Let Me Lie(40)

Murray thought about the anonymous card sent to Anna, the rabbit on their doorstep. He thought about the convenience of a suicide at high tide, leaving no bodies to spill their secrets on the slab. Both Tom and Caroline had researched tide times, but why would it matter to either of them if their bodies were found? It all seemed too convenient. Too … staged.

Sarah took in her husband’s thoughtful expression. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve got no evidence …’

‘Instinct first, evidence later. Isn’t that what you used to say?’

Murray laughed. He had worked on that basis for most of his career, and it hadn’t let him down yet. He was a long way from knowing exactly how Tom and Caroline Johnson had died, but all his instincts pointed one way.

‘You think she was murdered, don’t you?’

Slowly, Murray nodded. ‘I think they both were.’

Sarah looked thoughtful. She returned to Caroline’s diary, flicking through the bundle of loose flyers and business cards tucked into the back of the book. She picked one up and held it in front of her.

‘I thought you said Mark Hemmings hadn’t met the Johnsons.’

‘He didn’t; they’d died before he and Anna met.’

‘Not according to this.’

Murray took the flyer Sarah was holding up. Mark Hemmings, Dip.ST, DipSTTS, MA (Psych), UKCP (Accredited), MBACP. He turned it over. In handwriting he recognised from the many lists in Caroline Johnson’s diary was a note. 2.30 p.m., Wednesday 16 November.

Sarah turned to the relevant page of Caroline’s diary, on which the same appointment was noted. She looked at Murray. ‘He’s lying.’





TWENTY-TWO


ANNA


At six the doorbell rings. I open the door to find Uncle Billy standing there, a bottle of wine in hand. I stare at him blankly.

‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’

‘Of course not! I was miles away. Lovely to see you.’ I pull him into a hug to hide my lie. ‘Sorry for storming out yesterday.’

He shrugs off my apology. ‘Heat of the moment. Think nothing of it. Now, where’s my gorgeous great-niece?’

We head for the kitchen and I give Ella to Billy, who holds her awkwardly, as though he’s guessing the weight of a marrow at the county show. She keeps reaching for his nose, which makes him laugh, and the pair of them look so sweet I pick up my phone and take a quick snap. There’s a text from Mark.

Running late, sorry x





I fire off a quick reply.

No worries. Billy here for supper x Great.





I put my phone away and smile brightly at Uncle Billy. ‘Mark’ll be home soon. He’s really looking forward to seeing you!’

Billy’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Great.’

I pour myself a large glass of wine. Pregnancy and breastfeeding have broken the drinking habits created by my parents, but tonight I think I’m going to need this.

Dad loved telling the story of how – aged six and learning to read a clock – I was tested by friends of my parents who were over for drinks.

‘What time is it, Anna?’

‘Wine o’clock,’ I chimed. I don’t remember it; can’t even be sure it wasn’t just one of Dad’s stories, although it has the ring of truth about it.

It’s past seven when Mark gets home, full of apologies and carrying a huge bunch of Stargazer lilies.

‘Sorry,’ he says as he hands them to me, and I know he’s not talking about being late.

‘Me too,’ I say softly.

‘Good to see you.’ Mark pumps Billy’s hand enthusiastically. I hover beside them, my cheeks aching from the force of my smile.

‘You too. Looking after this one, I hope.’

‘Billy, I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’

Mark winks at me. Let it go. ‘I’m doing my best, Bill. How’s business?’

‘Never better.’

As Billy walks ahead of us, into the sitting room, Mark shoots me a confused look. I shake my head.

Since Dad died, profits have plummeted, and Billy’s struggling. Dad’s half of the business passed first to Mum and then to me, but I haven’t even begun to make sense of it. I told myself maternity leave was the perfect time to sit down and go through everything – to learn how the business works – but I underestimated the demands of a tiny baby. I’m lucky if I get time to read the back of a cereal packet. All I know is the headline figures, and they don’t look good.

Now isn’t the time to call Billy out. I leave Mark fixing drinks and retreat to the kitchen. When I return, the two men are sitting in silence. I wrack my brains to think of something Mark and Billy have in common, besides me.

‘Oh! Tell Billy about Ella dancing.’ I prod Mark, who looks perplexed. ‘When you put Guns ‘n’ Roses on?’ I pause, but he’s still not with me. ‘And we turned around and she was waving and kicking her legs and it was in time with the music, and she looked like she was dancing.’

‘Right! Yes. Well, that’s it, really. Like she was dancing.’

Billy laughs politely. This is excruciating. It’s a relief when the doorbell rings. Mark jumps up, but I get there first. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here tonight!’ I say brightly.