Let Me Lie(66)

It had all been taken out of my hands.

A shotgun wedding. A new house (‘Much more family-friendly than that dreadful flat’), a new job (‘So much less cut-throat than the City’), a move to the fucking sea (‘The air’s so much cleaner!’) …

I’d never felt so trapped in my life.

Yet it was impossible not to love Anna when she arrived. She was bright and beautiful and filled with curiosity. But it was impossible, too, not to resent her. There was a whole life out there, waiting for me, and instead of running at it with both hands I was standing still with a baby in my arms. I fantasised about leaving. Told myself an absent parent was better than one who didn’t want to be there. But I didn’t leave. I did what I’d always done when life was hard.

I drank.





THIRTY-SEVEN


MURRAY


Boxing Day was always an anti-climax. When Murray had been in uniform, Boxing Day had meant one domestic after another, as hangovers were assuaged with more booze, familial tension exploding after twenty-four hours reined in for Christmas.

For someone like Sarah, who felt everything so keenly, the comedown was even worse. It was midday before she appeared downstairs, and then only to take the tea Murray made her and retreat back to bed. Murray tidied the kitchen, made himself some lunch, and wondered what to do. He didn’t want to leave Sarah alone when she was like this, but the house was beginning to close in on him.

He got out the Johnson file and spread it on the kitchen table. Tom Johnson had made several Google searches relating to suicide, Beachy Head and tide times. All had been made between midnight on 17 May and nine the following morning. Perfectly plausible for a man contemplating suicide – which was presumably what the investigating officers had decided – but in the context of the picture Murray had now built up, the searches were too careful. Too convenient. They had clearly been made by whoever had murdered the Johnsons and engineered the fake suicides.

Who would have had access to Tom’s phone? It was an impossible question, without knowing where the man had been the morning prior to his death. CID had made attempts to retrace his steps, but once the Audi had been picked up on the ANPR camera sited near Beachy Head, nothing more had been done. There had been no need.

Where had Tom been overnight? Who had he been with that morning? Murray covered three pages of his notebook with possible lines of enquiry, frustrated by the holiday period, which meant no one was at work for him to speak to.

It was early evening when Murray put a hand on the mound of tangled duvet and suggested that Sarah might feel better if she had a shower and got dressed. The air in the bedroom was stale, and the cup of tea he’d pressed into Sarah’s hand had gone untouched, a shiny film across the surface.

‘I just want to go back to Highfield.’

‘You’re seeing Mr Chaudhury on Friday.’

Sarah was crying, burying herself beneath the duvet so her words were muffled. ‘I don’t want to be here. I want to be at Highfield.’

‘Shall I bring the duvet downstairs? We can veg out on the sofa and watch black and white movies.’

‘Go away!’

Had Sarah been visible, Murray would have hidden the hurt on his face beneath the smile of a supportive husband. And indeed he put a hand where he imagined Sarah’s shoulder was, and began to form the words he needed. The words she needed. Only he suddenly felt overwhelmingly, bone-crushingly tired. None of it made a difference. Whatever he said, whatever he did, it wouldn’t help Sarah. Nothing could help Sarah.

He stood up and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him. He stood on the landing and looked across the street, where houses were adorned with Christmas lights, and inside families were playing board games and arguing over the remote.

‘Snap out of it, Mackenzie,’ he muttered.

Downstairs he put two slices of cheese on toast under the grill. He would ring Anna Johnson. To hell with public holidays. The woman was mourning her parents; she’d had a brick through her window. These were hardly normal times. She’d been desperate for him to re-open the investigation, and – mindful of his bollocking from Leo Griffiths – Murray knew CID would soon be taking the lead. It was time to tell Anna Johnson what he knew.

He turned the grill low and picked up the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. It’s Murray Mackenzie. From the police,’ he added, when Anna didn’t speak.

‘Right. Actually, it’s not a great time—’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you on Boxing Day. I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re right. There’s more to your parents’ deaths than meets the eye.’ It came out in a rush, as much for Murray’s own benefit as Anna’s. A little of the tightness eased from his chest. He imagined Anna’s hand at her throat; perhaps even tears of relief that finally someone had listened to her. He waited. There was the tiniest sound on the other end of the line and then silence.

Murray rang back.

‘I think the line dropped out. I thought we might meet tomorrow, perhaps. If you’re free? I can fill you in on what I’ve found out, and we can discuss—’

‘No!’

It was Murray’s turn to fall silent. He wasn’t even sure if this sudden, loud command had been directed at him, or at someone in Anna’s house. Her partner? A dog? The baby?