Chapter 5
SCARLETT
The day after the funeral, I meet Daisy’s landlord for him to let me into her flat. When the police returned Daisy’s bag to us, the bag that was found close to her body, her keys weren’t in it. And they’ve never been found.
Daisy told me her landlord was creepy. She wasn’t wrong. The guy is tall and wide and wears a suit that no longer fits properly and could do with a trip to the dry cleaners. He mumbles his condolences. I offer a simple line of thanks. A line I’m sick of repeating.
It’s only the second time I’ve been here since the police declared it was no longer a crime scene. The day they said their preliminary results indicated an overdose and there was no sign of foul play. ‘But my sister didn’t take drugs.’
I’ll never forget DS Porter’s face as he squeezed my arm. ‘We see this often, I’m afraid, Scarlett. Families are often the last to know about the lives their loved ones lived in cases like this.’ I liked DS Porter. He was softly spoken, kind and sensitive. But I didn’t like that message.
The first time I came here, Mum came along.
She only managed five minutes. I achieved little in packing up my sister’s life.
She wanted to come with me again today. She’s stronger now, she said.
But she’s not, and I can’t think straight with her constantly breaking down.
Every time, I want to cry with her, and sometimes I do.
But not today. Today, I have work to do.
And that’s to find out what really happened to my sister.
The landlord tugs the lapels of his ill-fitting jacket. ‘What about the other girl?’ he asks.
‘The other girl?’ I ask.
‘The other tenant.’
‘You mean Layla?’
He nods.
‘I’m in contact with her. Don’t worry yourself.
Her stuff will be gone by the end of the month, as well.
’ I’m not used to lying. I’m known for being direct.
People say I can offend. But I don’t see the point in fobbing someone off with a lie, saying they look good in something, for example, when they don’t, purely to placate them.
No nonsense, that’s me. Straight as a die, no fluff.
That’s why holding back from telling Granny what happened to Daisy is so jarring.
Daisy was so different in that regard. I was always ticking her off for telling people what they wanted to hear. I texted Layla again last night, but I haven’t heard back, so I’m unsure of her plans. But I can’t see her wanting to remain here when she leaves rehab.
The landlord sighs and turns to go. ‘Make sure you close the door when you leave.’
I swallow the loathing I have for people like him. I enter the flat and slam the door.
It’s cold in here, even though it’s hot outside. I leave the flat-pack boxes I brought with me leaning against the wall and head to Daisy’s room. The chill of emptiness follows me along the hallway that’s littered with trainers and shoes.
It’s a decent-sized room for student accommodation.
Much larger than mine when I was at uni.
But the furniture is just the same – mismatched items that make it look like a bric-a-brac store – an old chest of drawers, a double bed with a button-cloth headboard, an antique wardrobe, a walnut double-pedestal desk with a worn leather top.
The room is neat and tidy, though. As I’d expect of my sister.
We were always alike in this regard. And the police did a good job in tidying up once they had finished their investigation.
The desk holds paperwork in a three-tier filing tray, and a single book: Smith, Hogan, and Ormerod’s Criminal Law by David Ormerod and Karl Laird. I open it. Twelve hundred pages of tiny words I could never understand. Daisy was always the more intelligent of the two of us.
I tug two suitcases out from under her bed and stifle a sob as I place them on top and unzip them.
I perch on the edge of the bed. ‘Where do I even start?’ I cry out as if my sister were here.
I read a thriller book recently, about three women who’d been murdered by a serial killer.
They spent months in limbo unable to pass to the other side until the murderer was caught.
I stroke the bed, wondering if I’m stroking my sister’s leg.
‘Are you there, Daisy?’ I whisper to the void surrounding me.
Taking a large gulp of air, I breathe it out.
Perhaps it’s too early for me to be doing this.
Perhaps we shouldn’t have given notice on the flat yet.
I can’t face this. Not yet. Mum always said I’m the strongest person she’s ever met.
But the load is too heavy for me today. I should’ve waited for George to help me.
I scrunch up my sister’s duvet cover and peer around the room. Most of last night I lay awake, still reeling, unable to get George’s revelations out of my mind. My sister smoked weed now and again. She died of a drug overdose, and her flatmate isn’t on a beach in South-East Asia. Layla is in rehab.
I just don’t buy it.
The pinboard above the desk catches my eye.
Photos of Mum, an old picture of Dad playing in our garden with the two of us when we were young.
A photo of Daisy and me at my graduation.
Several pictures of her and George enjoying uni life.
Between the photos are motivational quotes. I read a couple of them.
‘Only YOU have control of your future.’ Marcus Aurelius.
‘Aim High. Always.’ Sally Nelson.
‘Don’t give up the fight. You will win in the end.’ Brian Bardmore.
I frown. It was unlike Daisy. I wonder whether this was George’s influence. I glance around the room, calculating how long it’s going to take me to pack this lot up. The sooner I get out of here, the better. My stomach lurches. It seems so final.
I wander into Layla’s room, startling at my reflection in a large ornate mirror adorning the wall.
For a split second, I think it’s my sister.
I walk towards it. More messages of hope, promises and fulfilment written on Post-it notes are stuck with tape around the frame.
There’s a common theme here. I pick up a leaflet from the bedside cabinet about some kind of gathering.
A Meeting of Minds is branded across the front.
It looks familiar, but I can’t recall where I’ve seen it before. Perhaps it’s a uni thing.
I search through Layla’s desk drawers, hoping to find a letter or a brochure from the clinic where she is staying.
I want to go and see her. I need to go and see her.
But there’s nothing here. I try her bedside cabinet and spot a letter.
I take it out. It has a Scottish postmark and appears to have been forwarded from her home address.
Slipping my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, I take a photo of the address.
It shouldn’t be hard to get a phone number.
Then Layla’s parents can tell me where I can find their daughter, and I can go and see her.