‘It’s the only way.’
I make myself nod. It’s the only way. But it’s a hard way. For all of us.
FORTY-FIVE
MURRAY
‘Do you think she was involved from the start?’ Nish scratched at a mark on the knee of her jeans. She was sitting at Murray’s kitchen table, a mug of tea beside the pile of paperwork Murray had accumulated.
‘Her statement says she was at a conference the night Tom went missing.’ Murray made quote marks in the air. ‘The organisers confirm she was there for registration, but can’t say if or when she left.’
‘So, her alibi’s shaky.’
‘She didn’t fake their deaths.’
Nish and Murray looked at Sarah, who – up until now – had been silent, listening to the two colleagues go over the case.
‘What makes you so certain?’ Nish asked.
‘Because she asked you to re-open the case. It doesn’t make sense.’
Nish picked up her mug to drink, and then put it down again as a theory took shape. ‘Unless someone sent her the card to let her know they were on to her. And her husband saw it, so she brought it to us because that’s what an innocent person would do.’
‘He was at work. He didn’t see it till later.’
Nish flapped a hand at Murray, as though the point were immaterial. ‘Or the postman. A neighbour. The point is, the police report was a double bluff.’
Murray shook his head. ‘I don’t buy it. It’s a massive risk.’
‘When did she tell you to back off?’ Sarah said.
‘Boxing Day.’ Murray looked at Nish, who hadn’t been privy to this piece of the puzzle. ‘She hung up on me. Twice.’
‘Then she found out some time between the twenty-first and the twenty-sixth.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘S’obvious.’
Murray grinned. ‘Thanks, Columbo.’
‘So, what now?’ Nish said.
‘I need hard evidence. A phone purchase isn’t enough – especially when, as it stands, Anna Johnson was miles away from Eastbourne at the time of the offence. I can’t start claiming two dead people are alive, or storming down to Cleveland Avenue to arrest Anna, without proof the Johnsons are alive and well, and that she knew about it.’
‘We need to think logically,’ Sarah said. ‘Why do people fake their own deaths?’
Nish laughed. ‘Do a Reggie Perrin, you mean? You make it sound like it happens all the time.’
‘There was the canoe man,’ Murray said. ‘That was an insurance job. And that politician in the seventies – what was his name? Stone something.’
‘Stonehouse. Left his clothes on a beach in Miami and ran off with his mistress.’ Years of watching daytime quiz shows had made Sarah an expert in trivia.
‘Sex and money, then.’ Nish shrugged. ‘Same as most crimes.’
If only one of the Johnsons had disappeared, Murray might have placed more importance on the former, but as Caroline had followed in Tom’s footsteps, it was unlikely that Tom had run off to be with a lover.
‘Tom Johnson was worth a lot of money,’ Murray reminded her.
‘So, Caroline stayed to claim the life assurance, then joined Tom in Monaco? Rio de Janeiro?’ Nish looked between Murray and Sarah.
‘She claimed the life assurance all right, but she left Anna the lot. If she’s living the high life somewhere, she’s doing it on someone else’s dime.’
‘Either they wanted to escape for some other reason,’ Sarah said, ‘and Anna’s reward was the money, or the three of them agreed to split the cash, and she’s just sitting tight till the dust has settled.’
Murray stood up. This was pointless – they were going around in circles. ‘I think it’s about time I paid Anna Johnson another visit, don’t you?’
FORTY-SIX
ANNA
We stand and survey the garden: the piles of leaves, ready for the bonfire; the neatly fleeced bay tree; the lopped roses.
‘It doesn’t look much now, but you’ll really see the benefits come spring.’
‘I wish you were going to be here to see it.’
She puts an arm around me. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on? I think we deserve a cuppa, after all that.’
I leave her standing in the garden, and it’s only when I’ve kicked off my wellies, and the door is closed, and the kettle is whistling on the Aga, that I look out and see that she’s crying. Her lips are moving. She’s talking to her plants; saying goodbye to her garden.
I’ll look after it, I tell her silently.
I let the tea brew, and give Mum the solitude she so clearly needs. I wonder if she will go back up north, or if she’ll find somewhere new to settle. I hope she has a garden again, one day.
I fish out the teabags, drop them into the sink, and pick up the mugs awkwardly in one hand, leaving the other free to open the door.
I’m halfway across the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
I stop. Look through the glass doors at Mum, who shows no sign of having heard the door. I put the mugs down, slopping the contents onto the table. A dark stain seeps into the stripped pine.
The doorbell rings again, longer this time, the caller’s finger pressed hard against the buzzer. Rita barks.
Go away.
It’s fine, I tell myself. Whoever it is can’t know anyone’s home, and you can’t see into the garden without walking down the side of the house. I keep an eye on Mum, to make sure she stays out of sight. She bends down and pulls out a weed from between two paving stones.
The bell rings again. And then I hear footsteps, the crunch of gravel.
Whoever it is, they’re walking around the house.
I run to the hall, tripping over in my haste to get there, and yank open the door. ‘Hello?’ Louder. ‘Hello?’ I’m about to run outside in my socks, when the crunch of footsteps comes back towards me, and a man appears from the side of the house.
It’s the police.
My chest tightens, and I can’t think what to do with my hands. I clasp them together – my thumbnail digging into the palm of the opposite hand – then pull them apart and thrust them into my pockets. I feel acutely aware of my face; I try to keep my expression neutral but can’t remember how that might look.
Murray Mackenzie smiles. ‘Ah, you’re home. I wasn’t sure.’
‘I was in the garden.’
He takes in my mud-spattered jeans, the knee-length woollen socks that fit under my boots. ‘May I come in?’
‘It’s not a good time.’
‘I won’t stay long.’
‘Ella’s about to go down for a nap.’
‘Just a moment.’
Throughout our brief exchange he has been walking towards me, and now he’s on the bottom step, the middle, the top …
‘Thank you.’
It isn’t that he forces his way into the house, more that I can’t think of a way to refuse him. Blood sings in my ears, and the tightness in my chest makes my breath come fast and shallow. I feel like I’m drowning.
Rita pushes past me and onto the drive, where she squats for a pee, then sniffs at the marks left by unseen cats. I call her. The lure of the cat is stronger, and selective deafness takes hold.
‘Rita – get here now!’
‘Through here?’ Murray’s on his way into the kitchen before I can stop him. There is no way he won’t see Mum. The back wall of the kitchen is an almost unbroken sheet of glass.
‘Rita!’ There are cars in the road – I can’t leave her. ‘Rita!’ Finally she lifts her head and looks at me. And then, after a pause long enough to make it clear that the decision to come inside is hers, she trots back into the house. I push the door hard, leaving it to slam on its own while I run after Murray Mackenzie. I hear a sharp sound – an exclamation.
Not now. Not like this. I wonder if he will arrest her himself, or whether he will wait here for uniformed officers to arrive. I wonder if he’ll let me say goodbye. If he’ll take me, too.
‘You have been busy.’