‘Right. Well, I just wanted to double-check.’ Murray held out his hand for the flyer. The younger man hesitated, then dropped it into Murray’s open palm with such deliberate lack of direction that Murray was forced to catch it before it fluttered to the floor. Murray smiled politely. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
Light the blue touchpaper and stand well back, Murray thought as he left the house. Mark Hemmings had some explaining to do.
TWENTY-FOUR
ANNA
‘You’d think he’d have known about last night, wouldn’t you?’ Mark starts clearing the table again, transferring our cereal bowls from table to dishwasher. ‘The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing – it’s ridiculous.’ He bends to stack the dishes, rearranging what’s already there from last night. It crosses my mind that he’s deliberately taking his time, deliberately avoiding looking at me.
‘Did you know my mum?’
‘What?’ He drops our spoons into the rack. One, two.
‘Mark, look at me!’
He straightens slowly, picks up a tea towel and wipes his hands, then folds it and places it on the counter. Then he looks at me. ‘I never met your mum, Anna.’
If Mark and I had been together for a decade – if we’d met as teenagers, grown up together – I’d know if he was lying. If we’d been through the challenges other couples go through – ups and downs, break-ups and make-ups – I’d know if he was lying.
If I knew him better …
His face is unreadable, his eyes unflinchingly on mine.
‘She made an appointment with you.’
‘Lots of people make appointments with me, Anna. You made an appointment with me. We leaflet-drop the whole of Eastbourne, for Christ’s sake.’ He breaks his gaze, turns back to the dishwasher, even though there’s nothing left on the side.
‘But you don’t remember speaking to her?’
‘No. Look, some people book with me direct, others go through Janice. The chances are, I never had any contact with her.’
Janice sits on reception in the lobby of the office block that houses Mark’s Brighton practice, along with a dozen other small businesses that don’t need – or can’t afford – their own building, their own staff. She manages their diaries, welcomes their clients and answers the phone, matching her greeting to whichever line is flashing on her phone.
Serenity Beauty, can I help you?
Brighton Interiors, can I help you?
‘The point is, she never kept the appointment.’
‘How do you know?’ The words don’t sound like mine. They’re harsh and accusatory. Mark makes a sound like air escaping from a tyre: exasperated, irritated. It’s the first time we’ve argued. Properly, like this, snapping at each other, turning away to roll eyes at an invisible audience as though trying to summon support.
‘I’d have remembered.’
‘You didn’t remember she’d booked an appointment.’
There’s a beat before he answers.
‘It’ll be on the system. Janice updates it when they arrive.’
‘So, you can check?’
‘I can check.’
I hand him his mobile.
He lets out a short, humourless laugh. ‘You want me to do it now?’
I wonder if this is what it’s like when you think your husband’s cheating, if this is what you turn into. I have become the sort of woman I’ve always despised: a folded-arm, pursed-lips harridan demanding on-the-spot answers from a man who has never once given me cause to distrust him.
But his leaflet was in my mother’s diary.
He scrolls through his contacts, taps the entry for the practice. I hear Janice’s sing-song tones on the other end of the phone and know what she’s saying, even though I can’t hear the words.
Holistic Health, can I help you?
‘Janice, it’s me. Would you mind checking something on the system? Wednesday sixteenth of November last year. Two-thirty p.m. Caroline Johnson.’
The bravado I felt a moment ago morphs into uncertainty. If Mark were lying he wouldn’t check right now, in front of me. He’d say he needed to look it up at work, or that the records didn’t hold that level of detail. He’s not lying. I know he isn’t.
‘And she didn’t re-book?’
I busy myself picking up Rita’s toys and dropping them into the basket.
‘Thanks, Janice. How are the next couple of days looking? Any cancellations?’ He listens, then laughs. ‘No chance of Christmas Eve off, then!’
He says goodbye and finishes the call.
Now it’s my turn to avoid his gaze. I pick up a toy pheasant from which Rita has extracted the stuffing. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘She was marked as a no-show. She didn’t make another appointment.’ He crosses the kitchen and comes to stand in front of me, gently hooking his forefinger under my chin and lifting it until I’m looking at him. ‘I never met her, Anna. I wish I had.’
And I believe him. Because why would he lie?
TWENTY-FIVE
MURRAY
‘Can we go inside now?’
Murray squeezed Sarah’s hand. ‘Let’s do one more.’ They were walking around Highfield, close enough for Sarah to trail a hand along the brickwork, anchoring herself to the building.
‘Okay.’
Murray heard her breath quicken. She tried to speed up – to get it over with – but he kept the measured pace they had followed for the previous two laps of the building. He did his best to distract her.
‘Tom Johnson’s will left the house to his wife, along with his share of the business, and all his assets except for a hundred grand, which he left to Anna. His life assurance pay-out went to Caroline.’
‘Even though it was suicide?’
‘Even though.’ Murray now knew far more about life assurance and suicide than he had ever needed to know. Most companies had a ‘suicide clause’ in their policies that meant no pay-out if the policy had been taken out within twelve months of the policy-holder’s suicide. It was to stop people committing suicide to escape debt, the helpful woman from Aviva had explained to Murray when he’d rung. Tom Johnson’s policy had been in place for years; the pay-out to his wife made as soon as the death certificate had been issued.
‘What about Caroline’s will?’
Sarah’s trailing hand still followed the line of the wall, but now Murray saw air between her fingers and the brickwork. He kept talking. ‘A small sum to her goddaughter, a ten-grand legacy to a Cypriot animal rescue charity, and the rest to Anna.’
‘So, Anna ended up with the lot. You’re sure she didn’t bump them both off?’ Her hand dropped to her side.
‘And send herself an anonymous note?’
Sarah was thinking. ‘Maybe the card was from someone who knows she killed them. Anna panics, brings the card to the police station because that’s what a normal, non-murderous person would do. It’s a double bluff.’
Murray grinned. Sarah was far more creative than any detective he’d ever worked with.
‘Any fingerprints?’
‘Several. Nish is working her way through them now.’ Tom Johnson’s car had been dusted for prints after his death, and elimination sets taken from his daughter and the staff at Johnson’s Cars. The anonymous card carried full prints from both Anna Johnson and from her uncle, Billy, who had ripped it into pieces before Anna could stop him, and several partials which could have come from anywhere – including the shop where the card had been bought. None of the prints had triggered a hit on the Police National Computer.
At the mention of their friend’s name, Sarah had brightened. Her hand relaxed a little in Murray’s. ‘How is Nish?’
‘She’s well. She asked after you. Suggested we have dinner together, when you’re up to it.’
‘Maybe.’
Maybe was okay. Maybe was better than no. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and Sarah’s consultant, Mr Chaudhury, had decided Sarah should be discharged. Sarah had other ideas.
‘I’m not well,’ she’d said, worrying at her frayed sleeves.
People who proclaimed themselves to be champions of mental health issues were fond of comparing them to physical ailments.