Let Me Lie(94)

‘You should go.’ Sarah was resting one hand lightly on the gearstick, looking totally at home behind the wheel now. It had been a long time since Murray had been a passenger, and when his battery had died, and he could no longer make calls, he had rested his head against the seat and watched his wife’s confidence grow by the mile. It occurred to him that his efforts to protect Sarah’s comfort zone over the years might sometimes have been better spent helping her climb out of it.

Murray got out of the car. ‘James is there. It’s his job now.’

‘It’s your job, too.’

Was it? If Murray went inside and put on his slippers, stuck something on the TV, the police world would keep turning. James had the scene under control; officers were out looking for Caroline Johnson. What could Murray do?

And yet there were loose ends that were frustrating him. How had Caroline managed to get Tom – by no means a small man, the case files confirmed – into the septic tank? Had someone helped her? Who had sent the anniversary card that suggested Caroline Johnson hadn’t really jumped?

‘Go.’ Sarah pressed the car keys into his hand.

‘We were going to see in the New Year together.’

‘There’ll be other New Years. Go!’

Murray went.

In Cleveland Avenue, police tape surrounded Oak View. Music was playing from a neighbour’s house, and party-goers – already half-cut – stood with their drinks by the gated park, and gawped at the comings and goings. Murray ducked under the blue and white tape.

‘Excuse me, can you tell me what’s going on?’ the man called out to Murray from behind the railings that separated Oak View’s driveway from the one next door. He wore faded red chinos and a cream blazer with an open-neck shirt. He was holding a glass of champagne.

‘And you are?’

‘Robert Drake. I live next door. Well, here, actually.’

‘Ready to ring in the New Year, I see.’ Murray motioned to the champagne.

‘It’s supposed to be Mark and Anna’s party. But I just sort of …’ he searched for the term, ‘inherited it!’ He laughed, pleased with himself, then stopped, suddenly serious. ‘Where are they? Mark texted everyone. Said he and Anna had to go to London, and the party was off. Next thing the whole street’s cordoned off.’ His eyes filled with alarm. ‘Good God. He hasn’t murdered her, has he?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ Murray walked away. So that was Robert Drake. Murray should have thanked him, really. If it hadn’t been for his more-money-than-sense extension plans, Tom Johnson’s body might never have been discovered.

How must Caroline have felt, when she realised the building works would mean digging up the septic tank? Assuming she killed Tom the day of his supposed suicide, and disposed of him straight away, Tom would have been in the tank for a month before Drake announced his plans. Her own written objection had been lengthy, and judging by the number of identical complaints from elsewhere in the town – although not from Cleveland Avenue residents themselves, Murray had noted – Caroline had provided cut-and-paste letters for serial planning objectors who could always be relied on to stick in an oar or two.

By the time Drake had finessed his application and re-applied, Caroline had already disappeared, fooling her family, the police and the coroner into believing she had committed suicide. Had she kept tabs on the planning site, just in case? Her objection – made in the name of Angela Grange – had been logged with an address of Sycamore, Cleveland Avenue. No one had noticed. No one had checked. Why would they?

So, according to Robert Drake, both Mark and Anna were in London. Neither car was on the driveway, so the couple must have travelled separately. Murray tried to remember whether Anna had told him her plans. No – only that her friend had been driving. It was good that she had people with her, Murray thought. Nothing like the discovery of a body to put a dampener on your New Year’s Eve plans.

In the centre of the garden, where the patio met the grass, was a white tent. DS James Kennedy stood by the entrance, through which the ghostly figures of two Crime Scene Investigators could be seen.

‘It’s him,’ James said, as Murray joined him. ‘Signet ring matches the description on the original missing person report.’

‘Rookie error,’ Murray said wryly.

‘The body’s well preserved – the tank’s dry and underground, and with the entrance sealed, it was a pretty good makeshift morgue – and he’s got a hefty head wound. Hit over the head, perhaps? A domestic gone wrong?’

‘There are several jobs logged against the address over the years,’ Murray said. ‘Dropped calls on the nines, and a fear for welfare from the neighbour, Robert Drake, after he heard shouting coming from the address.’

‘Did we attend?’

Murray nodded. ‘Both Johnsons denied any domestic had taken place, but Caroline Johnson was described as being “emotional” by the attending officer.’

‘You think this could have been self-defence?’ James said. Inside the crime scene tent, the manhole cover had been bagged and tagged, and the narrow neck of the tank could just be seen. Tom Johnson’s body had already been removed from the tank by the Specialist Search Unit and transported to the mortuary, ready for the post-mortem that would hopefully tell them exactly how he died.