Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

  We walk along Chestnut Avenue, where glossy railings flank more double-fronted town houses; bay tree sentries wrapped in twinkling white lights. One or two of the huge houses on the avenue have been turned into flats, but most are still intact, their wide front doors uncluttered by doorbells and letterboxes. Christmas trees are positioned in bay windows, and I catch glimpses of activity in the high-ceilinged rooms beyond. In the first, a teenage boy flops on a sofa; in the second, small children race around the room, heady with festive excitement. At number six an elderly couple read from their respective papers.

  The door to number eight is open. A woman—late forties, I guess—stands in a French gray hall, with one hand resting lightly on the door. I nod a hello, but although she lifts a hand in greeting, the laughing smile is directed toward a gently squabbling trio wrestling a Christmas tree from the car to the house.

  “Careful—you’re going to drop it!”

  “Left a bit. Watch the door!”

  A peal of laughter from the teenage girl; a wry grin from her clumsy brother.

  “You’ll have to lift it over the railings.”

  Dad, directing proceedings. Getting in the way. Proud of his children.

  For a second it hurts so much I can’t breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. I miss my parents so badly, at different times and in ways I could never have predicted. Two Christmases ago that would have been me and Dad with the tree, Mum mock scolding from the door. There would have been tins of Roses chocolate, too much booze, and enough food to feed the five thousand. Laura, arriving with a pile of presents if she’d just started a job; IOUs and apologies if she’d just left one. Dad and Uncle Billy, arguing about nonsense, flipping a coin to settle a bet. Mum getting emotional and putting “Driving Home for Christmas” on the CD player.

  Mark would say I’m looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses, but I can’t be alone in wanting to remember only the good times. And rose-tinted or not, my life changed forever when my parents died.

  Suicide? Think again.

  Not suicide. Murder.

  Someone stole the life I had. Someone murdered my mother. And if they murdered Mum, it followed that Dad didn’t kill himself, either. Both my parents were murdered.

  I grip the handle of Ella’s pram more tightly, unsteadied by a wave of guilt for the months I’ve raged against my parents for taking the easy way out—for thinking of themselves above those they were leaving behind. Maybe I was wrong to blame them. Maybe leaving me wasn’t their choice.

  * * *

  • • •

  Johnson’s car showroom is on the corner of Victoria Road and Main Street, a beacon of light at the point where shops and hairdressers give way to flats and houses on the outskirts of town. The fluttering bunting I remember from my childhood has long gone, and heaven knows what Granddad would have made of the iPads tucked under the sales reps’ arms or the huge flat-screen scrolling that week’s special deal.

  I cross the forecourt, navigating Ella’s pram between a sleek Mercedes and a secondhand Volvo. The glass doors slide soundlessly open as we draw near, warm air luring us in. Christmas music plays through expensive speakers. Behind the desk, where Mum used to sit, a striking girl with caramel skin and matching highlights taps acrylic nails on her keyboard. She smiles at me and I catch the flash of diamante fixed to one of her teeth. Her style couldn’t be more different from Mum’s. Perhaps that’s why Uncle Billy hired her; it can’t be easy coming in to work, day after day. The same, but different. Like my house. Like my life.

  “Annie!”

  Always Annie. Never Anna.

  Uncle Billy is Dad’s brother, and the very definition of “confirmed bachelor.” He has a handful of female friends, content with Friday-night dinners and the occasional jaunt to London to see a show, and a regular poker night with the boys the first Wednesday of the month.

  Occasionally I’ll suggest Bev or Diane or Shirley join us for a drink sometime. Billy’s response is always the same.

  “I don’t think so, Annie, love.”

  His dates never become anything more serious. Dinner is always just dinner; a drink’s always just that. And although he books the nicest hotels for his trips to London and lavishes gifts upon his companion of choice, it’s always months before he sees her again.

  “Why do you keep them all at arm’s length?” I demanded once, after too many of what are known in our family as “Johnson G&Ts.”

