‘If Sarah had broken her leg we’d all understand that it needed fixing,’ Murray’s line manager had said, when Murray had apologised for taking time off to support his wife. The diversity box had been duly ticked.
Only it wasn’t like a broken bloody leg. A broken leg could be fixed. X-rays, a plaster cast, perhaps a metal splint. A few weeks on crutches. Resting, physio. And then – what? The odd twinge, perhaps, but fixed. Better. Sure, it might break more easily next time you came off a bike, or took the stairs awkwardly and tripped, but it wouldn’t snap spontaneously. It wouldn’t freeze in horror at the prospect of answering the door, or crumble into pieces if someone whispered out of earshot.
Borderline Personality Disorder was nothing like a broken leg.
No, Sarah wasn’t well. But she never would be.
‘Sarah, Borderline Personality Disorder is not something we are going to cure.’ Chaudhury’s Oxbridge accent was undercut by a Birmingham twang. ‘You know that. You know more about your condition than anyone. But you are managing it well, and you will continue to do that at home.’
‘I want to stay here.’ Sarah’s face had creased into tears. She looked more like a homesick child than a fifty-eight-year-old woman. ‘I don’t like it at home. I’m safe here.’
Murray had pasted a smile to his face to hide the right hook he’d felt to his stomach. Mr Chaudhury had been firm.
‘You’ll be safe at home. Because for the last few days it hasn’t been us keeping you safe.’ He had paused and leaned forward, pointing steepled fingers towards Sarah. ‘It’s been you. You’ll continue with daily sessions, then we’ll move towards weekly visits. Small steps. The main priority is to get you back home with your husband.’
Murray had waited for the left hook. But Sarah nodded meekly, and reluctantly agreed that tomorrow she would go home. And then she had surprised Murray by agreeing to go for a walk.
Murray stopped. ‘There. That’s three.’
Sarah looked taken aback to see the main door again, their three laps of the building complete.
‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Okay?’
She frowned. ‘It’s group in the morning.’
‘Lunchtime, then.’
‘Okay.’
Murray kissed her and began walking down the path to the car park. Halfway down he turned to wave, but she’d already scuttled inside.
Murray spent the next hour tidying the already spotless house, in preparation for Sarah’s homecoming. He changed the sheets in their bedroom, and made up the spare bed too, putting fresh flowers in both rooms, just in case she wanted to be alone. When the place was pristine, he got in his car and drove into work.
The fact that Diane Brent-Taylor – the witness who had called the police to report Tom’s suicide – had not attended the inquest was troubling Murray. Brent-Taylor had claimed she had been on Beachy Head that morning with a lover, and that she couldn’t take the risk of her husband finding out where she’d been. CID had tried several times to persuade her, but to no avail. They had no address details for her – just a mobile phone number – and when that had been disconnected, they had given up. This was a suicide investigation, after all. Not a murder. Not then.
Murray wasn’t going to give up.
There were plenty of Taylors and lots of Brents on the Police National Computer and the Electoral Register, but no Diane Brent-Taylors. Neither did Murray have any joy on open source systems – Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn – although he would be the first to admit he was hardly an expert in the field. His expertise lay in lateral thinking. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and then started his search again, this time putting a fresh sheet of paper to the side of his keyboard. There was, no doubt, a system that would do this job for him in a fraction of the time, but pen and paper had never failed Murray yet. Besides, taking this to Force Intelligence would prompt questions he didn’t yet want to answer.
On the left-hand side of his paper he jotted down the home addresses of everyone with the surname Brent in a twenty-five-mile radius of Eastbourne. If he had to widen the search, he would, but for now he was working on the basis that the witness had been local. Next, Murray began a new list of all the addresses occupied by people with the surname Taylor.
It was half an hour before he got a match.
Bingo.
24 Burlington Close, Newhaven. Occupied by a Mr Gareth Taylor, and a Mrs Diane Brent.
Murray looked up with a broad smile on his face. The only person around to see it was John, Murray’s dour colleague who had been confused to see Murray arrive in work an hour previously.
‘I thought you were on leave till the New Year?’
‘I’ve got a few bits to fill in on my PDR.’
John’s confusion had grown. No one voluntarily worked on their Personal Development Record unless they were going for a new job or prepping for promotion boards. As for doing it in your own time …
Now John looked at Murray with complete bafflement. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so happy to do their PDR.’
‘Just taking pride in my work, John.’ Murray whistled as he made his way out of the station.
Twenty-four Burlington Close was a quiet cul-de-sac off Southwich Avenue in Newhaven, halfway between Eastbourne and Brighton. Murray waited a moment before ringing the doorbell, taking in the carefully tended flowerpots around the front door, and the ‘no cold callers’ sign in the frosted window. A shadow moved towards him as he reached for the white plastic bell, and he realised Mrs Brent-Taylor must have seen him pull up on the drive, and been waiting in the hall. She opened the door before the chime had died away. A dog barked from somewhere in the house.
Murray introduced himself. ‘I’m investigating a case I think you might have had some involvement in. May I come in?’
Mrs Brent-Taylor narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to pack for my daughter’s. It’s her turn to do Christmas.’
‘It won’t take long.’
She stepped back from the open door. ‘I can only give you half an hour.’
As welcomes went, Murray had had worse. He smiled and thrust out his hand in a way that made it impossible for Mrs Brent-Taylor not to take it. She glanced around as if the neighbours might already be passing judgement.
‘You’d better come in.’
The hall was dark and narrow. There was an umbrella stand and two pairs of shoes on the floor, and an organised pinboard on which Murray could see a variety of leaflets and reminders. Something caught his eye as he passed the board, but he was ushered on into the depths of the house.
He was momentarily confused to be directed up a flight of stairs, but his bearings became clear as he reached the top to find a large open-plan living space and floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view of the sea.
‘Wow.’
Diane Brent-Taylor appeared at the top of the stairs a full minute after Murray. She seemed mollified by his compliment, the corners of her mouth curling slightly in what seemed to pass for a smile. ‘I’m very fortunate.’
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘It’ll be twenty years in March. If I move now it’ll be into a bungalow.’ She gestured to a mustard-coloured sofa, and took the chair next to it. She sank into it with an audible exhalation.
Murray hesitated. He had finessed his line of questioning on the way here, starting with the identity of Mrs Brent-Taylor’s lover. After all, it was entirely possible that Brent-Taylor had refused to give a statement not just to hide her extramarital activity, but because she – or her lover – had been involved in Tom Johnson’s death. Could Diane Brent-Taylor have been protecting someone?
But now he felt entirely wrong-footed.