Was Anna’s mother pushed? Perhaps not physically, but could someone have forced Caroline into taking her own life?
The headland rose above Murray, each stride taking him higher above sea level. Local folklore suggested malignant ley lines converged at Beachy Head, drawing those susceptible to such things to their death. Murray held no truck with magic and mystery, but it was hard to ignore the power of the place. The expanse of grass ended abruptly in bright white cliffs, the contrast muted by the mist that swirled around the lighthouse below. As the clouds shifted Murray caught glimpses of grey sea, and he felt a rush of vertigo, stepping backwards even though he was twelve feet or more from the crumbling edges.
Caroline had come here to die. That much had been clear from the chaplain’s testimony. Yet the implication in the anonymous anniversary card was clear: her suicide was not as it seemed.
Murray pictured Caroline Johnson standing where he now stood. Had she wanted to die? Or been willing to die? There was a subtle, but important, distinction. Willing to die so that someone else would be spared? Her daughter? Perhaps Anna herself was the key to all this. Could Caroline Johnson have taken her own life because someone threatened to hurt her daughter if she didn’t?
Far from clearing his head, Beachy Head was sending him around in circles.
In the centre of a well-trodden patch of grass was a stone plinth topped with a slate slab. Murray read the engraving, his lips moving silently.
Mightier than the thunders of many waters,
mightier than the waves of the sea,
the Lord on high is mighty!
Beneath the psalm, a final reminder: God is always greater than all of our troubles.
Murray felt something well up inside him. He turned abruptly from the plinth, looked one last time at where the cliffs gave way to oblivion, and then marched back towards the car park, angry he had let it get to him. He had come for research purposes, he told himself, not to get maudlin. He had come to see where Anna Johnson’s parents had died. To fix the scene in his mind, thinking it might have changed since he was last there.
It hadn’t.
It had been one of the patrol volunteers who had found Sarah. She’d been sitting on the edge of the cliff, her feet dangling into oblivion. She hadn’t wanted to kill herself, she’d told the chaplain; she just didn’t want to be in the world any more. There was a difference, she’d insisted. Murray had understood that. He wouldn’t change his wife for the world, but he wished so much he could change the world for his wife.
Murray had picked up the call, left work and driven to the pub at Beachy Head, where Sarah was sitting with a woman whose dog collar was all but hidden beneath her waterproofs. The landlord was a quiet, thoughtful man, experienced in the difference between a stiff drink and Dutch courage, quick to call the police if the latter looked as though it would end badly. He had retired discreetly to the other end of the pub, while Sarah had cried on Murray’s shoulder.
Beachy Head hadn’t changed. It never would. It was – would always be – a beautiful, haunting, agonising place. At once uplifting and destroying.
Murray parked the car in the street behind the police station, checked the time and took out his access card. A pair of response officers were jogging down the corridor, nodding their thanks as Murray swung open the door for them, before getting into a marked car parked in the back yard. Within seconds they were out of the gate, wheels spinning as they rounded the corner. Murray stood until the sound of the siren had all but disappeared, a barely-there smile on his face. There was nothing like a blue-light run for getting the blood pumping.
The Criminal Investigation Department – or CID – was at the end of a long corridor. In Murray’s day, there had been five or six small offices on each side, but by the time he’d retired most of the internal walls had been demolished to create open-plan workspaces. Officers were expected to ‘hot-desk’ now, Murray knew, and he was grateful the concept hadn’t been mooted while he was still on the department. How could you solve a jigsaw puzzle when you had to keep packing away the pieces?
Detective Sergeant James Kennedy looked up as Murray entered, his face showing genuine warmth. He shook Murray’s hand vigorously. ‘How the devil are you? Still on the front desk? Lower Meads nick, isn’t it?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Rather you than me.’ James shuddered. ‘Soon as I get my pension I’m out of here. You won’t catch me back under the cosh. Working Christmas, instead of watching the kids open their stockings? It’s a mug’s game, right?’
James Kennedy was in his early thirties. He’d arrived on CID two months before Murray’s leaving do, and now there he was: leading a team, and no doubt one of the most experienced detectives in the office. He might think his retirement – still years in the future – would never involve a uniform, but wait till he got there, Murray thought. Thirty years left a gap that was hard to fill.
James took in Murray’s civvies. ‘In early? You’re keen.’
‘I was just passing. Thought I’d pop in and see how things were.’
There was a moment’s hesitation while the stark reality of Murray’s empty life hung in the air between them, before James rallied.
‘Well, I’m glad you did, it’s good to see you. I’ll put the kettle on.’
As James clattered about in the corner of the office, where a kettle and tea tray on top of a fridge formed a makeshift kitchen, Murray looked at the ongoing cases on the whiteboard.
‘I see Owen Healey’s still outstanding?’
James put two mugs of tea on the desk, the bags still bobbing about in them. Murray fished his out and dropped it in the bin by his feet.
‘He always used to run with the Matthews lads when they were kids – lived on the estate behind Wood Green. They’re still thick as the proverbial.’
There was an awkward pause. ‘Oh. Ha! Right. We’d better check that out, then. Good job you swung by!’ James clapped Murray on the shoulder with enforced joviality, and Murray wished he hadn’t said anything. He might be retired but he still worked for the police. He still heard things; still knew things. He didn’t need to be humoured. People always did, though. Not only because he was old, but because—
‘How’s Sarah?’
There it was. The head, cocked to one side. The ‘thank God it’s you and not me’ look in his eyes. James’s wife was at home, looking after their two children. She wasn’t in a mental health unit for the hundredth time. James wouldn’t be rushing home from work because his wife was kneeling in the kitchen with her head in the oven. Murray checked himself. No one knew what went on behind closed doors.
‘She’s fine. Should be home soon.’
Murray had no idea if that was true. He had long given up asking, instead seeing Sarah’s frequent stays at Highfield – whether voluntary or not – as a chance for him to gather his strength to have her back home. Respite.
‘Actually, while I’m here, I was going to ask you about a job.’
James looked relieved to be back on more familiar territory. ‘All ears, mate.’
‘Your team dealt with a couple of suicides at Beachy Head in May and December last year. Tom and Caroline Johnson. Husband and wife. She killed herself at the same spot he did.’
James stared at his desk, drumming his fingers as he tried to place the job. ‘Johnson’s Cars, right?’
‘That’s it. Do you remember much about them?’
‘They were identical. Copycat suicides. In fact, we were a bit worried it might spark a load more – the papers really went to town on it – but, touch wood, it’s been quiet on that front. The last jumper was a couple of weeks ago. Got blown into the cliffs on his way down.’ James winced.
‘Anything else strike you as odd?’ Murray was keen to stay on track.