No comment.
A hint of annoyance had crept into Leo’s voice. He was having to work far harder than he was used to. “Murray, are you investigating a crime series involving two historic suicides?”
“I’m not, no.” They were murders, not suicides.
“Then what, exactly, have you been doing?”
“Anna Johnson came in to the front counter on Thursday to discuss some concerns she had over her parents’ sudden deaths, both of which occurred last year. I spent some time answering her questions.” Murray gave Leo a benign smile. “One of the objectives in my PDR is to deliver a high level of customer service. Sir.”
Leo narrowed his eyes. “Night turn said she’d received a malicious communication.”
“An anonymous card, delivered on the anniversary of her mother’s death.”
“There’s nothing on the system. Why didn’t you generate a crime report?”
“What offense would that have been?” Murray asked politely. “There was no threat in the card. No abuse. It was upsetting, of course, but it wasn’t illegal.” There was a long pause while Leo digested this information.
“A brick through a window—”
“Is a criminal act,” interrupted Murray smoothly, “and I’m sure the attending officers will do an excellent job investigating it.”
“Miss Johnson seems to think her mother’s suicide was, in fact, murder.”
“So I understand.” Murray gave a polite smile. “Of course, it was the CID team here who looked at the case last year.”
Leo looked at Murray, assessing whether the implication had been intentional. If he told Murray off for not taking the job to CID, there was an implicit criticism that the original investigation had been mishandled.
Murray waited.
“Write up your involvement so far, and pass everything up to CID for them to take a proper look at. Understood?”
“Perfectly.” Murray stood, not waiting to be dismissed. “Merry Christmas.”
“Indeed. And, Murray?”
“Yes?”
“Stick to your own job.”
Murray hadn’t lied to the superintendent yet, and he wasn’t going to start now. “Don’t worry, Leo.” He gave the boss a cheery smile. “I won’t do anything I’m not qualified to do.”
Downstairs, Murray found an empty report-writing room and closed the door before logging on to the computer. He had given back his force laptop when he retired, and there were a few more checks he wanted to do before he went home for Christmas. If Leo Griffiths had the nous to look at Murray’s intranet activity, it could be easily explained away as essential research for the write-up he would have to put together for CID.
He looked up Oak View on the command-and-control system that logged every call made to police. This basic check would have been done by the original investigating officers, but there were no printouts in the archived file, and Murray wanted to be thorough. He was looking for break-ins, harassment, suspicious activity connected to Oak View or the Johnsons. Anything that might suggest Tom and Caroline had been targeted prior to their deaths.
Oak View appeared several times over the years since computerized records had been kept. Twice, a silent 999 call had been made from the address. Each time, control room had called back and been given the same explanation.
OCCUPANT APOLOGIZES. TODDLER WAS PLAYING WITH PHONE.
Murray checked the date on the log: 10 February 2001. Toddler? Anna Johnson would have been ten. Too old to be making accidental phone calls. Had there been a toddler in the house, or were the silent 999 calls a deliberate cry for help?
In 2008 control room had received a call from a neighbor, Robert Drake, who reported hearing a disturbance next door. Murray looked through the log.
CALLER STATES HE CAN HEAR SHOUTING. SOUND OF BROKEN GLASS. POSSIBLE DOMESTIC. UNITS DISPATCHED.
No crime had been recorded.
ALL QUIET ON ARRIVAL. DETAILS TAKEN. BOTH OCCUPANTS DENY ANY DOMESTIC INCIDENT.
Caroline Johnson had appeared “emotional,” Murray noted, but there was scant detail in the brief log, and without tracking down the attending officers—and hoping they could recall an incident that occurred more than a decade ago—that was all he had to go on.
It was enough. Murray was starting to build up a picture of the Johnsons, and it wasn’t the one their daughter had portrayed. Perhaps Tom’s brother, Billy Johnson, would throw more light on proceedings. Murray looked at his watch. Bloody Leo Griffiths and his posturing. He’d be late to collect Sarah if he didn’t go now. She’d be emotionally fraught enough as it was today; even the tiniest change of plans could knock her off-kilter.
* * *
• • •
“I’ll come with you.”
Murray had made it just in time, only for Sarah to immediately ask after the Johnson case and insist on accompanying him to see Billy.
“It’ll keep till after Christmas.” Murray put the car in gear and drove slowly out of Highfield. It felt good to have Sarah in the car. To know he wasn’t going home to an empty house.
“It’s fine, honestly. It’s practically on our way home, anyway.”
Murray stole a glance at his wife. Even in the car she didn’t sit properly. One foot was tucked beneath the knee of her other leg. She held the seat belt away from her neck with one hand, her elbow resting on the bottom of the window.
“If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
* * *
• • •
Johnson’s Cars had been given a facelift since Murray had bought his Volvo. There was still the same motley collection of part-exchange bangers parked around the back, but most of the forecourt was filled with gleaming Jags, Audis, and BMWs, the most expensive angled on ramps that made the cars look like they were about to make a break for it.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
“No rush.” Sarah took off her seat belt and opened her book. Murray pocketed the keys, automatically scanning the inside of the car for anything that might present a risk. She’s been discharged, he reminded himself as he walked away. Relax.
