Let Me Lie(8)

‘Come for supper tomorrow night?’

Billy hesitates.

‘Please?’

‘Sure. That would be nice.’

The glass between Billy’s office and the showroom is tinted one way, and on the other side of it I see one of the salesmen shaking hands with a customer. He glances towards the office, hoping the big boss is watching. Billy nods approvingly, a mental note filed away for the next appraisal. I watch him, looking for the tell; trying to read his mind.

Trade’s been slow. Dad was the driving force, and his death hit Uncle Billy hard. When Mum went too, there was a moment when I thought he was going to fall apart.

I’d not long discovered Ella was on the way, and I’d come down to the showroom to see Uncle Billy, only to find the place in disarray. The office was empty, and disposable coffee cups littered the low tables in the waiting area. Customers wandered unaccompanied between the cars on the forecourt. At reception, Kevin – a newish sales rep with a shock of ginger hair – perched on the desk, flirting with the receptionist, an agency temp who had started the week after Christmas.

‘But where is he?’

Kevin shrugged. ‘He didn’t come in today.’

‘And you didn’t think to call him?’

In the car on the way to Billy’s place, I ignored the rising panic in my chest. He’d taken a day off, that was all. He wasn’t missing. He wouldn’t do that to me.

I rang the bell. Hammered on the door. And just as I was fumbling in my bag for my mobile, my lips already forming the words familiar from my parents’ inquest – this is a fear for welfare – Billy opened the door.

Fine red lines covered the whites of his eyes. His shirt was open; his suit jacket crumpled enough to tell me he’d slept in it. A waft of alcohol hit me, and I hoped it was from the previous evening.

‘Who’s running the shop, Uncle Billy?’

He stared past me to the street, where an elderly couple were making slow progress along the pavement, a wheeled shopping basket in their wake.

‘I can’t do it. I can’t be there.’

I felt a surge of anger. Didn’t he think I wanted to give up? Did he think he was the only one finding this hard?

Inside, the house was a mess. A greasy film covered the glass-topped coffee table in the sitting room. Dirty plates littered the kitchen surfaces; nothing in the fridge but a half-empty bottle of white wine. It wasn’t unusual to find no proper meals in the house – Uncle Billy considered eating out to be the primary advantage of single life – but there was no milk, no bread. Nothing.

I hid my shock. Dumped the plates in the sink, wiped the counters and picked up the post from the hall floor.

He gave me a tired smile. ‘You’re a good girl, Annie.’

‘You’re on your own with the laundry – I’m not washing your underpants.’ My anger had passed. This wasn’t Billy’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’ I gave him a hug. ‘You need to get back to work though, Billy. They’re just kids.’

‘What’s the point? We had six punters show up yesterday; all tyre-kickers.’

‘Tyre-kickers are just buyers who don’t know it yet.’ Dad’s favourite saying brought a lump to my throat. Billy squeezed my arm.

‘He was so proud of you.’

‘He was proud of you, too. Proud of what the two of you achieved with the business.’ I waited a beat. ‘Don’t let him down.’

Billy was back at work by lunchtime, putting a rocket up Kevin’s arse and offering a bottle of champagne to the first rep to make a sale. I knew it would take more than champagne to get Johnson’s Cars on an even keel, but at least Billy was at the helm again.

It was Dad who’d had the tinted glass installed, a few weeks after Granddad retired, and Billy and Dad had moved into the office, a desk on either side of the room.

‘Keeps them on their toes.’

‘Keeps them from catching you having forty winks, more like.’ Mum could see through the Johnson boys. Always had.

Billy turns his attention back to me. ‘I’d have thought that man of yours would have taken today off.’

‘It’s Mark, not that man. I wish you’d give him a chance.’

‘I will. Just as soon as he makes an honest woman of you.’

‘It’s not the 1950s, Billy.’

‘Fancy leaving you on your own today.’

‘He offered to stay home. I said I was fine.’

‘Clearly.’

‘I was. Before this arrived.’ I fish in the bottom of Ella’s pram for the card and give it to Billy. I watch his face as he takes in the celebratory greeting, the carefully typed message stuck inside. There’s a long pause, then he puts the card back in its envelope. His jaw tightens.

‘Sick bastards.’ Before I can stop him, he’s ripped the card in two, and then in two again.

‘What are you doing?’ I leap out of my chair and snatch back the torn pieces of card. ‘We need to take it to the police.’

‘The police?’

‘Think again. It’s a message. They’re suggesting Mum was pushed. Maybe Dad, too.’

‘Annie, love, we’ve been through this a hundred times. You don’t seriously believe your parents were murdered?’