Let Me Lie(53)

‘Indeed. And Murray?’

‘Yes?’

‘Stick to your own job.’

Murray hadn’t lied to the superintendent yet, and he wasn’t going to start now. ‘Don’t worry, Leo.’ He gave the boss a cheery smile. ‘I won’t do anything I’m not qualified to do.’

Downstairs, Murray found an empty report-writing room and closed the door before logging on to the computer. He had given back his force laptop when he retired, and there were a few more checks he wanted to do before he went home for Christmas. If Leo Griffiths had the nous to look at Murray’s intranet activity, it could be easily explained away as essential information required for the write-up he would have to put together for CID.

He looked up Oak View on the Command and Control system that logged every call made to police. This basic check would have been done by the original investigating officers, but there were no printouts in the archived file, and Murray wanted to be thorough. He was looking for break-ins, harassment, suspicious activity connected to Oak View or the Johnsons. Anything that might suggest Tom and Caroline had been targeted prior to their deaths.

Oak View appeared several times over the years since computerised records had been kept. Twice, a silent 999 call had been made from the address. Each time, control room had called back and been given the same explanation.

OCCUPANT APOLOGISES. TODDLER WAS PLAYING WITH PHONE.

Murray checked the date on the log. 10 February 2001. Toddler? Anna Johnson would have been ten. Too old to be making accidental phone calls. Had there been a toddler in the house, or were the silent 999 calls a deliberate cry for help?

In 2008 control room had received a call from a neighbour, Robert Drake, who reported hearing a disturbance next door. Murray looked through the log.

CALLER STATES HE CAN HEAR SHOUTING. SOUND OF BROKEN GLASS. POSSIBLE DOMESTIC. UNITS DESPATCHED.

No crime had been recorded.

ALL QUIET ON ARRIVAL. DETAILS TAKEN. BOTH OCCUPANTS DENY ANY DOMESTIC INCIDENT.

Caroline Johnson had appeared ‘emotional’, Murray noted, but there was scant detail in the brief log, and without tracking down the attending officers – and hoping they could recall an incident that occurred more than a decade ago – that was all he had to go on.

It was enough. Murray was starting to build up a picture of the Johnsons, and it wasn’t the one their daughter had portrayed. Perhaps Tom’s brother, Billy Johnson, would throw more light on proceedings. Murray looked at his watch. Bloody Leo Griffiths and his posturing. He’d be late to collect Sarah if he didn’t go now. She’d be emotionally fraught enough as it was today; even the tiniest change of plans could knock her off-kilter.

‘I’ll come with you.’

Murray had made it just in time, only for Sarah to immediately ask after the Johnson case, and insist on accompanying him to see Billy.

‘It’ll keep till after Christmas.’ Murray put the car in gear and drove slowly out of Highfield. It felt good to have Sarah in the car. To know he wasn’t going home to an empty house.

‘It’s fine, honestly. It’s practically on our way home, anyway.’

Murray stole a glance at his wife. Even in the car she didn’t sit properly. One foot was tucked beneath the knee of her other leg. She held the seatbelt away from her neck with one hand, her elbow resting on the bottom of the window.

‘If you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Johnson’s Cars had been given a facelift since Murray had bought his Volvo. There was still the same motley collection of part-exchange bangers parked around the back, but most of the forecourt was filled with gleaming Jags, Audis and BMWs, the most expensive angled on ramps that made the cars look like they were about to make a break for it.

‘Ten minutes,’ he said.

‘No rush.’ Sarah took off her seatbelt and opened her book. Murray pocketed the keys, automatically scanning the inside of the car for anything that might present a risk. She’s been discharged, he reminded himself as he walked away. Relax.

He looked back as he crossed the forecourt, but Sarah was engrossed in her book. Clean-shaven sales reps circled like sharks, two homing in on him from opposite directions, both with an eye on their commission. A gangly lad with a shock of ginger hair reached him first, his colleague peeling off towards a sharply dressed couple, wandering hand in hand along a line of convertibles. A far safer bet, Murray thought.

‘Billy Johnson?’

‘In the office.’ The ginger lad jerked his head towards the showroom. ‘But perhaps I can assist.’ His smile was all tooth and no sincerity. He cocked his head on one side, making a show of appraising Murray. Considering. ‘Volvo man, am I right?’

Considering Murray had just got out of precisely such a car, this insight was less impressive than it might have been. He kept walking.

‘Through here, is it?’

Ginger shrugged, his shiny smile vanishing with his chances of a sale. ‘Yeah. Shaneen on the desk’ll get him for you.’

Shaneen had a face two degrees darker than her neck, and lips so glossy Murray could see his reflection in them. She was standing behind a large curved reception desk, tinsel taped to the side, setting out glasses on a tray for a Christmas Eve tipple. She smiled as he approached.

‘Welcome to Johnson’s Cars, how may I help you?’ she rattled off, so fast Murray had to pause for a second to process what he’d heard.