Читать книгу Her Sister’s Secret - E.V. Seymour - Страница 22

My head felt as if a lump of lead was where my brain should be. Nate, next to me, physically jolted, his body lifting off the sofa by an inch. “What witnesses? Who are these bloody people?”

“The driver in the vehicle behind Bowen.”

“How fast was he travelling?” I said irritably.

“Saw it all. Said that Bowen braked at the very last second but, by then, it was too late.”

“You’re suggesting that my sister used her vehicle like a weapon, a battering ram?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“Then how would you put it?” Nate interjected, cold with anger.

“I understand this is upsetting, but —”

“She could have blacked out, had a heart attack, or sneezed, for God’s sake,” I cut in. Throat raw and exposed, my voice was too loud. “There could have been oil on the road.”

“There wasn’t,” Childe said.

“You said witness statements. You mean more than one?”

“There was a pedestrian.”

“On that busy road?”

“A jogger,” Childe clarified. “This corroborates an initial vehicle assessment of an absence of corresponding tyre and skid marks. Scarlet never braked. Quite the contrary; we think she actually sped up.”

I nodded blindly. What else could I do?

“I’ve explained to Nathan that we need to talk about Scarlet’s mental health.”

“They think she was suicidal.” Nate’s tone was a mess of cynicism. Only I could detect the fake ring in it. The message left for Nate had been a suicide note, and he knew it.

Instantly, I thought about Fliss’ observation, the way Scarlet seemed suddenly sorted, the relief she felt. I had to admit that suicide suddenly seemed a strong possibility. But I also knew my sister.

“If she’d wanted to kill herself, she wouldn’t have hurt someone else. She was a nurse. She believed in saving lives, not taking them.”

“I agree,” Nate said.

“And, if that was her plan, which I definitely don’t buy, she would have targeted something a great deal more solid. A brick wall, tunnel or bridge is more final, isn’t it, more likely to do the job?” Articulating it made me go hot and cold and hot again.

Childe remained deadpan. “It’s only one avenue of enquiry.”

What other lines were they pursuing? Suspicion pinched my nerves.

Childe viewed the pair of us as if we were nobly defending my sister’s honour, which we were. He returned to his favourite theme. “Were you aware of any difficulties your sister had?”

I swallowed, shook my head, glad that the scream inside, this time, was silent.

“No history of depression?”

“None.”

“Never attempted to take her own life?”

“Of course not.”

“Was she a heavy drinker?”

“I told you she didn’t drink,” Nate piped up, frustrated, simply not buying this particular piece of evidence. “She’d been on night duty, for God’s sake. She drove home early morning.”

Childe returned to the facts and, punch-drunk with information, I tuned out. Glancing through the window, I noticed people walking into town, heading off for appointments, some carrying bags of shopping. On the other side of the road: loud men with loud music erecting scaffolding. Life churning. Everything the same and yet nothing the same and wouldn’t be again. Oh. My. God.

I noticed a woman marching along the pavement. Hair scraped off her face and manacled in a ponytail, her complexion spotty and slightly pitted beneath the tan, she had pale blue, luminous eyes and her full mouth curved down, carving deep lines from the corner of her lips to her chin. If anyone could be described as looking murderous, she did.

Childe followed my gaze. “Jesus,” he cursed, and dived out of the room.

Taken aback, Nate also looked and we both watched, mystified, as the woman flung open the gate, shot down the path, one hand diving into her handbag, the other clenched into a fist, ready to rap on the front door.

In strides, Childe got to it first. “Heather, we’re all understandably raw right now —”

“I’m not interested in what you feel,” she exploded, “I want that bastard inside to know what his slag of a wife was up to.”

Slag. Should I give her a mouthful? Nate tensed, turned to me and silently mouthed No.

“Heather,” I heard Childe say sternly. “Go home. Your kids need you.”

“Damn right they do, and whose fault is that?” Her eyes shot to the window. Automatically, Nate and I shrank back.

“You’re not thinking straight, love. Sam Holland’s your FLO, right? I’ll give her a call.” I had to hand it to Childe. He was the epitome of cool composure and warm compassion, yet no way was the woman setting foot over the threshold.

“I have Sam on speed dial,” the woman spat back. “If I need her, I’ll ring for her. Here,” she said. “Give Mr Jay this. It’s all I came for.”

Next, fast footsteps followed by the gate smashing open and banging against its hinges.

Childe returned inside. He looked more shaken than he’d sounded seconds ago. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Who was that bloody woman?” Nate said.

“Richard Bowen’s widow.”

I let out a groan, regretting my first instinct, which was to have laid into her verbally. Nate pitched forward, hands clasped over his head.

“I’m sorry but can either of you identify this?” Childe extended his arm. In the palm of his hand nestled a gold and diamond bracelet.

It belonged to my sister.