Mrs Brent-Taylor was in her late seventies. Possibly even in her eighties. She wore the sort of trousers his mother would have described as ‘slacks’, teamed with a busily patterned blouse in colours significantly more cheerful than its wearer. Her blue-tinged hair was set in rigid waves, close to her head, and her nails were painted a pale coral.
It was, of course, possible that Mrs Brent-Taylor had a lover. But given the time it had taken her to climb the stairs, and the walking stick he had glimpsed propped up behind her armchair, Murray felt it was unlikely she had been gallivanting around Beachy Head with him.
‘Um, is your husband home?’
‘I’m widowed.’
‘I’m so sorry. Was it recent?’
‘Five years last September. May I ask what this is about?
It was becoming increasingly clear that either Murray had the wrong house or … There was only one way to find out. ‘Mrs Brent-Taylor, do the names Tom and Caroline Johnson mean anything to you?’
She frowned. ‘Should they?’
‘Tom Johnson died at Beachy Head on the eighteenth of May last year. His wife Caroline died in the same spot on the twenty-first of December.’
‘Suicide?’ She took Murray’s silence as agreement. ‘How dreadful.’
‘Tom Johnson’s death was reported to police by a witness giving your name.’
‘Giving my name?’
‘Diane Brent-Taylor.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me. I mean, I’ve been to Beachy Head, obviously – I’ve lived in or around the area all my life – but I’ve never seen anyone jump off. Thank God.’ She muttered this last to herself.
What were the chances of there being two Diane Brent-Taylors in the Eastbourne area?
‘It’s an unusual name.’
‘It isn’t properly double-barrelled, you know,’ Mrs Brent-Taylor said defensively, as though this exonerated her. ‘My husband liked the sound of them together. He thought it went down well on the golf course.’
‘Right.’ Murray steeled himself. It was already clear that today’s excursion had been a wild-goose chase, but he wouldn’t be doing his job properly if he didn’t dot all the ‘i’s and cross all the ‘t’s. ‘So, just to clarify, you definitely didn’t call 999 on the eighteenth of May 2016 to report seeing a man throw himself off the cliffs at Beachy Head.’
Mrs Brent-Taylor narrowed her eyes. ‘I may be getting on a bit, young man, but I still have my full faculties.’ Murray just managed to stop himself thanking her for the misplaced compliment.
‘One final thing – and I apologise if this seems a little impertinent – is it at all possible that on the eighteenth of May last year you might have been on Beachy Head with someone else’s husband?’
Within seconds Murray found himself standing outside 24 Burlington Close, with the door slammed firmly in his face. Really, he thought, Diane Brent-Taylor moved quite quickly when she wanted to.
TWENTY-SIX
ANNA
Running feet make a pleasing sound on wet tarmac. My trainers feel strange after what must be a year at the bottom of the under-stairs cupboard, and my leggings cut into the soft flesh around my waist, but it feels good to be moving. Out of the habit, I have forgotten my headphones, but the rhythmic sound of my own breathing is hypnotic. Reassuring.
Mark’s mum, Joan, has come for Christmas, and as soon as she arrived, early this morning, she and Mark practically press-ganged me into letting her take Ella out.
‘It’ll give her a chance to get to know me.’
‘A little break will do you good, sweetheart.’
‘And don’t you dare do housework. You’re to put your feet up and read a magazine.’
‘Go back to bed, if you want to.’
Reluctantly I packed Ella’s bag with nappies and expressed milk, issued Joan with a list of instructions I knew she’d ignore, and walked around my house, looking for ghosts.
The house was too quiet, the ghosts all in my head. I drove myself mad sniffing the air for jasmine; screwing shut my eyes in an effort to better hear voices that weren’t there. There was no way I’d sleep, or even settle for a few minutes with a magazine, so I went upstairs to put on my running things. The landing was darker than normal, the piece of board over the nursery window blocking out the light.
I run past a parade of shops, colourful lights strung like bunting across the street.
Tomorrow is Christmas Day. I wish I could go to sleep tonight and wake up on Boxing Day. Last year Mum had been dead for four days. Christmas didn’t happen; no one even pretended to try. This year the weight of expectation sits heavily on my shoulders. Ella’s first stocking, her first time on Santa’s knee. Our first Christmas as a family. We are making memories, but every one is bittersweet.
‘Do you have to work today?’ I asked Mark this morning.
‘Sorry. Christmas is a difficult time for a lot of people.’
Yes, I wanted to say. Me.
My lungs are burning and I haven’t run more than a mile. The year before last I did the Great South Run; now I can’t imagine making it to the beach without collapsing.
The high street is thronged with harassed shoppers buying last-minute presents. I run into the road to skirt the queue at the butcher’s, customers snaking down the road for their turkeys and chipolatas.
I haven’t been paying attention to my route, but as I turn the corner I see Johnson’s Cars at the end of the road. My pace falters. I put one hand on the stitch in my side.
On Christmas Eve Mum and Dad would always shut up shop at lunchtime. They’d lock the doors and gather the staff, and I’d fill sticky glasses with sweet mulled wine, while Billy and Dad handed out the bonus cheques, and ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ piped through the speakers.
I could turn back. Take the side street on the left and double back towards home. Put Mum and Dad, and the police investigation, and the smashed nursery window, out of my mind for a few more hours.
I could.
I don’t.
‘Run, Annie, run!’
Billy is walking across the forecourt. He’s pumping his arms as though he’s sprinting, and I laugh because he looks ridiculous and he doesn’t care. He comes to a halt a few feet away from me and does half a dozen star jumps before stopping abruptly.
‘Hope the lads don’t put that on YouTube.’ He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘Christ, I haven’t done that since the Green Goddess was on the box.’
‘Maybe you should. YouTube?’ I stretch, feeling my hamstring burn as I push down on my extended leg.
‘CCTV.’ Billy gestures vaguely up and around us. ‘Used to be dummies, but the insurance company insists on real ones now. And trackers on the cars, after …’ He breaks off, reddening. After two partners in the business made off with brand-new cars, abandoning them in the public car park at Beachy Head.
‘Billy, someone threw a brick through the nursery window last night, just after you left.’
‘A brick?’ A couple browsing the forecourt look up, and he lowers his voice. ‘Christ alive … Is Ella okay?’
‘She was still downstairs with us. She sleeps with us at the moment anyway, but we could have been changing her, or put her down for a nap, or … It doesn’t bear thinking about. The police came straight away.’
‘Do they think they’ll be able to find out who did it?’
‘You know what they’re like. “We’ll do our best, Miss Johnson.”’
Billy made a dismissive sound.
‘I’m scared, Billy. I think Mum and Dad were murdered, and I think whoever killed them wants to stop us finding out more. I don’t know what to do.’ My voice cracks and he opens his arms and wraps me in a bear hug.
‘Annie, sweetheart, you’re getting yourself in a state.’
I pull away. ‘Do you blame me?’
‘The police looked into your mum and dad’s deaths – they said they were suicides.’
‘They were wrong.’
We look at each other for a second. Billy nods slowly.
‘Then I hope they know what they’re doing this time.’
I point to a black Porsche Boxster in pride of place on the forecourt. ‘Nice wheels.’
‘Picked it up yesterday. Wrong weather for it, of course – probably won’t shift till the spring – but I’m hoping it’ll pull in the punters.’ There’s a worried look in his eyes.
‘How bad is it, Uncle Billy?’
He says nothing for the longest time, and when he eventually speaks, he keeps his eyes trained on the Porsche. ‘Bad.’