On the left-hand side of his paper he jotted down the home addresses of everyone with the surname Brent in a twenty-five-mile radius of Eastbourne. If he had to widen the search, he would, but for now he was working on the basis that the witness had been local. Next, Murray began a new list, of all the addresses occupied by people with the surname Taylor.
It was half an hour before he got a match.
Bingo.
Twenty-four Burlington Close, Newhaven. Occupied by a Mr. Gareth Taylor and a Mrs. Diane Brent.
Murray looked up with a broad smile on his face. The only person around to see it was John, Murray’s dour colleague who had been confused to see Murray arrive at work an hour previously.
“I thought you were on leave till the New Year?”
“I’ve got a few bits to fill in on my PDR.”
John’s confusion had grown. No one voluntarily worked on their personal development record unless they were going for a new job or prepping for promotion boards. As for doing it on your own time . . .
Now John looked at Murray with complete bafflement. “I’ve never seen anyone look so happy to do their PDR.”
“Just taking pride in my work, John.” Murray whistled as he made his way out of the station.
* * *
• • •
Twenty-four Burlington Close was a quiet cul-de-sac off Southwich Avenue in Newhaven, halfway between Eastbourne and Brighton. Murray waited a moment before ringing the doorbell, taking in the carefully tended flowerpots around the front door and the No Cold Callers sign in the frosted window. A shadow moved toward him as he reached for the white plastic button, and he realized Mrs. Brent-Taylor must have seen him pull up on the drive and been waiting in the hall. She opened the door before the chime had died away. A dog barked from somewhere in the house.
Murray introduced himself. “I’m investigating a case I think you might have had some involvement in. May I come in?”
Mrs. Brent-Taylor narrowed her eyes. “I have to pack for my daughter’s. It’s her turn to do Christmas.”
“It won’t take long.”
She stepped back from the open door. “I can only give you half an hour.”
As welcomes went, Murray had had worse. He smiled and thrust out his hand in a way that made it impossible for Mrs. Brent-Taylor not to take it. She glanced around as if the neighbors might already be passing judgment.
“You’d better come in.”
The hall was dark and narrow. There were an umbrella stand and two pairs of shoes on the floor, and an organized bulletin board on which Murray could see a variety of leaflets and reminders. Something caught his eye as he passed the board, but he was ushered on into the depths of the house.
He was momentarily confused to be directed up a flight of stairs, but his bearings became clear as he reached the top to find a large open-plan living space and floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view of the sea.
“Wow.”
Diane Brent-Taylor appeared at the top of the stairs a full minute after Murray. She seemed mollified by his compliment, the corners of her mouth curling slightly in what seemed to pass for a smile. “I’m very fortunate.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“It’ll be twenty years in March. If I move now it’ll be into a bungalow.” She gestured to a mustard-colored sofa and took the chair next to it. She sank into it with an audible exhalation.
Murray hesitated. He had finessed his line of questioning on the way here, starting with the identity of Mrs. Brent-Taylor’s lover. After all, it was entirely possible that Brent-Taylor had refused to give a statement not just to hide her extramarital activity, but because she—or her lover—had been involved in Tom Johnson’s death. Could Diane Brent-Taylor have been protecting someone?
But now he felt entirely wrong-footed.
Mrs. Brent-Taylor was in her late seventies. Possibly even in her eighties. She wore the sort of trousers his mother would have described as “slacks,” teamed with a busily patterned blouse in colors significantly more cheerful than its wearer. Her blue-tinged hair was set in rigid waves, close to her head, and her nails were painted a pale coral.
It was, of course, possible that Mrs. Brent-Taylor had a lover. But given the time it had taken her to climb the stairs, and the walking stick he had glimpsed propped up behind her armchair, Murray felt it was unlikely she had been gallivanting around Beachy Head with him.
“Um, is your husband home?”
“I’m widowed.”
“I’m so sorry. Was it recent?”
“Five years last September. May I ask what this is about?”
It was becoming increasingly clear that either Murray had the wrong house or . . . There was only one way to find out. “Mrs. Brent-Taylor, do the names Tom and Caroline Johnson mean anything to you?”
She frowned. “Should they?”
“Tom Johnson died at Beachy Head on the eighteenth of May last year. His wife, Caroline, died in the same spot on the twenty-first of December.”
“Suicide?” She took Murray’s silence as agreement. “How dreadful.”
“Tom Johnson’s death was reported to police by a witness giving your name.”
“Giving my name?”
“Diane Brent-Taylor.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. I mean, I’ve been to Beachy Head, obviously—I’ve lived in or around the area all my life—but I’ve never seen anyone jump off. Thank God.” She muttered this last to herself.
What were the chances of there being two Diane Brent-Taylors in the Eastbourne area?
“It’s an unusual name.”
“It isn’t properly double-barreled, you know,” Mrs. Brent-Taylor said defensively, as though this exonerated her. “My husband liked the sound of them together. He thought it went down well on the golf course.”
