Читать книгу Her Sister’s Secret - E. V. Seymour - Страница 9

Silence, like the split-second before an ancient tree, cut down, hits the earth.

Dad started forward, every step an exercise in agony. Mum, slack-jawed, let go of my hand, gripped and twisted the cotton top sheet through her fingers, a metaphor for a life irrevocably screwed. When Dad reached out and put his arms around her, she let out a deep-throated howl. I slipped off the bed, made way, excluded. Numbed, I couldn’t really take it in.

There were tears. I’d never seen my big tough dad cry. Not when Zach got expelled from school – again – not when he’d OD’d, not when my brother went to rehab that would make most prisons look like recreational facilities, not when Dad walked my sister down the aisle. Not ever. But he cried now.

“There must be some mistake.” Mum’s sobs were dry. Excruciating.

“No, my darling.”

“But—”

“I identified her.”

Mum pulled away. “You did?” She spoke in a small, wondering, vulnerable voice. “Surely, Nate—”

“Too much for the boy. I offered.”

“And you’re sure? You’re certain?”

“She’s gone,” he confirmed tearfully.

Mum wrenched back the sheet. “Then I must I go to her.”

“No, Amanda.”

“I have to see her, Rod.”

Stricken, I held my breath, watched as Dad put his solid hands on Mum’s shoulders, looked into her eyes. Firm. Back in control. All his ex-copper credentials showing through. “We can take flowers once the scene’s secured and preserved.”

Her mouth tightened, ugliness in her expression. “I don’t want to take fucking flowers. I want to see my baby.”

Dad glanced anxiously over his shoulder at me. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Maybe he was embarrassed because my mum never swore, and he wasn’t great with the drama. Maybe he feared the miasma of emotions about to break loose. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from what I already knew. My mother could live without any one of us, but not Scarlet.

“Amanda, listen to me. You have to be very brave.”

“I can’t,” she gulped. “I just—”

“You can. You must. For Scarlet.”

“Oh my Christ,” she burst out. “She always said she wanted to donate her organs. We can’t let that happen, Rod.”

“That’s not an issue at the moment.”

I frowned. What did Dad mean?

“But there will be a post-mortem,” he continued.

“No,” she snapped. “You tell him, Molly. Tell him it can’t happen.”

I stared from one to the other, my breath staccato and shallow. “Mum, I wish I could but—”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Ripping herself from dad, she tore out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Naked and unsteady feet crashed against polished wooden floorboards.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, but the accusing light in her eyes said it all. When she’d needed me most, I’d failed her.

Dad stood up, met my wounded gaze. “She doesn’t mean it, Moll.”

My expression told him that she did.

“Leave her. She’ll —” He was going to say ‘calm down’ but, too late, realised the futility of it.

He sat. I stood. Lost. A hot ember of grief lodged so deep in my chest I thought it would never cool. I didn’t know what to say, or how to feel, other than crashing grief and guilt. I’d never be able to make it up to my sister now.

“Come,” he said, with a sad smile.

I went to him and threw my arms around his neck and rested my cheek against his big wide chest. As he stroked my head the years rolled back, except that Scarlet was no longer there to share them with me. Scarlet was a lonely shadow.

I pulled away, ran a knuckle underneath each eye. “How’s Nate?”

“In bad shape. Went to pieces at the hospital. I left him with his parents. There’s an FLO with him too.” Family Liaison Officer. I was fluent in my dad’s cop lingo.

“And now?”

“There will be an accident investigation followed by an inquest. Standard procedure.”

“What did you mean about organ donation? Scarlet believed in it so much.”

He let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know the RP SIO but, as a former police officer, I might be able to extract some inside information.” I dredged my brain. Dad meant Road Policing Investigating Officer. “It’s a confused picture but I got the impression that the police were holding something back. The fact that they want to prioritise the post-mortem indicates as such.”

I didn’t like the sound of this at all. I understood that reports could take a week or so, although initial findings could be disclosed earlier.

Dad continued, as if on autopilot. “Every fatality on British roads is treated as a suspicious death and in this instance there’s two. In the normal course of events, a Collision Officer will identify and preserve records and review witness evidence, and a Vehicle Examiner will check out the vehicles.”

I didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t. I tried to absorb the news. Failed. “Dad,” I said gingerly, “When will they find out what happened?” I had to know.

“Sounds like a high-speed collision.”

“You think Scarlet was driving too quickly?”

“Maybe.” He shook his head. “But don’t tell your mother I said that.”

I squeezed his arm; saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. We both knew that my mum would never recover from this. “It might or might not be a factor, but Scarlet wasn’t driving her car.”

“How come?” I said, puzzled.

“Remember that prang she had a month or so ago?”

“Hit a gate-post.” Which was right out of character, I remembered with a twinge of anxiety. Scarlet was a good driver. Smooth. Fluid. Safe. Not like me with my tendency to curb it and poke my nose out too far at junctions.

“The Golf was in for bodywork repairs. She’d rented an off-roader for the week.”

“Maybe she didn’t know how to handle it.”

“A possibility,” he agreed.

“How long had she had it?”

“Three days.” Yes, I remembered now. She was on her way to drop off her car and pick up the courtesy vehicle when I’d picked a fight.

“Surely, she’d take it steady simply because she wasn’t used to driving the vehicle.”

“I have to admit it does seem odd, especially as she was on the wide straight stretch on the Old Gloucester Road, after Hayden.”

I knew my sister’s regular route. The speed limit was 50 mph, but drivers often took it more quickly. Me included.

A hard lump swelled in my throat, making it virtually impossible to swallow. Still the tears wouldn’t come. “Was it really awful, Dad? Seeing Scarlet?”

He glanced away, jaw bracing, his normal dark colouring a pale imitation. When he spoke his voice sounded raspy, dry and old. “I’ve seen many dead bodies, but nothing prepares you for—” He shook his head. Broken.

“Here,” I said, clumsily handing him a tissue. He took it, dabbed his face and blew his nose. “We have to tell Zach.”

“My job,” he said, stoic and uncompromising. A pulse ticked in his neck, his expression reminding me of the bad old days when Zach was in thrall to his druggie friends. He hung out with crazies back then. Dad knew most of them in a professional capacity. It wasn’t so much what Zach was doing to his body, destructive as it was, as what he was doing to our lives, Dad’s especially.

He pulled out his mobile.

“Wouldn’t it be better and kinder done in person?” In any case, Zach never answered his phone and, rarely, if ever returned a call.

Dad opened his mouth to speak then hesitated, whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the sound of a loo flushing and running water.

“Let me tell Zach,” I murmured.

“No, I —’

“I want to, Dad.” I needed to be alone, to think and work out whether I was condemned to a lifetime of guilt. I shuddered to think that Scarlet was so upset by our row that she’d not paid attention on the road. Had I argued with her when she was already at a low ebb? Jesus Christ.

His sad eyes met mine. “Are you sure? You’ve had one hell of a shock.”

“Honestly, I want to help.” And do something of practical use. “It won’t be a problem. Promise.”

He clutched my arm. “Are you okay to drive?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” His grip on me tightened.

“I am.”

Anxiously, his eyes darted to the en-suite. “I’ll take care of Mum. You go to Zach.”