed as he crossed the road and over the square, and belted, head down, along the main road leading out of town.
Ducking down a side street, towards the Shambles, he quickened his step. Fewer cars. More people. I had to be careful. What I would say if he twisted round and caught me snooping, I hadn’t the faintest. He walked so quickly; I was jolted along like a trailer towed across rough ground.
We were in Old Worcester. Fifteenth and sixteenth-century half-timbered houses and hostelries clamoured drunkenly together. There were pubs and clubs, cafes and restaurants.
A car horn made me start. Didn’t so much as flicker on Rocco’s emotional spectrum. Just kept walking. No deviation. Heading – he had to be – for the place he called home.
The road widened, cobbles under foot, a car park on the left, shops on the right. Suddenly, Rocco jinked right and disappeared. I waited several beats then followed. In between a barber’s and wine bar, a tall wrought-iron gate with spikes on top that opened out onto a short yard and red front door, which was ajar. On the adjoining wall, an intercom with two names and numbers revealed that Rocco Noble lived in number three.
Giving him enough time to sling off his jacket, maybe change out of his work clothes, and settle down for the evening, I pushed open the door and found myself at the bottom of a grand staircas
e that smelt of old polish, dead flowers and ancient lives. Sunlight drifted through the dust from stained glass windows. Flattening my back against the wall, crab-like, taking tiny steps, I crept upstairs, crossing one small landing and then up again, slowly, and within sight of another vertiginous flight to go. Pulse jackhammering in time with my knees I hung back.
Rocco was smart. When confronted he’d have a ready answer. I pictured him all sympathetic, saying that grief had made me hallucinate. Why on earth would he go through my things, he’d cry? And I’d come across like needy Edie and feel an idiot.
But I wasn’t delusional. I was no fool, though it hurt to confess I’d become a fool for him.
At the top I reached a wide corridor. Two doors opposite, both open. Snatches of conversation. Male. Rocco and another man. Voices drifting from the apartment on the right like smoke on water.
“It’s really no problem, man. Anytime … No, can’t, not tonight, mate. Hope you feel better soon … Sorry, what was that?”
Before my mind gave way, I shot up the last step and, instinctively, sped into Rocco Noble’s apartment on the left and into what, I assumed, would be a sitting room, which turned out to be a spacious open plan kitchen and living area with a view of the street below. I planted myself in front of an old fireplace over which hung a large limited edition print of some woman called Esther. She wore a purple dress, hitched up invitingly to reveal bare legs and feet, her face obscured by thick dark hair. Mysterious. Sexy.
I paid no attention to the furnishings. Couldn’t tell you whether the decor was beige, neutral or screaming red. Didn’t register whether the kitchen was a mess with piles of washing-up, or it was clean and tidy. Every blood vessel in my body focused on the doorway. At any second Rocco would enter, full of swagger and confidence and lies.
I stood up straight. Tried to arrange my face into a picture of cold composure. My fingers clenched. My knees, defiant, refused to stay still and steady. Tension held my head in a vice.
Any moment now …
Noise. Not of Rocco’s return, but the door to the apartment slamming shut.
I started forward. Was Rocco playing games, or what?
I tore back to the window and looked down to the street below. Rocco, with his long stride, crossed over to the opposite side, heading nonchalantly towards the centre of town, oblivious. With a sports bag slung over one shoulder, he wore sweats and trainers. One thing was certain: he wasn’t working late.
I slid down onto the sofa, a slab-sided leather thing and viewed the room for clues. Widescreen TV, modest and not too imposing; small pine dining table and two chairs underneath the window; the main cooking section barely used. No dirty plates waiting to be done or put away. There were no photographs, no visible clues about who Rocco was, or where he came from. Apart from the sexy painting, no other art adorned the crooked walls.
I stood up. On a hunch, I felt around the seat and found the mechanism to release it into a bed, which, when extended, could comfortably sleep two. Either Rocco regularly entertained guests or, for some reason, chose to sleep there. A quick feel around told me that there were no coins, slips of paper or objects hiding in the upholstery.
I opened drawers and cupboards; I went through the rubbish bin, recently emptied by the look of it, and found an old shopping list detailing coffee, milk, pizza, loo rolls and fruit. Assuming it was Rocco’s handwriting, the letters were small and stylish and sloped to the right. I imagined him writing with a lazy flourish.
The fridge contained a half empty carton of milk, two energy drinks, a slab of Cheddar, real butter, half a Pork pie, wilting lettuce, a pack of tomatoes and a cucumber that had gone squishy. The freezer section contained oven chips and frozen peas and two loaves of white sliced bread.
A trawl through a wastepaper basket unearthed a sales voucher for a sweatshirt from Animal, an invoice for a dental check-up in Worcester, a receipt for the bottle of wine he’d brought with him to my house and a balance enquiry from an ATM machine that proved he had two hundred and sixty-four pounds and twenty-three pence in a bank account. A drawer full of information told me that he paid council tax, his energy supplier was SSE, water care of Severn Trent, and he had a phone contract with Vodaphone. Viewing the evidence, he came across as a regular guy. So what was he doing in my garden, in my office, in my handbag? It took me seconds to open his laptop. It took me another couple to work out that, without a password, access was barred.
