Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

  “Beats me.”

  “I shall haunt you, when I’m gone.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Why not? I would have thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant . . . Oh, never mind.” Don’t talk about dying, he’d meant. He looked out the window. The sky was clear and sprinkled with stars, and Murray had a sudden memory of lying in the park when he and Sarah first got together, pointing out the constellations they knew, and making up names for the ones they didn’t.

  “That’s the Plow.”

  “And there’s the Porcupine.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Idiot yourself.”

  They had made love on the damp grass, moving only when their empty stomachs reminded them they hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.

  “Fancy a walk?” Murray said now. “Once around the block?”

  Instantly the spark in Sarah’s eyes was replaced with anxiety. She drew up her knees to her chest, hugging them close, her fingers gripping Caroline’s datebook like they were glued to it.

  It was new, this fear of being outside. Not agoraphobia—not according to her consultant—just another small piece of the anxiety mosaic that was Murray’s beautiful, funny, intensely complex wife.

  “No problem.” He waved an arm, dismissing the idea and, with it, the hope that Sarah was ready to come home. Small steps, he thought. It was Friday. Christmas wasn’t till Monday. There was plenty of time to get her home. “Anything leap out at you?” He indicated the datebook. Slowly, now that he wasn’t suggesting she leave the premises, Sarah’s muscles began to unwind. She opened the book, looking for a particular date.

  “Did the daughter say anything about a zoning objection?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Sarah showed him the page, a month before Caroline had died, on which a reference number had been noted, beneath the reminder zoning objection. “People get very het up about zoning permission.”

  “Het up enough to kill someone?”

  “Nowt so queer as folk.”

  Murray brought up the Eastbourne zoning portal on his phone and peered at the reference on the appointment book, tapping it in with his forefinger. “It’s an application for an extension.” He found the applicant’s name. “Mr. Robert Drake.” Murray remembered the list of friends and relatives who had consoled Caroline Johnson the day of her husband’s death. “He lives next door to Anna Johnson.” Murray scanned the summary. “It was rejected. Although it looks like he’s trying again now—there’s a linked appeal.”

  “You see. There’s your motive, Poirot.”

  “There were thirty-four objections. I’d better check they haven’t all been bumped off.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Go on, take the piss out of my theories . . . What’s your money on, Detective?”

  Murray wasn’t a betting man. There were enough variables in life without seeking out more, and the picture around the Johnson investigation was far from clear.

  Suicide? Think again.

  “Caroline Johnson’s suicide was a carbon copy of her husband’s,” he said, as much to himself as to Sarah. “The similarities added weight to the coroner’s verdict, not least because of details from Tom Johnson’s death that had never been released to the press.”

  The Gazette had run an obituary following Tom’s death. The family had been well-known locally, the business handed down through three generations. The story had referred to the personal effects left on the cliff top, the car abandoned in the parking lot, but not to the rucksack Tom had filled with rocks. The only people privy to that piece of information had been the family, and the woman who witnessed Tom’s suicide: Diane Brent-Taylor.

  Murray thought about the anonymous card sent to Anna, the rabbit on the doorstep. He thought about the convenience of a suicide at high tide, leaving no bodies to spill their secrets on the slab. Both Tom and Caroline had researched tide times, but why would it matter to either of them if their bodies were found? It all seemed too convenient. Too . . . staged.

  Sarah took in her husband’s thoughtful expression. “What is it?”

  “I’ve got no evidence . . .”

  “Instinct first, evidence later. Isn’t that what you used to say?”

  Murray laughed. He had worked on that basis for most of his career, and it hadn’t let him down yet. He was a long way from knowing exactly how Tom and Caroline Johnson had died, but all his instincts pointed one way.

  “You think she was murdered, don’t you?”

  Slowly, Murray nodded. “I think they both were.”

  Sarah looked thoughtful. She returned to Caroline’s datebook, flicking through the bundle of loose flyers and business cards tucked into the back of the book. She picked one up and held it in front of her.

  “I thought you said Mark Hemmings hadn’t met the Johnsons.”

  “He didn’t; they’d died before he and Anna met.”

  “Not according to this.”

  Murray took the flyer Sarah was holding up. Mark Hemmings, Dip.ST., DipSTTS, MA (Psych), UKCP (Accredited), MBACP. He turned it over. In handwriting he recognized from the many lists in Caroline Johnson’s datebook was a note: 2:30 P.M., Wednesday, 16 November.

  Sarah turned to the relevant page of Caroline’s datebook, on which the same appointment was noted. She looked at Murray. “He’s lying.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  ANNA

  At six the doorbell rings. I open the door to find Uncle Billy standing there, a bottle of wine in hand. I stare at him blankly.

  “You hadn’t forgotten, had you?”

  “Of course not! I was miles away. Lovely to see you.” I pull him into a hug to hide my lie. “Sorry for storming out yesterday.”

  He shrugs off my apology. “Heat of the moment. Think nothing of it. Now, where’s my gorgeous great-niece?”

