I put my hand over his. “If I hadn’t chanced upon Rocco Noble, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
My dad looked at me straight. “Nothing chance about it. That little bastard targeted you deliberately.”
Chapter 50
I switched on the TV, watched programmes without listening or understanding. Betrayal, on top of sudden violent loss, had robbed me of my faculties. The oppressive heat of the night didn’t help.
I woke with a hangover. I was feverish and queasy and unutterably cold. My legs ached and the inside of my mouth felt sore. A check in the mirror told me my tongue was a mess of mouth ulcers. Unable to develop any thought that was vaguely coherent, I dropped into the shop at lunchtime. Lenny picked up on my sombre mood. No jokes. No gossip. “I’d like to pay my respects on Monday,” she said.
“Put a notice in the window before you leave tonight. Say we’re closed for the day. Actually, make it two.” Could make it a week for all I cared.
“You’re sure?”
“Look at the place,” I said bitterly. “It’s like a morgue.” Normally, she’d laugh. We both would. Trade had taken a nosedive since Scarlet. In a small town like this, word got round. Death, however it came calling, was bad for business.
“Molly?”
“Yeah?”
“You look terrible. How are you sleeping?”
“So-so.”
Lenny ducked down behind the counter, pulled out her bag, rummaged through it like a Springer Spaniel digging up sand. She fished out a blister pack of pills, offered them to me. I viewed them with suspicion.
“Diazepam,” she said.
“Valium?” I took a step back. “No way.”
“They’re a tiny dose, two milligrams.”
“How come you take them?” Lenny didn’t seem a likely candidate.
“I’m a tooth-grinder. See?” She tilted her head back and opened her mouth wide, pointing vaguely to a molar. I peered in reluctantly. Caverns and mines sprang to mind. “My dentist prescribed them. Relaxes the jaw, helps you sleep.”
I looked at her doubtfully.
“Go on. Big day on Monday.”
“I am exhausted,” I admitted.
“Take them with you,” she said, pressing them into my hand.
I drifted around the house for the rest of Saturday, expecting Rocco to call. I’d prepared a show-closer of a speech should he be foolish enough to contact me. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t email.
Used, frustrated and abused, I thought about Dad’s big revelation. As for Clive Mallis, I’d been looking for sinister goings-on that didn’t exist. Nothing Dad had said threw any light at all on Scarlet’s death. Binns was literally a dead end. The only potential lead: the money.
I didn’t have a key to Scarlet’s home. In any case, if there were any incriminating evidence, the police would have unearthed it already. Fact is, Scarlet was too smart. She hadn’t left a trail because she didn’t want anyone to follow. Unless—
I drove to my parents and was surprised to find them out. I let myself in and received an effusive welcome from Mr Lee. After assuring him that he was the best dog in the world, he padded into the living room where I knew he’d take advantage and hop up onto the nearest sofa.
Wandering into the hall, I noticed the door to Dad’s study open. Glancing over my shoulder, listening hard for the sound of tyres on gravel, I shot inside. The room smelt of wood smoke, old books, aftershave and leather. It was a good room, a sanctuary, and the kind of place you went to when things weren’t right.
Sunlight tumbled from the window, splashing onto Dad’s desk, and shining onto a notepad beside the phone. My eyes slid automatically to Dad’s handwriting, a collection of indecipherable squiggles. Among the lower-case script, a name in capital letters: ROGER STANTON, followed by a mobile number, both heavily underlined three times. Dad had acted quickly, like I knew he would, and yet something in the heavy script made me twitchy.
I’d never been through my dad’s belongings and private papers before and, although it was terribly wrong, I couldn’t help myself. It was as if an unseen force had taken hold of my mind against my will and I was powerless to resist.
Was it possible that Dad knew more about Scarlet than, so far, he’d been prepared to reveal?
Nerves shredded by such an unwelcome thought, I tried and failed to contain a tidal wave of panic surging up inside. Stress, I told myself. Getting myself in a state, Mum would say.
Still, I looked.
The deepest drawer in my father’s desk contained files, which ranged from household bills and bank statements to invoices and quotations for jobs. A separate file contained drawings for current projects. Typically, and as expected, everything was arranged with meticulous care. Two drawers above held no shocks or surprises. Aside from a copy of a Home Office publication, entitled ‘Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984,’ there wasn’t a single reference to Dad’s former occupation or the case that had finished his career. Relief trickled over me. It wasn’t long before it puddled at my feet.
On dad’s desk, a half empty mug of coffee obscured a pocket-sized notebook, which he used as a coaster. I slipped it out and was surprised to find that it was an ‘Internet Address and Password Logbook.’ How anyone involved in law enforcement could be so lax, I’d no idea. All my passwords were safely stowed inside my brain. I guess it flagged up the difference between the older and younger generation.
Armed with his password, which was pants from a security point of view, I switched on and logged in. With another password, I had access to his emails. In Scarlet’s name, I convinced myself that I had the right to do whatever was necessary.
With a fast glance over my shoulder to check the drive was still empty, I took a breath and hacked in. Aside from dense work-related email traffic between him and Nate, my dad was clearly one of those people who didn’t send but received. There were tons of communications from building suppliers, most of which hung around his inbox like a bad smell. The only personal emails were those to me after I’d drawn his attention to something of interest, like articles on construction and design. Not a thing from or to friends, or ex-colleagues, including Clive Mallis.
Ditching his email correspondence, I cruised through folders, which again were work-related, including details of planning applications sent to councils with their responses. Dad kept all his insurance documents in one folder, legal and accountant stuff in a couple of others. About to log off, I stumbled across a file named ‘Operation Jericho.’ With its association with walls tumbling down, it felt stupidly significant.
