Let Me Lie(77)

‘Shit phones, Samsungs. Anyway, my team are competitive, right? Don’t let anyone walk away without signing up. And your perp’ – he jabbed at the screen – ‘was no exception.’

‘We’ve got a name?’

‘And an address.’ Dylan presented the information with the flourish of a magician confident of applause.

‘So, who is it?’ Murray leaned forward to read the screen. Dylan got there first.

‘Anna Johnson.’

He must have misheard. Anna Johnson?

Murray read the details for himself: Anna Johnson, Oak View, Cleveland Avenue, Eastbourne.

‘Is that our murderer, then?’

Murray opened his mouth, about to say that no, that wasn’t their man, that was the victim’s daughter; but however helpful Dylan had been, he was still a member of the public and as such would need to be kept in the dark a little longer.

‘Could you print this off for me? You’ve been very helpful.’ He made a mental note to write to Dylan’s boss when all this was over. Perhaps they’d send him something other than a Samsung Galaxy S8.

The printout seemed to burn in his pocket as he made his way, faster this time, through the shopping centre and out towards The Lanes.

Anna Johnson?

Anna Johnson bought the phone used to make the witness call confirming her father’s suicide.

Murray was getting more and more confused. Nothing about this case added up.

Had Tom Johnson borrowed his daughter’s phone for some reason? Sean’s digging had confirmed that the fake witness call purporting to be from Diane Brent-Taylor was the first time the handset had been used. Was it credible that Anna had bought the phone for an innocent reason, and that Tom had taken it that same day, hours before his death?

Murray walked back to his car, oblivious to the crowds now.

If Tom Johnson didn’t go to Beachy Head to commit suicide, why did he go there? To meet someone? Someone who was secretly planning to kill him?

Murray played out scenarios in his head as he drove home. A clandestine affair uncovered by a jealous husband; a struggle that resulted in Tom going over the cliff edge. Had the killer used the phone Tom had borrowed from his daughter to make false calls to the police? The lover? Why choose Diane Brent-Taylor as an alias?

Murray shook his head impatiently. The killer wouldn’t have had a spare SIM card unless Tom’s murder was pre-meditated. And if it was pre-meditated, the murderer would have acquired their own burner phone, not happened upon a spare one in his victim’s pocket. None of it made sense. It was all so … Murray struggled to pinpoint the word.

Staged. That was it.

It didn’t feel real.

If he took the witness call out of the equation, what did he have? A missing person. A suicidal text from Tom’s phone, which anyone could have written. Hardly evidence of murder.

Hardly evidence of suicide …

And Caroline’s death: was that any more substantial? Everything pointed towards suicide, but no one had seen her. The chaplain – poor man – had guided her back to safety. Who was to say she hadn’t stayed there? A dog walker had found her bag and phone on the cliff edge, conveniently in the spot where the chaplain had found a distressed Caroline. Circumstantial evidence, sure, but hardly conclusive. And like her husband’s disappearance, somehow too staged. Real deaths were messy. There were loose ends, pieces that didn’t fit. The Johnson suicides were far too tidy.

By the time Murray pulled up on his driveway, he was certain.

There was no witness to Tom’s death. There was no murder. There were no suicides.

Tom and Caroline Johnson were still alive.

And Anna Johnson knew it.





FORTY-FOUR


ANNA


It is strange to see Mum back in Oak View. Strange and wonderful. She’s nervous, but whether it’s due to fear of detection by Mark or by Dad, I couldn’t say. Either way, she jumps at the slightest sound from outside, and offers little contribution to the conversation unless asked directly. Rita shadows her wherever she goes, and I wonder how she will be affected when Mum leaves again.

Because that’s the deal. Three more days as a family – albeit a family filled with secrets – and then it’s over.

‘You don’t have to go.’ We’re in the garden, my words turning to mist as they leave my mouth. It’s dry today, but so cold it hurts my face. Ella is in her bouncy chair in the kitchen, facing the window so I can keep an eye on her.

‘I do.’ Mum begged to come out into her beloved garden. It’s overlooked only on one side – the high hedges on the other two sides protecting us from curious glances – but even so my heart is in my mouth. Mum’s tackling her roses – not the expert pruning that will need doing in spring, but cutting them by a third, so the winter winds don’t snap the stems. I have neglected the garden – Mum’s pride and joy – and the roses are leggy and unbalanced. ‘Someone will see me, if I stay. It’s too big a risk.’

She glances continually at Robert’s house, the only place from which we can be seen, despite the fact we saw him drive away this morning, loaded with late Christmas presents for relatives up north. Mum is wearing Mark’s gardening coat, a woolly hat pulled low over her ears.

‘You should have cut these buddleias back last month. And the bay tree needs fleecing.’ She shakes her head at the fence between our garden and Robert’s, at the climbing roses and the sprawl of clematis I should have cut back after it flowered.