Let Me Lie(45)

‘And send herself an anonymous note?’

Sarah was thinking. ‘Maybe the card was from someone who knows she killed them. Anna panics, brings the card to the police station because that’s what a normal, non-murderous person would do. It’s a double bluff.’

Murray grinned. Sarah was far more creative than any detective he’d ever worked with.

‘Any fingerprints?’

‘Several. Nish is working her way through them now.’ Tom Johnson’s car had been dusted for prints after his death, and elimination sets taken from his daughter and the staff at Johnson’s Cars. The anonymous card carried full prints from both Anna Johnson and from her uncle, Billy, who had ripped it into pieces before Anna could stop him, and several partials which could have come from anywhere – including the shop where the card had been bought. None of the prints had triggered a hit on the Police National Computer.

At the mention of their friend’s name, Sarah had brightened. Her hand relaxed a little in Murray’s. ‘How is Nish?’

‘She’s well. She asked after you. Suggested we have dinner together, when you’re up to it.’

‘Maybe.’

Maybe was okay. Maybe was better than no. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and Sarah’s consultant, Mr Chaudhury, had decided Sarah should be discharged. Sarah had other ideas.

‘I’m not well,’ she’d said, worrying at her frayed sleeves.

People who proclaimed themselves to be champions of mental health issues were fond of comparing them to physical ailments.

‘If Sarah had broken her leg we’d all understand that it needed fixing,’ Murray’s line manager had said, when Murray had apologised for taking time off to support his wife. The diversity box had been duly ticked.

Only it wasn’t like a broken bloody leg. A broken leg could be fixed. X-rays, a plaster cast, perhaps a metal splint. A few weeks on crutches. Resting, physio. And then – what? The odd twinge, perhaps, but fixed. Better. Sure, it might break more easily next time you came off a bike, or took the stairs awkwardly and tripped, but it wouldn’t snap spontaneously. It wouldn’t freeze in horror at the prospect of answering the door, or crumble into pieces if someone whispered out of earshot.

Borderline Personality Disorder was nothing like a broken leg.

No, Sarah wasn’t well. But she never would be.

‘Sarah, Borderline Personality Disorder is not something we are going to cure.’ Chaudhury’s Oxbridge accent was undercut by a Birmingham twang. ‘You know that. You know more about your condition than anyone. But you are managing it well, and you will continue to do that at home.’

‘I want to stay here.’ Sarah’s face had creased into tears. She looked more like a homesick child than a fifty-eight-year-old woman. ‘I don’t like it at home. I’m safe here.’

Murray had pasted a smile to his face to hide the right hook he’d felt to his stomach. Mr Chaudhury had been firm.

‘You’ll be safe at home. Because for the last few days it hasn’t been us keeping you safe.’ He had paused and leaned forward, pointing steepled fingers towards Sarah. ‘It’s been you. You’ll continue with daily sessions, then we’ll move towards weekly visits. Small steps. The main priority is to get you back home with your husband.’

Murray had waited for the left hook. But Sarah nodded meekly, and reluctantly agreed that tomorrow she would go home. And then she had surprised Murray by agreeing to go for a walk.

Murray stopped. ‘There. That’s three.’

Sarah looked taken aback to see the main door again, their three laps of the building complete.

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Okay?’

She frowned. ‘It’s group in the morning.’

‘Lunchtime, then.’

‘Okay.’

Murray kissed her and began walking down the path to the car park. Halfway down he turned to wave, but she’d already scuttled inside.

Murray spent the next hour tidying the already spotless house, in preparation for Sarah’s homecoming. He changed the sheets in their bedroom, and made up the spare bed too, putting fresh flowers in both rooms, just in case she wanted to be alone. When the place was pristine, he got in his car and drove into work.

The fact that Diane Brent-Taylor – the witness who had called the police to report Tom’s suicide – had not attended the inquest was troubling Murray. Brent-Taylor had claimed she had been on Beachy Head that morning with a lover, and that she couldn’t take the risk of her husband finding out where she’d been. CID had tried several times to persuade her, but to no avail. They had no address details for her – just a mobile phone number – and when that had been disconnected, they had given up. This was a suicide investigation, after all. Not a murder. Not then.

Murray wasn’t going to give up.

There were plenty of Taylors and lots of Brents on the Police National Computer and the Electoral Register, but no Diane Brent-Taylors. Neither did Murray have any joy on open source systems – Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn – although he would be the first to admit he was hardly an expert in the field. His expertise lay in lateral thinking. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and then started his search again, this time putting a fresh sheet of paper to the side of his keyboard. There was, no doubt, a system that would do this job for him in a fraction of the time, but pen and paper had never failed Murray yet. Besides, taking this to Force Intelligence would prompt questions he didn’t yet want to answer.