Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

  “I’ve been working on the Johnson job.” He searched for a spark of interest in Sarah’s eyes but found none. Murray’s heart sank. She had taken his litmus test, and the result reinforced what Murray already knew: that Sarah was heading into another difficult period. He felt as though he was flailing in deep water, halfway across the channel with no support boat. “Not that there’s much point now,” he added, and he couldn’t have said whether he was talking about Anna’s change of heart or the fact that the investigation was no longer the lifeline it had seemed to be for him and for Sarah.

  Sarah stopped eating. Deep lines furrowed her forehead as she looked at him.

  “Anna Johnson doesn’t want an investigation,” Murray said slowly, pretending he hadn’t seen her react; pretending he was talking to himself. He stared at a spot just to the right of Sarah’s plate. “So I don’t see why I should spend my spare time—”

  “Why doesn’t she want an investigation?”

  “I don’t know. She told me to drop it. She was angry. She hung up.”

  “Angry? Or scared?”

  Murray looked at Sarah.

  “Because if she’s scared it might sound like she’s angry. Like she doesn’t want you to carry on.”

  “She was certainly very clear about that,” Murray said, remembering the way Anna had slammed down the phone. “She doesn’t want my help.”

  Sarah was thoughtful. “She might not want it.” She picked at her sandwich, then pushed it away and looked at Murray. “But maybe she needs it.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  ANNA

  The phone echoes in the hall. It rarely rings—we both use our mobiles—and when it does it is usually a double-glazing cold call or an insurance scam. Mark makes to stand up, but I leap to my feet. It’s been two days since I put the phone down on Murray Mackenzie, and I’ve been on edge ever since, waiting for him to call back.

  “I’ll get it.” I haven’t told Mark about it. What could I say? Though he’d dismissed the anniversary card as nothing more than a sick practical joke, the brick through the window was a threat he couldn’t ignore. Every day he’s been on the phone to the investigating officers.

  “Apparently they’re ‘doing everything they can,’” he said after the last time. “Which doesn’t seem to be a lot.”

  “Can they get fingerprints?” The police have my parents’ DNA and prints. They took them from personal effects at home and at work, in the hope that if a body surfaced they would be able to identify it. I wondered if Dad knew that, if he’d have been careless with his mark. What will happen if they find his prints? They’ll know he’s not dead; they’ll realize Mum isn’t, either. The two of them are inextricably bound; if one goes to prison, the other surely will, too.

  Is that what I want?

  “Nothing on the note, and apparently brick’s a bad surface for prints.”

  The relief I feel takes me by surprise.

  “They’re waiting for DNA results on the elastic band.” He shrugged, already writing off any hope of a conclusion. In the meantime, the nursery window’s been repaired, and an order placed for front and back security lights.

  “Hello?” I say.

  The phone line is quiet.

  “Hello?” Fear pools in my stomach.

  Silence. No, not quite silence. A rustle. Breathing.

  Dad?

  I don’t say it. I can’t. Not only because Mark is listening, but because I’m worried my voice will betray me. That the anger that fills my heart and head for what Dad did to Mum—to me—will be overshadowed the second I start speaking. That the fear and hatred that has descended in the last week will be canceled out by twenty-six years of love.

  Twenty-six years of lies, I remind myself, steeling my heart and closing my mind to the memories that assault me: Dad, calling to say he’d be late; to wish me a happy birthday, when he and Billy were away with work; to remind me to study; to see whether we needed anything; to ask me to record Planet Earth.

  I press refresh on the images; see instead what I now know to be the truth. Dad, throwing my homemade paperweight against the wall in a fit of rage; relying on booze to get through the day; stashing bottles around the house; hitting Mum.

  I can’t put the phone down. I stand, feet frozen to the spot, receiver clamped to my ear. Desperate for him to speak, yet terrified of what he’d say.

  He says nothing.

  There’s a quiet click, and the line goes dead.

  “No one there,” I say when I return to the sitting room, in answer to Mark’s inquiring look.

  “That’s a bit concerning. We should let the police know. They might be able to trace the call.”

  Could they? Do I want them to? I can’t think straight. If the police arrest Dad, we will be safe. Mum will be safe. His fake suicide will be uncovered, and he’ll go to prison. Mum’ll be in trouble, too, but surely domestic abuse is mitigation enough? Women have been acquitted of more in similar circumstances.

  But.

  Maybe Dad used a phone booth. Maybe there’s CCTV. Maybe the police will trace the call; see the images. They’ll know that Dad is still alive, but he won’t be safely behind bars. Maybe he won’t ever be behind bars. Mum’s faked suicide will be uncovered, and Dad’ll still be out there. Still free. Still a threat.

  “It was one of those call centers,” I say. “I could hear the other operators in the background.”

  It seems once you start lying, it’s easy to carry on.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s eight o’clock when the text message comes. The television is showing a rerun of some early classic with Richard Briers that neither of us is watching. We’re both looking at our phones, scrolling through mindless Facebook updates, tapping “like” on every other one. My phone is on silent, the message appearing on my screen from a number I’ve saved under “Angela.”