  We head for the kitchen and I give Ella to Billy, who holds her awkwardly, as though he’s guessing the weight of a marrow at the county show. She keeps reaching for his nose, which makes him laugh, and the pair of them look so sweet I pick up my phone and take a quick snap. There’s a text from Mark.

  Running late, sorry x

  I fire off a quick reply.

  No worries. Billy here for supper x

  Great.

  I put my phone away and smile brightly at Uncle Billy. “Mark’ll be home soon. He’s really looking forward to seeing you!”

  Billy’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Great.”

  I pour myself a large glass of wine. Pregnancy and breastfeeding have broken the drinking habits created by my parents, but tonight I think I’m going to need this.

  Dad loved telling the story of how—aged six and learning to read a clock—I was tested by friends of my parents who were over for drinks.

  “What time is it, Anna?”

  “Wine o’clock,” I chimed. I don’t remember it; can’t even be sure it wasn’t just one of Dad’s stories, although it has the ring of truth about it.

  It’s past seven when Mark gets home, full of apologies and carrying a huge bunch of Stargazer lilies.

  “Sorry,” he says as he hands them to me, and I know he’s not talking about being late.

  “Me, too,” I say softly.

  “Good to see you.” Mark pumps Billy’s hand enthusiastically. I hover beside them, my cheeks aching from the force of my smile.

  “You, too. Looking after this one, I hope.”

  “Billy, I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

  Mark winks at me. Let it go. “I’m doing my best, Bill. How’s business?”

  “Never better.”

  As Billy walks ahead of us, into the sitting room, Mark shoots me a confused look. I shake my head.

  Since Dad died, profits have plummeted, a
nd Billy’s struggling. Dad’s half of the business passed first to Mum and then to me, but I haven’t even begun to make sense of it. I told myself maternity leave was the perfect time to sit down and go through everything—to learn how the business works—but I underestimated the demands of a tiny baby. I’m lucky if I get time to read the back of a cereal box. All I know is the headline figures, and they don’t look good.

  Now isn’t the time to call Billy out. I leave Mark fixing drinks and retreat to the kitchen. When I return, the two men are sitting in silence. I rack my brain to think of something Mark and Billy have in common, besides me.

  “Oh! Tell Billy about Ella dancing.” I prod Mark, who looks perplexed. “When you put Guns N’ Roses on?” I pause, but he’s still not with me. “And we turned around and she was waving and kicking her legs and it was in time with the music, and she looked like she was dancing.”

  “Right! Yes. Well, that’s it, really. Like she was dancing.”

  Billy laughs politely. This is excruciating. It’s a relief when the doorbell rings. Mark jumps up, but I get there first. “It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here tonight!” I say brightly.

  I have never been so relieved to see anyone as I am to see Laura.

  “I just dropped by to see how you were, after yesterday.” She surveys me. “Are you all right? You look a bit manic.” I drag her inside and into the kitchen, shutting the door.

  “You have to stay for supper.”

  “I can’t. I have plans.”

  “Laura, please! You have to save me. I love Billy dearly, and I love Mark—obviously—but I’m fast coming to the conclusion that they can’t be in the same place at the same time.”

  “Are they arguing again?”

  “No, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  Laura laughs. “It’ll cost you.”

  I hold up the bottle of wine in one hand, an empty glass in the other.

  “Done.”

  Sure enough, when we walk into the sitting room, the men are in full flow.

  “There was no such thing as mental health in my day. Therapists, counselors, mumbo-jumbo claptrap. You just got on with it.”

  “Which is probably why we’re seeing such a huge fallout from it now.”

  “Do you think World War II pilots called in sick with stress? With depression?”

  “I think we’re only now starting to understand the—”

  “Bloody snowflakes.”

  I cut in. “Look who I found!” I present Laura as though she’s just jumped out of a cake. “Now it’s a proper dinner party.”

  “Laura!” Billy stands and hugs her. “You with us for Christmas, love?”

  “Not this year. I’ve got a boozy lunch booked with some mates. Four Bridget Joneses and as much prosecco as we can handle.” She grimaces, but I know she’s looking forward to it. She slides onto the sofa next to Billy. “Talk cars to me. Mine’s on its last legs and I don’t know what to replace it with.”

  “I’ve got a three-year-old Skoda I could do a good price on.”

  Laura wrinkles her nose. “That wasn’t quite the look I was going for.”

  “There’s an MX-5 that might be more up your street, although it depends on your budget. Tell you what—try a few out for size. Take the Skoda for a day or two, and anything else you fancy, and see how they drive.”

  With the conversation safely steered away from the value, or otherwise, of Mark’s job, I return to the kitchen.

  Wine has blunted the barbed edges of Billy’s and Mark’s comments, and by the time we’ve finished eating, I finally relax.

  “I see your neighbor’s going for zoning permission again.” Billy is mellow, no longer looking to point-score over Mark. I’m grateful to them both.

  “He’s made a few changes since he was knocked back. It’s a bit less Grand Designs now.”

  “It was the light Caroline was worried about.” Laura points to the window, where the outside light illuminates the patio and the fence between our garden and Robert’s. “It’ll completely overshadow your garden. You should put in an objection.”

