Let Me Lie(79)

Murray shook his head. ‘I don’t buy it. It’s a massive risk.’

‘When did she tell you to back off?’ Sarah said.

‘Boxing Day.’ Murray looked at Nish, who hadn’t been privy to this piece of the puzzle. ‘She hung up on me. Twice.’

‘Then she found out some time between the twenty-first and the twenty-sixth.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘S’obvious.’

Murray grinned. ‘Thanks, Columbo.’

‘So, what now?’ Nish said.

‘I need hard evidence. A phone purchase isn’t enough – especially when, as it stands, Anna Johnson was miles away from Eastbourne at the time of the offence. I can’t start claiming two dead people are alive, or storming down to Cleveland Avenue to arrest Anna, without proof the Johnsons are alive and well, and that she knew about it.’

‘We need to think logically,’ Sarah said. ‘Why do people fake their own deaths?’

Nish laughed. ‘Do a Reggie Perrin, you mean? You make it sound like it happens all the time.’

‘There was the canoe man,’ Murray said. ‘That was an insurance job. And that politician in the seventies – what was his name? Stone something.’

‘Stonehouse. Left his clothes on a beach in Miami and ran off with his mistress.’ Years of watching daytime quiz shows had made Sarah an expert in trivia.

‘Sex and money, then.’ Nish shrugged. ‘Same as most crimes.’

If only one of the Johnsons had disappeared, Murray might have placed more importance on the former, but as Caroline had followed in Tom’s footsteps, it was unlikely that Tom had run off to be with a lover.

‘Tom Johnson was worth a lot of money,’ Murray reminded her.

‘So, Caroline stayed to claim the life assurance, then joined Tom in Monaco? Rio de Janeiro?’ Nish looked between Murray and Sarah.

‘She claimed the life assurance all right, but she left Anna the lot. If she’s living the high life somewhere, she’s doing it on someone else’s dime.’

‘Either they wanted to escape for some other reason,’ Sarah said, ‘and Anna’s reward was the money, or the three of them agreed to split the cash, and she’s just sitting tight till the dust has settled.’

Murray stood up. This was pointless – they were going around in circles. ‘I think it’s about time I paid Anna Johnson another visit, don’t you?’





FORTY-SIX


ANNA


We stand and survey the garden: the piles of leaves, ready for the bonfire; the neatly fleeced bay tree; the lopped roses.

‘It doesn’t look much now, but you’ll really see the benefits come spring.’

‘I wish you were going to be here to see it.’

She puts an arm around me. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on? I think we deserve a cuppa, after all that.’

I leave her standing in the garden, and it’s only when I’ve kicked off my wellies, and the door is closed, and the kettle is whistling on the Aga, that I look out and see that she’s crying. Her lips are moving. She’s talking to her plants; saying goodbye to her garden.

I’ll look after it, I tell her silently.

I let the tea brew, and give Mum the solitude she so clearly needs. I wonder if she will go back up north, or if she’ll find somewhere new to settle. I hope she has a garden again, one day.

I fish out the teabags, drop them into the sink, and pick up the mugs awkwardly in one hand, leaving the other free to open the door.

I’m halfway across the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

I stop. Look through the glass doors at Mum, who shows no sign of having heard the door. I put the mugs down, slopping the contents onto the table. A dark stain seeps into the stripped pine.

The doorbell rings again, longer this time, the caller’s finger pressed hard against the buzzer. Rita barks.

Go away.

It’s fine, I tell myself. Whoever it is can’t know anyone’s home, and you can’t see into the garden without walking down the side of the house. I keep an eye on Mum, to make sure she stays out of sight. She bends down and pulls out a weed from between two paving stones.

The bell rings again. And then I hear footsteps, the crunch of gravel.

Whoever it is, they’re walking around the house.

I run to the hall, tripping over in my haste to get there, and yank open the door. ‘Hello?’ Louder. ‘Hello?’ I’m about to run outside in my socks, when the crunch of footsteps comes back towards me, and a man appears from the side of the house.

It’s the police.

My chest tightens, and I can’t think what to do with my hands. I clasp them together – my thumbnail digging into the palm of the opposite hand – then pull them apart and thrust them into my pockets. I feel acutely aware of my face; I try to keep my expression neutral but can’t remember how that might look.

Murray Mackenzie smiles. ‘Ah, you’re home. I wasn’t sure.’

‘I was in the garden.’

He takes in my mud-spattered jeans, the knee-length woollen socks that fit under my boots. ‘May I come in?’

‘It’s not a good time.’

‘I won’t stay long.’

‘Ella’s about to go down for a nap.’