“Right.” Murray steeled himself. It was already clear that today’s excursion had been a wild-goose chase, but he wouldn’t be doing his job properly if he didn’t cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. “So, just to clarify, you definitely didn’t call 999 on the eighteenth of May 2016 to report seeing a man throw himself off the cliffs at Beachy Head.”
Mrs. Brent-Taylor narrowed her eyes. “I may be getting on a bit, young man, but I still have my full faculties.” Murray just managed to stop himself thanking her for the misplaced compliment.
“One final thing—and I apologize if this seems a little impertinent—is it at all possible that on the eighteenth of May last year you might have been on Beachy Head with someone else’s husband?”
Within seconds Murray found himself standing outside 24 Burlington Close, with the door slammed firmly in his face. Really, he thought, Diane Brent-Taylor moved quite quickly when she wanted to.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
ANNA
Running feet make a pleasing sound on wet tarmac. My trainers feel strange after what must have been a year at the bottom of the under-stairs cupboard, and my leggings cut into the soft flesh around my waist, but it feels good to be moving. Out of the habit, I have forgotten my headphones, but the rhythmic sound of my own breathing is hypnotic. Reassuring.
Mark’s mum, Joan, has come for Christmas, and as soon as she arrived, early this morning, she and Mark practically press-ganged me into letting her take Ella out.
“It’ll give her a chance to get to know me.”
“A little break will do you good, sweetheart.”
“And don’t you dare do housework. You’re to put your feet up and read a magazine.”
“Go back to bed, if you want to.”
Reluctantly I packed Ella’s bag with diapers and expressed milk, issued Joan a list of instructions I knew she’d ignore, and walked around my house, looking for ghosts.
The house was too quiet, the ghosts all in my head. I drove myself mad sniffi
ng the air for jasmine; screwing shut my eyes in an effort to better hear voices that weren’t there. There was no way I’d sleep, or even settle for a few minutes with a magazine, so I went upstairs to put on my running things. The landing was darker than normal, the piece of board over the nursery window blocking out the light.
I run past a parade of shops, colorful lights strung like bunting across the street.
Tomorrow is Christmas Day. I wish I could go to sleep tonight and wake up on Boxing Day. Last year Mum had been dead for four days. Christmas didn’t happen; no one even pretended to try. This year the weight of expectation sits heavily on my shoulders. Ella’s first stocking, her first time on Santa’s knee. Our first Christmas as a family. We are making memories, but every one is bittersweet.
“Do you have to work today?” I asked Mark this morning.
“Sorry. Christmas is a difficult time for a lot of people.”
Yes, I wanted to say. Me.
* * *
• • •
My lungs are burning and I haven’t run more than a mile. The year before last I did the Great South Run; now I can’t imagine making it to the beach without collapsing.
The main street is thronged with harassed shoppers buying last-minute presents. I run into the road to skirt the queue at the butcher’s, customers snaking down the road for their turkeys and chipolatas.
I haven’t been paying attention to my route, but as I turn the corner I see Johnson’s Cars at the end of the road. My pace falters. I put one hand on the stitch in my side.
On Christmas Eve Mum and Dad would always shut up shop at lunchtime. They’d lock the doors and gather the staff, and I’d fill sticky glasses with sweet mulled wine, while Billy and Dad handed out the bonus checks, and “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day” piped through the speakers.
I could turn back. Take the side street on the left and double back toward home. Put Mum and Dad, and the police investigation, and the smashed nursery window out of my mind for a few more hours.
I could.
I don’t.
* * *
• • •
“Run, Annie, run!”
Billy is walking across the forecourt. He’s pumping his arms as though he’s sprinting, and I laugh because he looks ridiculous and he doesn’t care. He comes to a halt a few feet away from me and does half a dozen star jumps before stopping abruptly.
“Hope the lads don’t put that on YouTube.” He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “Christ, I haven’t done that since Jane Fonda was on the box.”
“Maybe you should. YouTube?” I stretch, feeling my hamstring burn as I push down on my extended leg.
“CCTV.” Billy gestures vaguely up and around us. “Used to be dummies, but the insurance company insists on real ones now. And trackers on the cars, after . . .” He breaks off, reddening. After two partners in the business made off with brand-new cars, abandoning them in the public car park at Beachy Head to be recovered by police.
“Billy, someone threw a brick through the nursery window last night, just after you left.”
“A brick?” A couple browsing the forecourt look up, and he lowers his voice. “Christ alive . . . Is Ella okay?”
“She was still downstairs with us. She sleeps with us at the moment anyway, but we could have been changing her, or put her down for a nap, or . . . It doesn’t bear thinking about. The police came straightaway.”
“Do they think they’ll be able to find out who did it?”
“You know what they’re like. ‘We’ll do our best, Miss Johnson.’”
Billy made a dismissive sound.
“I’m scared, Billy. I think Mum and Dad were murdered, and I think whoever killed them wants to stop us finding out more. I don’t know what to do.” My voice cracks and he opens his arms and wraps me in a bear hug.
“Annie, sweetheart, you’re getting yourself in a state.”
I pull away. “Do you blame me?”
