Let Me Lie(46)

On the left-hand side of his paper he jotted down the home addresses of everyone with the surname Brent in a twenty-five-mile radius of Eastbourne. If he had to widen the search, he would, but for now he was working on the basis that the witness had been local. Next, Murray began a new list of all the addresses occupied by people with the surname Taylor.

It was half an hour before he got a match.

Bingo.

24 Burlington Close, Newhaven. Occupied by a Mr Gareth Taylor, and a Mrs Diane Brent.

Murray looked up with a broad smile on his face. The only person around to see it was John, Murray’s dour colleague who had been confused to see Murray arrive in work an hour previously.

‘I thought you were on leave till the New Year?’

‘I’ve got a few bits to fill in on my PDR.’

John’s confusion had grown. No one voluntarily worked on their Personal Development Record unless they were going for a new job or prepping for promotion boards. As for doing it in your own time …

Now John looked at Murray with complete bafflement. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so happy to do their PDR.’

‘Just taking pride in my work, John.’ Murray whistled as he made his way out of the station.

Twenty-four Burlington Close was a quiet cul-de-sac off Southwich Avenue in Newhaven, halfway between Eastbourne and Brighton. Murray waited a moment before ringing the doorbell, taking in the carefully tended flowerpots around the front door, and the ‘no cold callers’ sign in the frosted window. A shadow moved towards him as he reached for the white plastic bell, and he realised Mrs Brent-Taylor must have seen him pull up on the drive, and been waiting in the hall. She opened the door before the chime had died away. A dog barked from somewhere in the house.

Murray introduced himself. ‘I’m investigating a case I think you might have had some involvement in. May I come in?’

Mrs Brent-Taylor narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to pack for my daughter’s. It’s her turn to do Christmas.’

‘It won’t take long.’

She stepped back from the open door. ‘I can only give you half an hour.’

As welcomes went, Murray had had worse. He smiled and thrust out his hand in a way that made it impossible for Mrs Brent-Taylor not to take it. She glanced around as if the neighbours might already be passing judgement.

‘You’d better come in.’

The hall was dark and narrow. There was an umbrella stand and two pairs of shoes on the floor, and an organised pinboard on which Murray could see a variety of leaflets and reminders. Something caught his eye as he passed the board, but he was ushered on into the depths of the house.

He was momentarily confused to be directed up a flight of stairs, but his bearings became clear as he reached the top to find a large open-plan living space and floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view of the sea.

‘Wow.’

Diane Brent-Taylor appeared at the top of the stairs a full minute after Murray. She seemed mollified by his compliment, the corners of her mouth curling slightly in what seemed to pass for a smile. ‘I’m very fortunate.’

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘It’ll be twenty years in March. If I move now it’ll be into a bungalow.’ She gestured to a mustard-coloured sofa, and took the chair next to it. She sank into it with an audible exhalation.

Murray hesitated. He had finessed his line of questioning on the way here, starting with the identity of Mrs Brent-Taylor’s lover. After all, it was entirely possible that Brent-Taylor had refused to give a statement not just to hide her extramarital activity, but because she – or her lover – had been involved in Tom Johnson’s death. Could Diane Brent-Taylor have been protecting someone?

But now he felt entirely wrong-footed.

Mrs Brent-Taylor was in her late seventies. Possibly even in her eighties. She wore the sort of trousers his mother would have described as ‘slacks’, teamed with a busily patterned blouse in colours significantly more cheerful than its wearer. Her blue-tinged hair was set in rigid waves, close to her head, and her nails were painted a pale coral.

It was, of course, possible that Mrs Brent-Taylor had a lover. But given the time it had taken her to climb the stairs, and the walking stick he had glimpsed propped up behind her armchair, Murray felt it was unlikely she had been gallivanting around Beachy Head with him.

‘Um, is your husband home?’

‘I’m widowed.’

‘I’m so sorry. Was it recent?’

‘Five years last September. May I ask what this is about?

It was becoming increasingly clear that either Murray had the wrong house or … There was only one way to find out. ‘Mrs Brent-Taylor, do the names Tom and Caroline Johnson mean anything to you?’

She frowned. ‘Should they?’

‘Tom Johnson died at Beachy Head on the eighteenth of May last year. His wife Caroline died in the same spot on the twenty-first of December.’

‘Suicide?’ She took Murray’s silence as agreement. ‘How dreadful.’

‘Tom Johnson’s death was reported to police by a witness giving your name.’

‘Giving my name?’

‘Diane Brent-Taylor.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me. I mean, I’ve been to Beachy Head, obviously – I’ve lived in or around the area all my life – but I’ve never seen anyone jump off. Thank God.’ She muttered this last to herself.