Let Me Lie(22)

Maybe it isn’t burglars outside.

Maybe whoever killed my mother wants me dead, too.





ELEVEN


MURRAY


Tom Johnson had been missing for fifteen hours when his wife, Caroline Johnson – at forty-eight, ten years Tom’s junior – called the police. She hadn’t seen Tom since they’d had what she called a ‘stupid spat’ as they’d left work the previous day.

‘He said he was going to the pub,’ her statement read. ‘When he didn’t come home I thought he’d gone to his brother’s to sleep it off.’ Their daughter Anna, who lived at home with them, had been away at a conference in London with the children’s charity for whom she had worked since leaving university.

Tom Johnson hadn’t turned up for work the next day.

Murray found the statement from Billy Johnson, Tom’s brother and business partner, who had been unconcerned by Tom’s absence.

‘I assumed he had a hangover. He’s a partner. What was I supposed to do? Give him a final warning?’ Even in the dry black and white of a witness statement, Billy Johnson came across as defensive. It was a natural reaction for many people; a way of diffusing the guilt they felt at not seeming to have cared enough when it mattered.

The MisPer report had been completed by Uniform and graded as low-risk. Murray looked at the officer’s name but didn’t recognise it. None of the information at that stage had suggested that Tom Johnson had been vulnerable, but that wouldn’t have stopped questions being asked when his suicide was reported; it wouldn’t have stopped that officer questioning their own judgement. Would grading Tom as high-risk have changed anything? It was impossible to know. Nothing about Tom Johnson’s disappearance had given rise to concern. He was a successful businessman, well known across the town. A family man with no history of depression.

The first text message had come at 9.30 a.m.

I’m sorry.





Ironically, Caroline Johnson had been relieved.

‘I thought he was apologising for the row we’d had,’ she said in her statement. ‘He shouted at me – said a few things that had upset me. He had a temper, but he always said sorry afterwards. When the text came, I thought at least he’s okay.’

He had a temper.

Murray underlined the words. How much of a temper had Tom Johnson had? Could he have argued with someone at the pub that night? Got into a fight? Enquiries at Tom’s usual haunts had drawn a blank. Wherever he’d gone to drown his sorrows the night before he died, it hadn’t been his local.

A request by the attending officer to trace Tom’s phone had been refused, as at that stage there had been no evidence of a threat to life. Murray winced on behalf of the senior officer who’d made that call. It was a decision that had swiftly been reversed when Caroline had received a second text from her husband.

‘I think he’s going to kill himself …’

Murray listened to the recording of Caroline Johnson’s 999 call. He closed his eyes, feeling her distress pulse through him as though it were his own. He heard her read out the message she had received from her husband; noted the calm response from the operator as she asked Caroline what was her husband’s number and could she please keep that text message?

I can’t do this any more. The world will be a better place without me in it.





He couldn’t do what?

It was the sort of heat-of-the-moment comment anyone might make. It could mean nothing, or it could mean everything.

I can’t do this any more.

Stay married? Have an affair? Lie?

What had Tom Johnson been doing that had led to such an outpouring of guilt?

There had been no further texts. Tom Johnson’s mobile had rung out. Triangulation placed it near Beachy Head. ANPR cameras pinpointed the car he’d taken from work heading towards the same location and officers were despatched. Even though Murray knew the outcome of the job, he felt a pounding in his chest as he read through the pages of the log, imagining how it would have felt for the police officers involved in the race to save a life.

A call from a member of the public – Diane Brent-Taylor – reported seeing a man put rocks into a rucksack. It had struck her as an odd activity for a man in a suit, and she stood and watched as he made his way to the edge of the cliff. Horrified, she saw him remove his wallet and phone from his pocket, before taking a step forward and disappearing. Murray read the transcript of the call.

‘The tide’s high. There’s nothing there. I can’t see him.’

Coastal Rescue were in the water within minutes, but it was already too late. There was no sign of Tom Johnson.

Murray took a steadying breath. He wondered how Ralph Metcalfe, the coroner, coped with hearing stories about the dead day in, day out. He wondered whether he got used to it, or whether he went home and sank into a bottle of something to numb the senses.

Officers had scoured the area where Mrs Brent-Taylor had described seeing Tom go over the edge. They had found his wallet and his mobile phone, the screen still showing the frantic messages from his wife.

Where are you?

Don’t do this.

We need you …





Police had broken the news to Caroline Johnson in the kitchen of her home address, where she had been surrounded by family. A photocopied pocket notebook entry from PC Woodward listed the names, occupations and contact details of the friends and family who had gathered to support Caroline.