He looked back as he crossed the forecourt, but Sarah was engrossed in her book. Clean-shaven sales reps circled like sharks, two homing in on him from opposite directions, each with an eye on their commission. A gangly lad with a shock of ginger hair reached him first, his colleague peeling off toward a sharply dressed couple, wandering hand in hand along a line of convertibles. A far safer bet, Murray thought.
“Billy Johnson?”
“In the office.” The ginger lad jerked his head toward the showroom. “But perhaps I can assist.” His smile was all tooth and no sincerity. He cocked his head to one side, making a show of appraising Murray. Considering. “Volvo man, am I right?”
Considering Murray had just gotten out of precisely such a car, this insight was less impressive than it might have been. He kept walking.
“Through here, is it?”
Ginger shrugged, his shiny smile vanishing with his chances of a sale. “Yeah. Shaneen on the desk’ll get him for you.”
Shaneen had a face two degrees darker than her neck, and lips so glossy Murray could see his reflection in them. She was standing behind a large curved reception desk with tinsel taped to the side, setting out glasses on a tray for a Christmas Eve tipple. She smiled as he approached.
“Welcome to Johnson’s Cars. How may I help you?” she rattled off, so fast Murray had to pause for a second to process what he’d heard.
“I’d like to see Billy Johnson, please. I’m from Sussex Police.”
“I’ll see if he’s free.” She teetered on pointed-toe heels that couldn’t possibly be the same shape as her feet, click-clacking across the polished floor to her boss’s office. Tinted glass meant Murray couldn’t see inside it, and he looked out of the vast showroom windows instead, w
ishing he’d been able to park the Volvo a little closer. The angle meant he couldn’t see Sarah. He glanced at his watch. He’d already taken five of the ten minutes he’d promised he’d be.
“Come through, Mr. . . .” Shaneen appeared in the doorway, tailing off as she realized she’d forgotten to ask Murray’s name.
“Mackenzie. Murray Mackenzie.” He smiled at the receptionist as she passed him, and walked into an impressive office housing two large desks. Billy Johnson stood up. His forehead glistened, and when he shook Murray’s hand it was warm and clammy. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t offer Murray a seat.
“CID, eh?”
Murray didn’t set him straight.
“To what do we owe the pleasure? Our last break-in was six months ago, so that’s a piss-poor response time, even by your standards.” The smile implied a joke the words lacked.
Billy Johnson was generous of stomach. Portly, rather than fat, and not unattractive with it, Murray supposed, although what did he know? He wore a well-cut suit, highly polished shoes, and a bright yellow tie that matched the stripes on his wide-collared shirt. The defensiveness was undoubtedly due to stress, not aggression, but nevertheless Murray stayed within striking distance of the door.
“If it’s about the VAT—”
“It isn’t.”
Billy relaxed a little.
“I’m making inquiries about the deaths of your brother and his wife.”
“You the officer our Annie’s been dealing with?”
“You’re her uncle, I believe?”
Even through Billy’s distress, his affection for Anna was evident. His eyes softened, and he nodded repeatedly, as though the action reinforced the fact. “Such a lovely girl. This has all been very hard for her.”
“For all of you,” proffered Murray.
“Yes, yes, of course. But for Annie . . .” He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his brow. “I’m sorry—it’s been a rather emotional morning. Please, sit down.” He sank down into a leather swivel chair. “She’s convinced herself Tom and Caroline were murdered.”
Murray paused. “I think she’s right.”
“Christ.”
Through the window behind Billy, Murray caught sight of a familiar figure meandering through the rows of cars. Sarah. Twenty yards behind her, walking as swiftly as it was possible to walk without running, was Ginger.
“Were you close to Tom, Mr. Johnson?” Murray spoke quickly, half an eye on the forecourt.
Billy frowned. “We were brothers.”
“You got on well?”
He seemed irritated by the question. “We were brothers. We had each other’s backs, but we got each other’s backs up, too. You know what I mean?”
“Business partners, too, I understand.”
Billy nodded. “Dad had dementia and couldn’t run the business anymore, so Tom and I took over in 1991. Family,” he added, as though that explained everything. There was an open checkbook in front of him, next to a pile of envelopes and a printed list. He shuffled the envelopes together needlessly; nodded to the checkbook. “Christmas bonuses. Smaller than normal, but that’s life.”
“How did you get on with Caroline?”
A crimson flush crept over the man’s neck. “She ran the desk. Tom looked after that side of things. I managed the sales team.”
Murray noted that Billy hadn’t answered his question. He didn’t push it. He wasn’t supposed to be there at all; the last thing Murray needed was another complaint to Leo Griffiths. He tried another tack.
“Did they have a good relationship?”
Billy looked out the window, as though deciding whether to impart whatever was in his head. Ginger was steering Sarah toward a Defender with a price tag dangling from the rearview mirror. Murray hoped she was okay. Hoped Ginger wouldn’t say anything to set her off.
