Let Me Lie(11)

‘Campaigning for what?’

Anna gave a short laugh. Her eyes glistened. ‘Anything. Amnesty International, women’s rights. Even bus services – although I don’t think she ever took a bus in her life. When she got behind something she made things happen.’

‘She sounds like a wonderful woman,’ Murray said softly.

‘There was a story on the news once. Years ago. I was at home with my parents, and it was on in the background. Some young lad who’d driven a moped off Beachy Head. They’d recovered the moped but not his body, and they showed his mum on the television, crying because she couldn’t even give him a proper burial.’ The baby strained uncomfortably and Anna shifted position and patted it on the back. ‘We talked about it. I remember Mum watching with her hands over her mouth, and Dad being angry with the boy for putting his parents through it.’ She tailed off, pausing her rhythmic patting to stare intently at Murray. ‘They saw what that boy did to his mother, and they would never, ever have done it to me.’

Tears welled in the corners of Anna’s eyes, finding the line of her narrow nose and running in tandem towards her chin. Murray held out his handkerchief, and she took it gratefully, pressing it against her face as though brute force alone could hold back the tears.

Murray sat very still. There was much he could have said about the impact of suicide attempts, but he suspected it wouldn’t help Anna. He wondered if she’d been offered the right support all those months ago. ‘You should have been given a leaflet by the officers who dealt with your parents’ deaths. There are charities that support people bereaved by suicide. Groups you can go to; people you can see on a one-to-one basis.’

Some people found shared experiences a lifeline. They thrived in group therapy sessions, walking out stronger and better equipped to deal with their emotions. A problem shared …

But suicide support groups didn’t help everyone.

They hadn’t helped Murray.

‘I saw a grief counsellor.’

‘Did it help?’

‘I had a baby with him.’ Anna Johnson gave a half sob, half laugh. Murray found himself laughing with her.

‘Well, that does sound quite helpful.’

The tears had slowed. Anna’s smile was weak, but steady. ‘Please, Mr Mackenzie. My parents didn’t commit suicide. They were murdered.’ She pointed at the torn-up card. ‘And this proves it.’

It didn’t prove it. It didn’t prove anything.

But it did ask a question. And Murray had never been one to ignore an unanswered question. Perhaps he could take a look himself. Pull out the original files, read through the coroner’s reports. And when – if – there was something to investigate, he could hand over the package. He had the skills, after all. Thirty years in the job, and the best part of that on CID. You didn’t hand in your knowledge along with your warrant card.

He looked at Anna Johnson. Tired and emotional, but determined, too. If Murray didn’t help her, who would? She wasn’t the type to give up.

‘I’ll request the files this afternoon.’

Murray had the skills, and he had the time. Lots and lots of time.





SIX


You’re not allowed to go back. It upsets people. If there was a manual, that would be the first rule – never go back – swiftly followed by rule number two: never let yourself be seen.

You have to move on.

But it’s hard to move on when you’re a non-person; when you’ve left behind the life you knew and haven’t yet begun a fresh one. When you’re stuck in no-man’s-land between this life and the next. When you’re dead.

I followed the rules.

I disappeared into this half-life, lonely and bored.

I miss my old life. I miss our house: the garden, the kitchen, the coffee machine you bought on a whim. And, vacuous though it sounds, I miss manicures and six-weekly highlights. I miss my clothes; my beautiful walk-in wardrobe of pressed suits and carefully folded cashmere. I wonder what Anna’s done with them all – if she’s wearing them.

I miss Anna.

I miss our daughter.

I spent her last year of school filled with dread for her first one at college. I was afraid of the emptiness I knew she’d leave; the influence she’d never know she had on us both. I was afraid of being lonely. Of being alone.

People used to say she was the spit of me, and we’d turn to each other and laugh, not seeing it. We were so different. I loved parties; Anna hated them. I loved to shop; my daughter was thrifty, making do and mending. We had the same mousey hair – I never did understand why she wouldn’t go blonde – and the same build, with a tendency to plumpness that bothered me more than it did her. I wear my new lightness well, I think, although I confess I mourn the compliments of friends.

The journey down takes longer than I anticipated, but my tiredness dissipates the second I set foot on familiar ground. Like a prisoner on parole I drink in my surroundings, marvelling at how so much has changed for me, yet so much has stayed the same. The same trees, still bereft of leaves; a scene so identical to the one I left, it is as though I’ve only stepped away for a moment. The same busy streets and bad-tempered bus drivers. I catch sight of Ron Dyer, Anna’s old head teacher, and shrink back into the shadows. I needn’t have bothered – he stares right through me. People see what they want to see, don’t they?