I double-clicked it and found access blocked, as if someone said, ‘Not so fast’.
With damp fingers, I flicked through Dad’s notebook, searching for the code to the only password-protected file.
It didn’t take me long to discover it. By comparison to his other passwords, this was relatively complicated, including lower and upper case letters, numerals and a dollar sign. Standing solo on a page, near the back, this had to be it.
The silence of the room stuck to me like tar. I could log out, switch off, replace the notebook under the mug and walk away, never to return. Maybe I should. Scarlet wouldn’t have snooped on Dad or invaded his privacy like this.
But I was not my sister.
As the file opened, I blinked at the volume of information. Dating back thirty years, to when my dad worked for the MET, there were lists of names, including police officers by rank, dates and details of police activities. Scrolling down, and to my untrained and unprofessional eye, it seemed like a diary of events that, perhaps, any police officer might keep. Nothing dinged my alarm bells. The only anomaly were two names and addresses itemised at the end of the document: Cecil Vernon and—oh my Christ, Charlie Binns.
Chapter 51
I thought I would throw up. Couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus. I didn’t know how to feel. What was normal? Is this what happens when life takes you by the throat and gives you a damn good
shake?
Had Dad lied to me or had the passage of time made him so forgetful that one name among many failed to register? And what about Cecil Vernon? Who the hell was he? I took out my phone, snapped Vernon’s details, logged off and left everything as I found it.
Another glance out of the window to check the coast was clear, I shot out of the room and out of the house, feet scrabbling on the gravel. Nervously casting my eyes down the drive and, with nobody in sight, I chose a key from my key ring.
The up-and-over garage door cranked open with a horrible wrenching sound. Fortunately, Dad hadn’t locked the ladder. Dragging it over to the wall, I switched on the overhead light and clambered up.
The aperture gave me enough room to stand upright. Sandwiched in between the floor and rafters, heat hung dense and heavy, as thick as smog. It was difficult to breathe and within seconds, my hair was plastered to my face.
Like tramps in an all-night shelter, souvenirs, unwanted gifts and keepsakes stared back at me. My gaze fastened on a couple of old TV’s, defunct electrical equipment, lampshades, ornaments and household items. Most of the clutter near the front belonged to my mother and included two massive plastic boxes containing old school reports, including an end of yearbook belonging to Zach that told its own tale of a popular boy who messed around too much. Among the contents, Scarlet’s swimming commendations and family photographs, which I forced myself to look at. Another box marked ‘Scarlet’s Stuff’ revealed nothing of interest.
The back of the loft space told a different story. End of year accounts, going back seven years, cozied up to old paintings, prints and DVD’s that cracked and warped in the heat. A mini-shredder loitered next to an old suitcase filled with plugs, adaptors and extensions. Dad, by his own admission, was a hoarder so I wasn’t surprised. Red-faced and drenched in perspiration, I made to descend into cooler air when I spotted a bland cardboard box held together with gaffer tape, no markings to suggest what was inside. A methodical man, my dad labelled everything. I sat back on my haunches, wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
What are you waiting for? I muttered aloud. What could be worse: knowing or not knowing? I scoped the area, the blood in my veins clotting in the soaring temperature.
Half-crazed, I ripped open the lid to discover a pile of old car magazines. I fished out several glossy numbers, flicking through pictures of Aston Martin’s and Bentleys, before setting these aside. Below, another layer of magazines that encompassed homes interiors and gardens, more my mum’s reading matter. I thought I’d keel over if I didn’t get out. One last ferret around proved fruitless and, throwing everything back into the box, I decided to make a move. Straightening up, I reached out for one of the rafters to steady myself. That’s when my hand bumped up against something solid strapped to the wood. Puzzled, I pulled at the bindings and levered out a small notebook, my fingers leaving sweat marks on the moleskin cover.
Aside from the opening and closing pages, most were blank. Written in Biro and in a hand I didn’t recognise, a list of restaurants, clubs and businesses with London addresses. One stood out from the crowd: the name of the hotel that Scarlet had visited before her death. My breath turned rapid and I felt mildly ill and blurry around the edges.
Beside each entry, there was a gold, silver or bronze star. If it was some kind of rating system, whoever made the awards had eaten in an awful lot of establishments, but that didn’t gel with businesses that included bookies, pawnshops and jewellers. Information on the back page was more cryptic, with codes I didn’t understand.
Deep inside, I realised that the box was a marker and what I held in my hands dynamite. The notebook was deliberately hidden, never meant for nosy people like me.
Fearing my parents’ return, I hurried across the loft boards and slid back down the ladder with the speed of a fireman shooting down a pole. The garage locked, I took off with the notebook in my hand, leapt inside my car, fired the ignition and slammed the air con on full blast. Tyres spitting and hissing against the gravel, I drove away and hoped nobody would discover what I’d been up to, least of all my father.
Chapter 52
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.”
Chapter 53
For cosy, read cramped.
Next to a vape shop, the pub was a haunt for regulars. Most looked as if they’d sloped off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean. QPR regalia decorated the walls and I got the impression that if you were a Spurs fan you’d be dead meat.
“My name’s Tina,” she said, sinking the first half of her pint of Guinness in a couple of swallows. A foamy layer of froth coated her top lip. She pinched it away with a grubby thumb and forefinger. Nervous, I nursed an orange juice.
I had no idea of the etiquette for paying for information. I imagined Scarlet had faced the same dilemma. It wasn’t comforting. Any coherent thought about what to do next was obliterated by noise from the vast Sky TV screen behind my head. Spotting my cluelessness, Tina said, “A ton for starters.” I blinked in confusion. “Right toff, aren’t you?’ she sneered. “A hundred quid.” She stuck out her hand, palm up.
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