  Billy winked at me, but his tone was serious. “Because that way no one gets hurt.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I wrap my arms around him and inhale the familiar mix of aftershave and tobacco, along with something indefinable that makes me bury my face in his jumper. He smells like Granddad did. Like Dad did. Like all the Johnson men. Only Billy left now.

  I pull away. Decide to just come out with it. “Mum and Dad didn’t commit suicide.”

  There’s a look of resignation in Uncle Billy’s face. We’ve been here before.

  “Oh, Annie . . .”

  Only this time it’s different.

  “They were murdered.”

  He looks at me without saying anything—anxious eyes scanning my face—then he ushers me into the office, away from the customers, and settles me into the expensive leather chair that’s been here forever.

  Buy cheap, buy twice, Dad used to say.

  Rita flops on the floor. I look at my feet. Remember how they used to dangle off the edge of the seat, and how, gradually, they stretched to reach the floor.

  I did work experience here, once.

  I was fifteen. Encouraged to think about joining the family business, until it became clear I’d have struggled to sell water in the Sahara. Dad was a natural. What is it they say? Ice to the Eskimos. I used to watch him sizing up customers—prospects, he called them. He’d take in the car they were driving, the clothes they wore, and I’d see him select the appropriate approach like he was choosing from a menu. He was always himself—always Tom Johnson—but his accent would slide a few notches up or down, or he’d declare himself a devotee of Watford FC, the Cure, chocolate Labradors . . . You could pinpoint the moment the connection happened; the second the customer decided they and Dad were on the same wavelength. That Tom Johnson was a man to be trusted.

  I couldn’t do it. I tried mimicking Dad, tried working with Mum on the desk and copying the way she smiled at customers and asked after their kids, but it sounded hollow, even to me.

  “I don’t think our Annie’s cut out for sales,” Billy said—not unkindly—when my work experience was up. No one disagreed.

  Funny thing is, sales is exactly where I’ve ended up. That’s what charity work comes down to in the end, after all. Selling monthly donations; sponsored children; legacies and bequests. Selling guilt to those with the means to help. I’ve been with Save the Children since I left uni, and it’s never once felt hollow. Turns out, I just never felt that passionately about selling cars.

  Billy’s wearing a navy pinstriped suit, his red socks and suspenders lending him a Wall Street air I know is entirely deliberate. Billy does nothing by accident. On anyone else I’d find the bling crass, but Billy wears it well—even if the suspenders are straining over his stomach slightly—with a touch of irony that makes him endearing rather than flashy. He’s only two years younger than Dad, but his hairline shows no sign of receding, and what gray there might be around his temples is carefully touched up. Billy takes the same care of his appearance as he does of the showroom.

  “What’s all this about, Annie?” He’s gentle, the way he always was when I fell over, or when I’d had a spat in the playground. “Tough day? I’ve been out of sorts myself today. Be glad when it’s over, to be honest. Anniversaries, eh? Full of memories.” Beneath the brusqueness there’s a vulnerability that makes me vow to spend more time with him. I used to come by the showroom all the t
ime, but since Mum and Dad died I’ve made excuses, even to myself. I’m too busy, Ella’s too small, the weather’s too bad . . . Truth is, it hurts to be here.

  “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 toward 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 and not from this morning.

  “Who’s running the shop, Uncle Billy?”

  He stared past me to the street, where an elderly couple were making slow progress along the sidewalk, 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 covered 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 underwear.” 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.”

  “I’m not sure there’s any point. We had six customers show up yesterday—all tire kickers.”

  “Tire kickers are just buyers who don’t know it yet.” Dad’s favorite 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 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?”

  “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 upset 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 annoyed him, 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 mother, and I’m going to find out who.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  MURRAY

  Murray Mackenzie swirled a tea bag 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 in 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 occasio
ns. Murray patted his pocket, but when he turned around—the polystyrene cup overfull in one hand—he realized the halfhearted 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 toward 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.”

  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.

  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.

  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 wasn’t conducive to making a witness feel relaxed. Not that Mrs. Johnson was likely to ever feel relaxed, given the purpose of her visit.