‘I take it the husband doesn’t believe in ghosts,’ Sarah said. They were sitting on the black leather sofa of Highfield’s family room, where Murray had joined Sarah for the forty-five minutes permitted for his evening meal break.
‘Partner. No, he says they’re post-bereavement hallucinatory experiences.’
‘Casper will be devastated.’
The door to the family room opened and a young girl came in. She was so thin her head seemed disproportionately large, and a criss-cross of fine scars covered her arms from wrist to shoulder. She didn’t acknowledge Murray or Sarah, just picked up a magazine from the coffee table and took it back out of the room.
‘According to Mark Hemmings, up to sixty per cent of bereaved people report seeing or hearing a loved one after death, or sense their presence in some other way.’
‘So, what’s the difference between that and a ghost?’ Sarah was flicking through the pages of Caroline Johnson’s diary. They ate early at Highfield, like kids fed their tea at five o’clock, and so Sarah had sat cross-legged on the sofa and looked through the case papers while Murray ate his sandwiches.
‘Beats me.’
‘I shall haunt you, when I’m gone.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not? I would have thought you’d be glad to see me.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant … Oh, never mind.’ Don’t talk about dying, he’d meant. He looked out of the window. The sky was clear and sprinkled with stars, and Murray had a sudden memory of lying in the park when he and Sarah first got together, pointing out the constellations they knew, and making up names for the ones they didn’t.
‘That’s the Plough.’
‘And there’s the Porcupine.’
‘Idiot.’
‘Idiot yourself.’
They had made love on the damp grass, only moving when their empty stomachs reminded them they hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.
‘Fancy a walk?’ Murray said now. ‘Once around the block?’
Instantly the spark in Sarah’s eyes was replaced with anxiety. She drew up her knees to her chest, hugging them close, her fingers gripping Caroline’s diary like they were glued to it.
It was new, this fear of being outside. Not agoraphobia – not according to her consultant – just another small piece of the anxiety mosaic that was Murray’s beautiful, funny, intensely complex wife.
‘No problem.’ He waved an arm, dismissing the idea and, with it, the hope that Sarah was ready to come home. Small steps, he thought. It was Friday. Christmas wasn’t till Monday. There was plenty of time to get her home. ‘Anything leap out at you?’ He indicated the diary. Slowly, now that he wasn’t suggesting she leave the premises, Sarah’s muscles began to unwind. She opened the book, looking for a particular date.
‘Did the daughter say anything about a planning objection?’
‘Not that I recall.’
Sarah showed him the page, a month before Caroline had died, on which a reference number had been noted, beneath the reminder planning objection. ‘People get very het up about planning permission.’
‘Het up enough to kill someone?’
‘Nowt so queer as folk.’
Murray brought up the Eastbourne planning portal on his phone and peered at the reference on the diary, tapping it in with his forefinger. ‘It’s an application for an extension.’ He found the applicant’s name. ‘Mr Robert Drake.’ Murray remembered the list of friends and relatives who had consoled Caroline Johnson the day of her husband’s death. ‘He lives next door to Anna Johnson.’ Murray scanned the summary. ‘It was rejected. Although it looks like he’s trying again now – there’s a linked appeal.’
‘You see. There’s your motive, Poirot.’
‘There were thirty-four objections. I’d better check they haven’t all been bumped off.’
Sarah raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on, take the piss out of my theories … What’s your money on, Detective?’
Murray wasn’t a betting man. There were enough variables in life without seeking out more, and the picture around the Johnson investigation was far from clear.
Suicide? Think again.
‘Caroline Johnson’s suicide was a carbon copy of her husband’s,’ he said, as much to himself as to Sarah. ‘The similarities added weight to the coroner’s verdict, not least because of details from Tom Johnson’s death that had never been released to the press.’
The Gazette had run an obituary following Tom’s death. The family had been well known locally, the business handed down through three generations. They had referred to the personal effects left on the cliff top, the car abandoned in the car park, but not to the rucksack Tom had filled with rocks. The only people privy to that piece of information had been the family, and the woman who witnessed Tom’s suicide: Diane Brent-Taylor.
Murray thought about the anonymous card sent to Anna, the rabbit on their doorstep. He thought about the convenience of a suicide at high tide, leaving no bodies to spill their secrets on the slab. Both Tom and Caroline had researched tide times, but why would it matter to either of them if their bodies were found? It all seemed too convenient. Too … staged.
Sarah took in her husband’s thoughtful expression. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve got no evidence …’
‘Instinct first, evidence later. Isn’t that what you used to say?’
Murray laughed. He had worked on that basis for most of his career, and it hadn’t let him down yet. He was a long way from knowing exactly how Tom and Caroline Johnson had died, but all his instincts pointed one way.
‘You think she was murdered, don’t you?’
Slowly, Murray nodded. ‘I think they both were.’
Sarah looked thoughtful. She returned to Caroline’s diary, flicking through the bundle of loose flyers and business cards tucked into the back of the book. She picked one up and held it in front of her.
‘I thought you said Mark Hemmings hadn’t met the Johnsons.’
‘He didn’t; they’d died before he and Anna met.’
‘Not according to this.’
Murray took the flyer Sarah was holding up. Mark Hemmings, Dip.ST, DipSTTS, MA (Psych), UKCP (Accredited), MBACP. He turned it over. In handwriting he recognised from the many lists in Caroline Johnson’s diary was a note. 2.30 p.m., Wednesday 16 November.
Sarah turned to the relevant page of Caroline’s diary, on which the same appointment was noted. She looked at Murray. ‘He’s lying.’
TWENTY-TWO
ANNA
At six the doorbell rings. I open the door to find Uncle Billy standing there, a bottle of wine in hand. I stare at him blankly.
‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’
‘Of course not! I was miles away. Lovely to see you.’ I pull him into a hug to hide my lie. ‘Sorry for storming out yesterday.’
He shrugs off my apology. ‘Heat of the moment. Think nothing of it. Now, where’s my gorgeous great-niece?’
We head for the kitchen and I give Ella to Billy, who holds her awkwardly, as though he’s guessing the weight of a marrow at the county show. She keeps reaching for his nose, which makes him laugh, and the pair of them look so sweet I pick up my phone and take a quick snap. There’s a text from Mark.
Running late, sorry x
I fire off a quick reply.
No worries. Billy here for supper x Great.
I put my phone away and smile brightly at Uncle Billy. ‘Mark’ll be home soon. He’s really looking forward to seeing you!’
Billy’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Great.’
I pour myself a large glass of wine. Pregnancy and breastfeeding have broken the drinking habits created by my parents, but tonight I think I’m going to need this.
Dad loved telling the story of how – aged six and learning to read a clock – I was tested by friends of my parents who were over for drinks.
‘What time is it, Anna?’
‘Wine o’clock,’ I chimed. I don’t remember it; can’t even be sure it wasn’t just one of Dad’s stories, although it has the ring of truth about it.
It’s past seven when Mark gets home, full of apologies and carrying a huge bunch of Stargazer lilies.