Let Me Lie(9)

‘Yes.’ My bottom lip wobbles and I clamp it shut for a moment to regain some control. ‘Yes, I do. I’ve always thought something was wrong. I never thought either of them was capable of suicide, least of all Mum, when she knew how much Dad’s death affected us all. And now—’

‘It’s someone shit-stirring, Annie! Some jumped-up prick who thinks it’s funny to trawl the obituaries and torment grieving families. Like the shits who look through funeral listings to see when to go out burgling. They probably sent a dozen others at the same time.’ Even though I know it’s the sender of the card who’s wound him up, it feels like his anger’s directed at me. I stand up.

‘Even more reason for me to go to the police with it, then. So they can find out who sent it.’ My tone is defensive; it’s that or bursting into tears.

‘This family never used to run to the police. We used to sort out our own problems.’

‘“Problems”?’ I don’t understand why Billy’s being so obtuse. Doesn’t he see this changes everything? ‘This isn’t a problem, Billy. It isn’t some argument you can settle out the back of the pub. It could be murder. And I care what happened to my mum, even if you don’t.’ Too late, I bite my tongue. Billy turns away, but not before I’ve seen the hurt on his face. I stand helplessly for a while, looking at the back of his head and trying to say sorry, but the words won’t come.

I push Ella’s pram out of the office, leaving the door wide open. If Billy won’t help me, I’ll go to the police on my own.

Someone murdered my parents, and I’m going to find out who.





FIVE


MURRAY


Murray Mackenzie swirled a teabag around a polystyrene cup.

‘Milk?’ He opened the fridge and surreptitiously sniffed three cartons before finding one he could safely offer a member of the public in distress. And Anna Johnson was undoubtedly in distress. She was dry-eyed, but Murray felt uncomfortably certain crying was on the cards. He wasn’t good with tears. He never knew whether to ignore or acknowledge them, or whether nowadays it was politically correct to offer a neatly pressed handkerchief.

Murray heard a quiet murmur that could have been the precursor to sobbing. Politically correct or not, if Mrs Johnson didn’t have a tissue to hand he would come to her aid. He didn’t use a handkerchief himself, but he had always carried one, like his father had done, for these very occasions. Murray patted his pocket, but when he turned around – the polystyrene cup over-full in one hand – he realised the half-hearted squeaking noise was coming from the baby, not from Mrs Johnson.

Murray’s relief was short-lived, as Anna Johnson deftly whipped the baby from its carriage and positioned it horizontally across her lap, before pulling up her top and starting to feed. Murray felt himself blushing, which made him redden even more. It was not that he objected to women breastfeeding, it was simply that he never knew where to look while they did it. He had once adopted what he’d intended to be a supportive smile towards a mother in the café above M&S, only to have her glare at him and cover up as though he were some sort of pervert.

He fixed his gaze somewhere above Mrs Johnson’s left eyebrow as he put down her tea as reverently as if he were serving it in a bone china cup. ‘I couldn’t find any biscuits, I’m afraid.’

‘Tea is lovely, thank you.’

As Murray had grown older he had become less and less able to judge other people’s ages, with anyone the right side of forty looking young to him, but Anna Johnson definitely hadn’t seen thirty yet.

She was an attractive young woman, with a slight wave to her sandy brown hair that made it bob about on her shoulders as she moved her head. Her face was pale, and showed the effects of new motherhood Murray remembered seeing in his sister when his nephews had been small.

They were sitting in the small area behind the front desk of Lower Meads police station, where a kitchenette had been installed for Murray and his colleagues to take their lunch breaks while simultaneously keeping an eye on whoever might come through the door. Members of the public weren’t supposed to be on this side of the counter, but the station was quiet, and whole hours could go by without anyone coming in to report a lost dog, or to sign a bail sheet. Murray had enough time alone with his thoughts at home; he didn’t need silence at work, too.

It was rare to see anyone above the rank of sergeant this far from headquarters, so Murray had thrown caution to the winds and shown Mrs Johnson through to the inner sanctum. You didn’t need to be a detective to know that three feet of melamine counter weren’t conducive to making a witness feel relaxed. Not that Mrs Johnson was likely to ever feel relaxed, given the purpose of her visit.

‘I think my mother was murdered,’ she’d announced on arrival. She had eyed Murray with a determined air, as though he might be about to disagree. Murray had felt a rush of adrenalin. A murder. Who was duty DI today? Oh … Detective Inspector Robinson. That was going to rankle, reporting to a whippersnapper with fluff on his upper lip and five minutes in the job. But then Anna Johnson had explained that her mother had been dead a year, and that in fact a coroner had already ruled on the death and pronounced it to be suicide. That was the point at which Murray had opened the door at the side of the front desk and invited Mrs Johnson in. He suspected they were going to be some time. A dog trotted obediently at her feet, seemingly unfazed by its surroundings.