  Now?

  My heart beats furiously. I glance at Mark, but he’s paying no attention. I tap a reply.

  I’m not sure about this.

  Please, Anna. I don’t know how much longer I can risk staying here.

  I tap another message. Delete it; tap another; delete that, too.

  How could I have even entertained the idea of bringing Mum here, introducing her to Mark? She’s supposed to be dead. Okay, so her hair’s different; she’s thinner; she looks older than she is. But she’s still my mother.

  He’ll know.

  I’m sorry—I can’t do this. I type out the message, but as I tap send the doorbell rings out, confident and clear. I look up, eyes wide in panic. Mark’s already on his feet, and I scramble to follow him into the hall, where it’s clear from the shape of the stained-glass silhouette that it’s her.

  He opens the door.

  If she’s nervous, she’s hiding it well.

  She looks him in the eye and extends a hand. “You must be Mark.”

  There’s a fraction of a pause before he responds. I move to stand next to him, although I’m convinced he’ll be able to hear my heart thudding, and as he waits politely for an explanation, I know I have no alternative but to continue the charade.

  “Angela! Mark, this is Mum’s second cousin. We bumped into each other yesterday and she said she’d love to meet you and Ella, so . . .” I tail off. The story Mum and I concocted as we walked along the seafront seems ludicrous now, the lies we’re feeding Mark making me sick to my stomach.

  But my lies are to protect him. I can’t have Mark implicated in my parents’ crimes. I won’t.

  He steps back with the broad smile of a man who is used to guests dropping in unannounced. I wonder if Mum sees—as I do—the concern behind this cheery facade. Concern because I’ve never mentioned a cousin before? Or because his emotionally unstable wife has apparently again forgotten to tell him she invited someone over? For
once I hope it’s the latter.

  I scour his face for signs of suspicion, for a flicker of recognition.

  Nothing.

  It’s only now that I realize how uneasy I’ve been about Mum’s handwriting on Mark’s flyer; that I needed this confirmation, despite the reassurance from both sides.

  “Hi, I’m Mark.” He extends a hand, then shakes his head and laughs at his formality, stepping forward instead to pull Mum into a warm embrace. “It’s great to meet you.”

  I breathe out.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Caroline and I had a stupid falling-out,” Mum says when we’re installed in the sitting room, glasses of wine in hand. “I can’t even remember what it was about now, but we didn’t speak for years and . . .” She breaks off, and I think she’s dried up, but she swallows hard. “And now it’s too late.”

  Mark rests an elbow on the arm of the sofa. His thumb on the base of his chin, he rubs his forefinger lightly along his top lip. Listening. Considering. Does he think it odd that “Angela” should suddenly turn up in Eastbourne, a year after my mother’s death? My eyes flick between Mark and Mum. She meets my gaze for a split second, then drops away. Looks for a tissue.

  “We can’t change the past,” Mark says gently. “We can only change the way we feel about it, and the way it affects our future.”

  “You’re right.” She blows her nose and tucks the tissue up her sleeve in such a familiar gesture it’s a moment before I can breathe again. Rita is sitting as close to Mum as it is possible to get, leaning so heavily that if Mum moved her legs, the dog would topple over.

  “You’re honored,” Mark says. “She’s usually wary of strangers.”

  I daren’t catch Mum’s eye.

  “It’s lovely to meet someone from Anna’s side. I know Bill, of course, and Caroline’s goddaughter, Laura, who’s practically family.” He gives me a sidelong glance, winking to neutralize whatever’s coming next. “Another one for the top table.”

  “You’re getting married?”

  “No,” I say, and laugh because that’s what Mark’s doing. I shift in my seat.

  “Maybe you can persuade her, Angela—I’m not having much luck.” It’s a throwaway comment, meant as a joke.

  “But you’re so young, Anna!”

  “I’m twenty-six.” As if she didn’t know that. Hadn’t carried me for nine months when she was younger than I am now.

  “You shouldn’t rush into anything.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence. Mark coughs.

  “Are you married, Angela?”

  “Separated.” She glances at me. “It didn’t work out.”

  Another awkward pause follows, while Mum and I think about the way that separation came about, and Mark thinks about . . . what? The face of a good counselor gives nothing away.

  “How long are you planning on being in Eastbourne?” I ask.

  “Not long. Till New Year’s Day, that’s all. Enough time to see the people who matter, and avoid those who don’t.” She laughs.

  Mark grins. “Where are you staying?”

  A red flush colors Mum’s cheeks. “At the Hope.” Mark’s face is impassive, but Mum’s embarrassment intensifies. “Things are a bit tight and . . . anyway, it’s only for a few nights. It’s fine.”

  “Why don’t you stay with us?” He looks at me for confirmation, even though the offer’s already been made. “We’ve got plenty of room, and it would be lovely for Ella to spend time with you.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “We insist. Don’t we?”

  I daren’t look at Mum to see if the alarm in her eyes mirrors my own. She thought she was safe. She thought Dad would never track her down. If he knows she’s here . . .

  “Of course,” I hear myself saying. Because what explanation could I possibly give for saying no?