Back out in the corridor, I opened the door to a bathroom that housed a loo, sink and shower – no bath. Rocco, I noticed, squeezed toothpaste from the middle. He used an electric toothbrush to accentuate his dazzling smile. A mirror-fronted cabinet revealed shaving foam, razor, painkillers, plasters, deodorant, after-shave, condoms and Calvin Klein’s eau de parfum, Eternity. I flipped the lid off his current shower gel, held it to my nose, the fragrance whacking my olfactory nerves instantaneously. A dark blue towelling robe hung on the back of the door. No signs of another occupant, still less a female presence. Everything, so far, shrieked blatant masculinity.
Another door off the corridor revealed a small room consumed by a wardrobe and set of drawers. Quick examination told me that he had two suits, work affairs, three pairs of jeans, loads of T-shirts and six smart shirts, one recently purchased and still in the bag from ‘Next.’ He had one pair of smart black shoes, the rest were trainers and pumps. Underwear: Jack Wills – I already knew this but looked anyway. There were no real surprises.
About to enter the last room, I let my hand dance above the doorknob. What might I find? What good would come of it? Shouldn’t I leave while I could? And wouldn’t I be furious at such a personal invasion? Then I remembered my office, the way the papers had been rearranged. Someone sneaking. Someone spying. Someone like Rocco with his blasted dead drops, his blatant curiosity, offbeat manner and scary imagination. Tightening my resolve and my grip, I twisted and threw the door open wide.
The pause button in my brain flicked on and I stood frozen.
Chapter 47
I knew about incident rooms following major investigations, how they became the hub, the visual memorial of a victim’s life. To be honest, most of my knowledge on this score came from television dramas and documentaries, usually connected to murder cases. If I had to mock-up a scene, this would be it.
A large whiteboard covered one wall. On it were maps, location shots, photographs and names. Arrows, drawn heavily in black marker pen, connected these to addresses and phone numbers. Resembled the work of a mad mathematician. Blitzed with thoughts I was unable to process; I was drawn to a picture of a woman in her mid to late twenties with laughing green eyes. Wild dark hair framed a strong-featured face that told me she knew her own mind. Her lips were sensuous. You could imagine playful words dancing out of her mouth. She wore studs in her nose and above her right eyebrow. Her clothes were layered, peacock bright, mad and adventurous. Bohemian. Vibrant. The pose was unstudied, spontaneous, as though she was unaware of being snapped. But here she was in Rocco Noble’s bedroom. No, not in it, stalking it. Who is she?
My mind raced in a ton of different and wildly divergent directions. I’d held my breath for so long, firecrackers showered before my eyes. Breathing deeply, I tore my gaze from the mysterious woman to the maps. One featured Winchcombe, an Anglo-Saxon market town seven or so miles from Cheltenham, another: Box, in Wiltshire, not far from Bath. How the disparate pieces of information fitted together, I couldn’t fathom. In shock, vision working independently of my mind, my brain locked onto a name written that stood out beyond all others. Written in the same hand as had appeared on Rocco’s shopping list: Scarlet Jay.
Terror took a pot shot at me, caught me smack between the eyes. Sweat exploded from every pore in my skin. If only my sister could speak to me from the space between the living and the dead and give me a steer in the right direction.
I dragged my eyes back to the other names: Rod Napier, Zach Napier and;
Me.
Swallowing har
d, I turned to a mess of newspaper cuttings pinned to a corkboard. Only the headlines made it to my brain: YOUNG WOMAN VANISHES ON NEW YEAR’S EVE. MISSING WOMAN FROM GLOUCESTER FOUND DEAD. MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED AS MISSING DREA TEMPLE. WOMAN IN DISUSED MINE DROWNED.
The tattoo on Rocco’s arm. The special girl. Feeing faint, I shot out a hand, placed it flat against the adjoining wall to steady myself. How did Drea Temple fit into his life? And how come my family were included in his macabre wall of fame?
Whole paragraphs of newsprint blurred before my eyes. Why her? Why Scarlet? Why me? Three women and two of them dead. Was I standing in the lair of a fantasist, or something worse?
Inescapably, I saw how I’d been chosen, groomed and seduced. All those questions and suggestions he’d tried to persuade me to read as concern and interest. When Rocco had delivered flowers to my parents’ home, he’d been checking them out. Immediately, Lenny’s warning boxed my ears. Rage coursed through my veins at how I’d defended him and all the while he’d been screwing me – and for what? Did everything come back to Scarlet? Was she pivotal? Move over Charlie Binns. Drea Temple now appeared central to the reason Scarlet had died.
I straightened up, reached for my phone, held it as steady as I could, and snapped everything on both walls. Then I did what I wished I’d done the second I stepped inside Rocco’s flat: I got the hell out.
Chapter 48
I reached home, locked the doors, closed the curtains and downloaded the images from my phone to my laptop. The hot evening choked me. To sharpen up, I selected Grey Goose from a set of miniatures and drank it neat from the bottle. Ice-burn, blood and fire.
The first image contained photographs and newspaper cuttings. According to the Gloucester Echo, Drea Temple had gone missing from Cheltenham on New Year’s Eve, ten years previously, and was found in a disused mine near Bath six months later. She’d last been sighted in Winchcombe. I knew the market town well because we’d visited often to go to the pubs and visit Sudeley Castle. A tourist destination, it was also popular with walkers travelling along the Cotswold Way.
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