  “I wouldn’t want to fall out with Robert.” He might be irritating, but he was very kind when Mum and Dad died, and I don’t want to cause any awkwardness.

  “The system’s there for a reason,” Laura says. “It doesn’t have to get personal. You just fill out a form and say why you oppose the plans.”

  Mark frowns. “Maybe we should, Anna. A big extension will make it very dark in here. That could really affect the market value.”

  “But we’re not selling,” I say.

  I don’t care about next door’s extension. Mum had an argument with Robert over it when he first applied. Dad had been gone only a month, and Mum’s responses to everyday situations were—understandably—a little erratic. When the corner shop ran out of bread, she launched into a verbal tirade that had the poor girl behind the counter shaking. I led Mum away and put her to bed. The girl from the shop was very sympathetic when I went back to apologize. Everyone was. Robert, too. Mum became obsessed by his zoning application. She latched on to it like it was a life raft, reading up on conservation areas and listed buildings and gathering support from other residents on the street. I don’t even know how much she really cared about the extension. It was another project for her to get her teeth into, like the fund-raising appeal for the Cypriot dog rescue charity, or the Brexit rallies she’d tagged along on. When Mum found a project, she stuck with it. I couldn’t have cared less if Robert had been building a soccer stadium in his back garden. We were dealing with our grief in different ways.

  “We’re not selling now, but eventually . . .”

  “Not ever!” I push my chair back with unnecessary force.

  The silence that ensues would be uncomfortable, were it not for Ella, snoozing in her bouncy chair, who screws up her face and grunts out a loud and exceptionally noxious fart. Everybody laughs. The moment passes.

  “We should put her to bed, I suppose,” Mark says, making no move to do so.

  “Leave her. I don’t think it matters where you sleep when you’re two months old.”

  “Two months already!” Billy says.

  “I know. It goes so fast.”

  “About time you made an honest woman of Anna, isn’t it, Mark?”

  I start clearing the plates.

  “It’s not for want of trying.”

  “There’s no rush, Uncle Billy. We’ve got a baby together—that’s more of a commitment than a wedding ring.”

  “I tell you what,” Billy says. “I reckon a big wedding’s just what this family needs, after everything that’s happened.” His lips are stained purple from the red wine. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “We don’t want your money, Bill.”

  Laura sees my face and jumps in. “You’d best get yourself on Tinder, Billy, if you’re that desperate for a wedding. We’ll be your bridesmaids, won’t we, Anna?”

  I shoot her a grateful glance.

  “Nice idea, but I don’t think there’s much of a market for overweight car salesmen past their prime.”

  “Oh, come on, Uncle Billy—you’re quite the eligible bachelor. Nice house, good business, own teeth . . . They are your own teeth, aren’t they?”

  I leave them laughing and start stacking the dishwasher.

  The first time Mark proposed was the night I told him I was pregnant. I said no. He didn’t have to do that.

  “It’s not about having to—I want to. I want to be with you. Don’t you want to be with me?”

  I skirted the question. I did—of course I did—but I wanted him to want me for my sake, not for our baby’s.

  He asked twice while I was pregnant, and again just after Ella was born. I almost said yes that time, lying in a post-birth glow, filled with drugs and the euphoria of having created the tiny life
that lay sleeping in my arms.

  “Soon,” I promised.

  Like most women, I’ve imagined my wedding. The identity of the groom has changed over the years—from six-year-old Joey Matthews when I was in primary school, through a series of unsuitable boyfriends, to a couple of almost suitable ones—but the congregation has remained constant. Friends. Billy. Laura.

  Mum and Dad.

  When I think about marrying Mark, all I can think about is who won’t be there to see it.

  It’s late by the time Billy and Laura leave. I walk out with them and wave them off, glad of the cold air to clear my wine-filled head. I wrap my arms around myself and stand on the sidewalk, looking back at the house. I think about Mark’s suggestion that we sell up and start afresh, and even though I know he’s right, the very thought of leaving Oak View hurts.

  I glance next door. There are lights on downstairs and one on what I assume must be the middle landing. The pink zoning notice Billy saw is fixed to the gate with plastic cable ties, tiny print explaining the process for lodging a complaint. I suppose there’ll be a consultation period, an address for people to write to, should they object to the plans.

  I can’t help but feel there are more important fights to have than one over whether Robert Drake’s extension will block light to our kitchen. Unlike my parents, who seemed at times to thrive on confrontation, I’m filled with dread at the idea of entering into a dispute with a neighbor. Perhaps it’s being an only child, with no sibling warfare to toughen me up, but the hint of an argument is more likely to push me to tears than fire me up for retaliation.

  I’m just walking back to the house when there’s a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. The night air is disorienting; I can’t tell where it came from. As I open the front door I catch a glimpse of Mark, running upstairs. Seconds later he calls out. I run up the stairs.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  There’s a gust of cold air in Ella’s nursery, and the open curtains blow into the room, the glass behind them shattered. I let out a cry.