  “In fact, you’d be doing me a favor. I’ve got some appointments I can’t cancel, and it would be great to know I’m not leaving the girls on their own.”

  He means me. He’s worried I’m having some kind of breakdown. He’s not that far off the truth.

  “Well, if you’re sure . . .”

  “We’re sure.” Mark speaks for us both.

  “Then I’d love to. Thank you.”

  Mark turns to me. “Maybe Laura could come over. Do you know Laura, Angela?”

  Her face is white, despite the pasted-on smile. “I . . . I don’t think we’ve met.”

  I make my smile match theirs. Tell myself it’s all going to be fine. Mark will be at work. I can tell him Laura’s got yet another new job, or that she’s away with friends. As long as I can keep Mum indoors, out of sight, there’s no reason why anyone should suspect a thing.

  And Dad?

  My pulse picks up.

  I try telling myself he won’t want to come here, where people might recognize him. Mum was hiding out up north—that’s where he found her. He’ll be looking for her there.

  Except . . .

  Suicide? Think again.

  He sent the card. He threw the brick. He knows what Mum did. He knew I’d been to the police. Somehow, he can see exactly what’s happening in this house. If he doesn’t already know Mum’s at Oak View, I have no doubt he soon will.

  My pulse quickens. Did Dad ring the house because he thinks Mum’s here? Was he hoping she’d pick up? Give him the confirmation he needs?

  If Mum had only gone to the police when Dad first mentioned his absurd scheme, none of this would ever have happened. Mum wouldn’t have felt the only way to escape was a fake suicide, and I wouldn’t be here now, harboring a criminal. She should never have done it.

  She should never have helped him disappear.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  I would have done it unaided, if it had been possible.

  It wasn’t.

  The practicalities alone made it too hard for one person. One car to leave at Beachy Head, another to drive us back. Witnesses to fabricate, tracks to cover, evidence to destroy. Even with two of us, it was a struggle.

  We could have asked Anna for help. We could have told her everything, promised her the world if she’d lie for us. But I didn’t want to involve her; didn’t want to make a mess of her life, the way I’d made a mess of my own.

  Now she’s up to her neck in it anyway.

  She’s frightened. I don’t like it, but there’s no other way. My lies are unraveling, and unless the police back off, everything we did is going to be splashed across the papers, and I’ll be heading for a prison cell—if they can find me.

  I thought I had no choice but to involve someone else.

  I wish I’d tried harder.

  If I’d done it alone, I wouldn’t have had to put my trust in another person. I wouldn’t have had to lie awake at night, wondering if secrets were being spilled.

  If I’d done it alone, I could have kept the money.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  MURRAY

  Murray woke to the sound of the radio. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling until the grit had cleared and he was properly awake. Sarah had fallen asleep on the sofa the previous evening, and although he had known she wouldn’t make it upstairs, he was still disappointed to see that her half of the bed was untouched.

  The radio was loud. Someone was washing their car, or doing their garden, with little thought for whether anyone else on the street wanted to listen to Chris Evans. Murray swung his legs out of bed.

  The spare room was empty, too, the duvet still downstairs on the sofa. Sarah had an appointment at Highfield today. Murray would try to speak to Mr. Chaudhury alone. Tell him how Sarah had been over the last day or two.

  He was halfway down the stairs when he realized the radio was coming from inside
the house. In the sitting room, the curtains were drawn and Sarah’s duvet was neatly folded on the sofa. From the kitchen, Chris Evans laughed at his own joke.

  “Tosser. Play some music.”

  Murray’s soul lifted. If Sarah was swearing at radio presenters, she was listening to what they were saying. Listening meant stepping out of her own world into someone else’s. Something she hadn’t been doing yesterday, or the day before that.

  “No tossers on Radio 4.” He joined her in the kitchen. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and a faint smell of sweat clung to her. Her gray hair was greasy, and her skin still dull and tired. But she was awake. Upright. Making scrambled eggs.

  “What about Nick Robinson?”

  “I like Nick Robinson.”

  “He’s a tosser, though.”

  “He’s a Tory. It’s not the same thing.” Murray stood next to the stove and turned Sarah to face him. “Well, not always. How’s today shaping up?”

  She hesitated, as though she didn’t want to commit, then nodded slowly. “Today feels like it might be okay.” Tentatively, she smiled at him, and he moved forward to kiss her.

  “Why don’t I take over here, and you can go have a quick shower?”

  “Do I stink?”

  “You’re a tiny bit fragrant.” Murray grinned as Sarah opened her mouth to object, before rolling her eyes good-naturedly and heading for the bathroom.

  * * *

  • • •

  Murray was finishing a call when Sarah emerged. He put his mobile in his pocket and took out the two plates from the oven, where they had been keeping warm.

  “I don’t suppose you feel up to a shopping trip, do you?”

  Sarah’s face pinched, her lips tightening, even as she tried to be supportive. “It’ll be busy.”

  Murray generally avoided shops between Christmas and New Year, and judging from the adverts on TV, the sales were already in full swing. “Yes.”