Читать книгу Her Sister’s Secret - E. V. Seymour - Страница 16

First thing the next day, I texted Fliss Fiander, Scarlet’s best friend, and asked if I could visit that morning. She replied: Any time after ten. So very sorry, Molly.

To reach my car, I routinely take the scenic route down the garden where I have a home office over a carport. This is where I park the vehicular love of my life, a flashy white Fiat 500.

Except that morning it was no longer white.

With a hand clamped to my mouth, I gaped at what I could see of the bonnet, which wasn’t very much through a slurry of mashed flesh and bone. Reminiscent of a scene from The Walking Dead gore and shiny intestines spattered the windscreen. The smell, in the high temperature, was one of rotting meat and decay.

Heart in my throat, I took a pace nearer to try and identify exactly what I was looking at. Closer inspection revealed snarling fangs glinting in the sunshine. Curved claws attached to once powerful paws protruded from a coagulated mass of remains. The black and white marking would once have been striking. Tufts of thick black and white fur streaked with blood was all that signified that the roadkill belonged to a badger.

Anger flared inside me. I’d not accidentally run something over. I hadn’t sleepwalked in the night, offed a creature and driven back to home turf. The tableau before my eyes was the worst kind of sick joke.

Shaking, I walked to the edge of the carport and onto the pavement to check the road both ways. Cars, pedestrians, school kids coming and going; everywhere perversely ordinary. The pub across the road had only closed down a couple of months before. Empty and boarded up, it had provided the perpetrator with the perfect cover to carry out their grisly mission undetected. It also suggested a planner and not an opportunist.

I ought to call the police but, with so many unanswered questions about Scarlet’s death remaining, I didn’t want it to detract from any investigation. Of one thing I was certain: the timing was significant. I had no enemies and no business rivals. Could this be a retaliatory act for Scarlet’s actions? I resolved to call my dad.

Stepping back into the shade, I crouched down, staring hard at the floor, searching with my fingertips for anything that might have been left behind. Careful to avoid bird shit from a family of nesting house martins; grit, dirt and dust were the only items coating my nails. Disappointed, I straightened up, returned to the house where I dug out a dust-mask reserved for sanding down old furniture and clamped it on. Next, I grabbed a roll of thick black bin liners and a pair of rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink.

Back in the carport, I did what I had to do. The beast was heavier than I’d anticipated. Blood splashed my sandals and guts stained my clothes. The stink was indescribable and penetrated my face gear. Fortunately, I’d passed on breakfast that morning as bile filled my mouth.

Having got the worst off the car, and dumping the bags to one side, I hosed down the rest, flinching at the sight of tissue and animal fluids circling the drain. The smell would take longer to dissipate.

Locking the connecting door, I retreated to the house, where I peeled off my bloody clothes, tossed them into a plastic carrier bag and took another shower.

Dry and dressed, I called Dad and explained what happened. Whether it was the heat, or grief, it seemed to take him an age to process. “Are you all right?”

“Sort of.” I wasn’t.

“Some people are utter ghouls. I’m only sorry that you’ve been on the receiving end.”

“It’s just so extreme,” I mumbled. Dad didn’t know about the notes, didn’t know about Scarlet’s trip to London, the inconsistencies of her life.

“When people are upset, they sometimes do awful things. Unfortunately, I’m familiar with the species. It could have been a friend or family member close to Richard Bowen’s.”

Dad’s suggestion opened up a valid possibility I’d not had time to fully consider.

“The best thing you can do, Molly, is to forget this ever happened.”

“Forget?”

“Darling.” I recognised that tone. It was specially reserved for telling me, in the nicest way, that I was excitable and gifted with an overactive imagination.

“I’m not making this up,” I said crossly.

“Of course, you’re not. Leave everything where it is, and I’ll come and dispose of it later. Whatever you do, I don’t want either Nate or your mother finding out. This remains between the two of us.”

“I understand,” I said reluctantly.

“Good girl, I knew you’d be strong enough. Now I really must go.”

I had not forgotten my parents’ pilgrimage to the scene of the accident. And despite what my Dad said, I would not forget the grisly gift delivered to my carport, or the messy message it sent.