‘I’d say she could be right.’
Murray leaned forward in anticipation, and Nish held up a warning finger. ‘This is totally off the record and entirely hypothetical, understood? Without photos, and without examining the scene, it’s impossible for me to make a professional judgement.’
‘But?’
‘Blood – in the quantity we’re talking about – doesn’t pour out of a prone rabbit. It seeps. And it coagulates. So, although a hundred and fifty mill tipped on the floor would make a hell of a mess – ever dropped a glass of wine? – the same amount oozing from a rabbit would congeal long before it dripped onto the step below. Most of it would be caught in the fur.’
‘Right. So, someone deliberately tipped blood on the other steps to make a more impressive crime scene?’
‘Sounds like it. The bigger question is why?’ Nish eyed Murray, her head tilted slightly to one side. ‘There’s more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘There were two suicides at Beachy Head last year. Tom and Caroline Johnson – they owned the car showroom on the corner of Main Street.’
Nish snapped her fingers. ‘Left a black Audi in the car park, right? Rocks in his rucksack.’
‘You’re good. That was Tom Johnson. His wife, Caroline, died seven months later – exactly a year ago. Same place, identical method. Anna Johnson is their daughter.’ He passed Nish a plastic evidence bag containing the anonymous anniversary card, together with a photograph of the pieced-together card.
‘Suicide?’ Nish read aloud. ‘Think again.’ She looked up. ‘Very dramatic. The suggestion being that she was murdered?’
‘That’s certainly how Anna Johnson interpreted it. This morning she opened the door to find the rabbit smeared across their top step.’
‘Beats dog shit through the letterbox.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Other than the fact that it’s a waste of a nice rabbit pie? I think it’s fishy. What do CID say?’
‘Not a lot.’
Nish had known Murray a long time. ‘Oh, Murray …’
‘I’m doing the background work, that’s all. You know what CID are like nowadays. Stretched to buggery. I’ll package it up for the DI as soon as there’s something concrete to go on. Fingerprints, for example.’ He gave Nish a winning smile and pushed the exhibit bag closer to her.
Nish pushed it back. ‘Not without a budget code, I’m afraid.’
‘Couldn’t you put it through on the original job?’
‘You know I’m not supposed to do that.’
‘She lost both her parents, Nish. She’s a new mother, desperately trying to hold it all together without mum there to give her moral support.’
‘You’re going soft in your old age.’
‘Whereas you’re still hard as nails, of course. What was it you were saying about kittens?’ He pushed the evidence bag back across the table.
This time, she took it.
NINETEEN
The rocking chair was a wedding present from my parents. It has a high back and smooth curved arms exactly the right height for sleepy night-time feeds. It arrived with a red ribbon, two soft cushions, and a note that said ‘for the nursery’.
I spent hours in this chair. You never got up – men didn’t, in those days – and I was afraid to turn on the light in case it kept Anna awake, so I rocked back and forth in the dark, willing her to sleep.
When Anna moved out of the nursery I brought the rocking chair downstairs, where it divided its time between the kitchen and the sitting room. But now it is back here, in Anna’s nursery.
In our granddaughter’s nursery.
The room is large. Extravagant for a baby, especially one currently sleeping in her parents’ bedroom, judging by the Moses basket on Anna’s side of the bed. Above the white cot is a string of pink and white bunting, with the name Ella picked out in pale green.
Adjacent to the cot is a chest of drawers and, on the opposite wall, a matching wardrobe and a changing table with gingham-lined baskets filled with nappies and talcum powder.
I mean only to peek inside – I think it’s unlikely I’ll find the key here – but my feet find their way across the soft grey carpet to the rocking chair. My rocking chair.
Back and forth, back and forth. The light low. The view across the rooftops the same as it’s been for twenty-six years. Anna in my arms.
They called it the baby blues, then. It felt more than that. I was overwhelmed. Frightened. I wanted to call Alicia – the only one of my friends who might have understood – but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone. I had everything she didn’t: a husband, a big house, money. What right did I have to cry?
I’ve stayed here too long. I need to get on. I need to get out.
Downstairs I check the kitchen, automatically straightening the tea towel hanging on the Aga. There’s a pile of magazines on the table, and a scattering of post dumped in the empty fruit bowl on the island. I don’t find the key I’m looking for.
There’s a scuffle of paws from the utility room.
Rita.
My breath catches in my throat and although I don’t make a sound, I hear her whine. She can sense I’m here.
I pause, my fingers resting lightly on the door handle. Surely being seen by a dog isn’t the same as being seen by humans? Rita whines again. She knows I’m here – walking away would be cruel.
A quick hello and then I’ll leave. Where’s the harm in that? She can’t tell anyone she’s seen a ghost.
The door is barely open an inch when it’s forced open by a barrel of fur moving so fast it tumbles over itself and twice rolls along the tiled floor before standing again.
Rita!
She jumps backwards, her hackles up and her tail wagging as though she doesn’t know how she should be feeling. She barks once. Twice. Jumps forward and then back. I remember her growling at shadows in the hedgerows on our evening walks, and wonder what she saw then that I dismissed as nothing.
I drop to my knees and hold out a hand. She knows my smell, but my appearance is confusing her.
‘Good girl, Rita.’
The sob in my voice catches me unawares. Rita’s ears prick up in recognition, and the ridge of bristling fur along her spine subsides. Her tail is a blur, taking her back end with it. Another whine.
‘Yes, it’s me, Rita. There’s a good girl. Come on.’
She needs no further invitation. Satisfied that, contrary to first impressions, her mistress is indeed in her kitchen, she throws herself at me, licking furiously at my face and leaning so heavily against me I have to put out a hand to steady myself.
I sit with her, my quest forgotten as I bury my face in her fur. I feel the advent of tears and I swallow hard and refuse to let them fall. When Rita arrived from Cyprus she’d been in a rescue centre for eight months. She was affectionate and gentle, but had such acute separation anxiety that even leaving the room was an ordeal. The first time we went out she howled so loudly we could still hear her at the end of the street, and I had to turn back and leave you to go on alone.
Gradually Rita realised she was here for keeps. That if we went out we’d be back with treats for being such a brave girl. She still greeted us on our return with excitement and relief, but the howling ceased, and she settled into a calm and happy dog.
Guilt seeps through me as I imagine how she must have felt the day I didn’t come home. Did she wait by the front door? Run the length of the hall and back, whining to see me? Did Anna stroke her? Reassure her I’d be back soon? All the while wondering herself what had happened. Worrying as much as Rita. More.
Rita suddenly sits up, nose in the air and ears alert. I freeze. She’s heard something. Sure enough, a second later, I hear it too. The crunch of gravel. Voices.
A key in the lock.
TWENTY
ANNA
Mark insists on coming with us into the house, instead of dropping us at the kerb.