Billy turned back to Murray. “He didn’t treat her right. He was my brother, and I loved him, but he wasn’t good enough for her.”
Murray waited. There was obviously a story behind this.
“He liked a drink. Well, we all do, but . . .” Billy shook his head. “This isn’t right. Speaking ill of the dead. It isn’t right.”
“Are you suggesting Tom had a problem with alcohol, Mr. Johnson?”
There was a long pause before Billy spoke. He looked out the window. “Caroline tried to cover for him, but I’m not stupid. Even if Tom thought I was.” This last was said bitterly, muttered more to himself than to Murray.
Behind him, Murray saw Ginger open the driver’s door of the Defender. Sarah settled herself behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. Ginger would have her out on a test-drive if Murray didn’t leave soon. He stood up.
“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Johnson. Thank you.”
Murray felt bad leaving the man slumped at his desk, visibly distressed by the memories Murray had forced him to confront. But his priority was Sarah.
She was walking toward him as he got to the forecourt. Ginger was standing by the Defender, hands thrust miserably in his pockets.
“Are you okay?” Murray said, when Sarah reached him. She seemed perfectly content, and he breathed a sigh of relief that Ginger hadn’t upset her.
“Right as rain.” She had a wicked grin on her face and Murray looked again at Ginger, who looked as though someone had just told him Christmas had been canceled.
“What happened to him?”
“I told him I was interested in the latest model.”
“Right . . .”
“That I wanted something very high spec, with lots of extras, and that I was looking to take something away today.”
“Okay . . .”
Sarah grinned again. “And then I said maybe I’d stick to my bike.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
ANNA
My mother rings the bell instantly, then again without dropping her hand, and again and again and again. Rita runs into the hall, skids on the tiles, then jumps at the door. She looks back at me, then up at the silhouette of my mother, framed inside the stained-glass panel. She whines, confused.
My chest feels tight, my face numb. I can’t do this. My hands shake uncontrollably, and as the doorbell rings again panic builds inside me.
“Anna!”
I turn around. Make my feet move. I walk slowly toward the foot of the stairs.
“We have to talk about this. I need you to understand. Anna!”
Her voice is quiet, but she is pleading, desperate. I stand, one hand on the banister, one foot on the step. My parents are alive. Isn’t this everything I’ve wanted for the last year? Grandparents for Ella, in-laws for Mark. My mum and dad. Family.
“Anna, I won’t leave until you understand. I had no choice!”
And all at once I’m decided. I take the stairs two at a time, running from the hall, from the begging. From the excuses my mother is trying to give for the inexcusable.
No choice?
I had no choice. No choice but to grieve for my parents. No choice but to see the police pore over our lives; to sit in a coroner’s court while their deaths were dissected; to organize a memorial service and phone their friends to hear the same platitudes over and over. I had no choice but to go through pregnancy, labor, the early weeks of anxious motherhood, without my mother’s guidance.
I had no choice.
They did.
My parents chose to deceive me, not only when they disappeared, but on every single day since.
The doorbell rings again, again, again. My mother keeps her finger pressed, and the bell rings, shrill and insistent, through the spine of the house.
I clamp my hands over my ears and curl into a tight ball on my bed, but still I hear it. I sit up. Stand. Pace the length of the bedroom.
I go into the en suite and turn
on the shower, sitting on the edge of the bath while the room fills with steam and the mirror mists over. Then I strip off my running clothes and step in, pulling the door shut and cranking the temperature till it’s so hot it hurts. Beneath the shower I can’t hear the bell. I tip up my head, letting the water fill my ears, my nose, my mouth, until it feels as though I’m drowning. I give in to the tears that started when I saw my mother and froze the second I understood she’d chosen to stay away. I cry with a physicality I have never before experienced, doubled over with the sobs that force their way from the pit of my stomach.
When I have sobbed so hard I feel too weak to stand, I sit and wrap my arms around my knees, the water running off my bent head and pooling in my lap. I cry until I am exhausted. Until the water runs to ice and my flesh is goose bumped.
When I switch off the shower, my limbs stiff and cold, I listen.
Silence.
She’s gone.
The sharp stab of grief takes me by surprise. I chastise myself for the chink of weakness it suggests. I have lived without my parents for more than a year. I have survived. I will survive. There is nothing they could say now that would win my forgiveness. It is too late.
I find comfort in the softness of an old pair of jogging bottoms and a faded sweatshirt I steal from Mark’s side of the wardrobe. Thick cashmere socks. I rough-dry my hair with a towel and twist it into a loose bun.
Just as I am beginning to feel, if not better, then more together, the doorbell rings.
I freeze. Wait a full minute.
It rings again.
The single-mindedness I used to admire—envy, almost—in my mother now taunts me. She’s not going to give up. I could stay here all day, and she will wait and ring and shout. White-hot rage cracks through the veneer of calmness I had convinced myself was real, and I storm from my bedroom and down the stairs. How dare she?
A whole year.
It rattles around my head like a ball in a pinball machine, firing shots indiscriminately. For a whole year she has lied to me. To everyone.