“The police looked into your mum and dad’s deaths—they said they were suicides.”
“They were wrong.”
We look at each other for a second. Billy nods slowly.
“Then I hope they know what they’re doing this time.”
I point to a black Porsche Boxster in pride of place on the forecourt. “Nice wheels.”
“Picked it up yesterday. Wrong weather for it, of course—probably won’t shift till the spring—but I’m hoping it’ll pull in the customers.” There’s a worried look in his eyes.
“How bad is it, Uncle Billy?”
He says nothing for the longest time, and when he eventually speaks, he keeps his eyes trained on the Porsche. “Bad.”
“The money Dad left you—”
“Gone.” Billy gives a bitter laugh. “It paid off the overdraft, but it didn’t touch the loan.”
“What loan?”
Silence again.
“Billy, what loan?”
This time he looks at me. “Your dad took out a business loan. Trade had been slow for a while, but we were doing okay. You have to ride the rough with the smooth in this game. But Tom wanted to do the place up. Get the lads using iPads instead of carrying clipboards; smarten up the forecourt. We had a row about it. Next thing I know, the money’s in the account. He went ahead and did it anyway.”
“Oh, Billy . . .”
“We fell behind with the repayments, and then . . .” He stops, but I hear the rest of his story in my head. Then your dad topped himself and left me with the debt.
For the first time in eighteen months, Dad’s suicide starts to make sense. “Why haven’t you told me this before?”
Billy doesn’t answer.
“How much is the loan? I’ll pay it off.”
“I’m not taking your money, Annie.”
“It’s Dad’s money! It’s right that you have it.”
Billy turns so he’s standing square on to me. He puts his hands on either side of my shoulders and holds me firmly. “First rule of business, Annie: keep the company money separate from your own money.”
“But I’m a director! If I want to bail out the business—”
“It’s not how it works. A company needs to stand on its own two feet, and if it can’t . . . well, then it shouldn’t be in business.” He cuts across my attempts to argue. “Now, how about a test-drive?” He points at the Boxster. Our conversation is over.
I learned to drive in a Ford Escort (Start with something sensible, Anna), but once I got my license, the sky was the limit. In exchange for valeting every weekend, I’d borrow cars from the forecourt, knowing I risked the wrath of both my parents and Uncle Billy if I didn’t bring them back in mint condition. I never developed the same speed gene as my mother, but I learned how to handle fast cars.
“You’re on.”
The wet roads mean the Boxster’s a little tail-happy on bends, and I head out of town so I can open her up. I grin at Billy, enjoying the freedom of a car with no baby seat in the back. A car with no backseats at all. I catch a worried look on his face.
“I’m only doing sixty-two.”
Then I understand it’s not the speed Billy’s concerned about, but the sign for Beachy Head. I hadn’t been thinking about where we were going; I’d been enjoying the feel of a responsive engine, of a steering wheel that twitched like a live thing beneath my hands.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional.”
Billy hasn’t been to Beachy Head since Mum and Dad died. On test-drives he takes people the other way, toward Bexhill and Hastings. I glance to the side and see his face, pale and crumpled, reflected in the nearside mirror. I take my foot off the accelerator, but I don’t turn around.
“Why don’t we take a walk? Pay our respects.”
“Oh, Annie, love, I don’t know . . .”
“Please
, Uncle Billy. I don’t want to go on my own.”
There’s a heavy silence; then he agrees.
I drive to the car park where Mum and Dad left their cars. I don’t need to look for ghosts here; they’re all around us. The paths they trod, the signs they passed.
I last came on Mum’s birthday, feeling closer to her up here than in the corner of the churchyard where two small plaques mark my parents’ lives. The cliffs look the same, but the questions in my head have changed. No longer “why” but “who.” Who was Mum with that day? What was Dad doing up here?
Suicide? Think again.
“Okay?”
Billy nods tightly.
I lock the car and take his arm. He relaxes a little, and we walk toward the headland. Focus on the good times, I think.
“Remember that time you and Dad dressed as Laurel and Hardy for the summer party?”
Billy laughs. “We argued over who got to be Laurel. And I won, because I was the short arse, only then—”
“Then the two of you got pissed and fought about it all over again.” We burst out laughing at the memory of Laurel and Hardy rolling around the showroom floor. Dad and Uncle Billy fought in the way only brothers fight: fast and furious, and over as soon as it began.
As we walk we fall into a companionable silence, interspersed with occasional snorts of laughter as Billy recalls the Laurel and Hardy night all over again. He squeezes my arm.
“Thank you for making me come. It was about time I faced up to it.”
We’re standing on the cliff top now, safely back from the edge. Neither of us has a proper coat on and the rain is coming from all directions, soaking through my running jacket. Out at sea a small boat with red sails cuts through choppy gray water. I think of Mum, standing where we are now. Was she scared? Or was she here with someone she trusted? Someone she thought was a friend. A lover, even—although the thought sickens me. Is it possible my mother had been having an affair?
“Do you think she knew?”
Billy doesn’t say anything.
“When she came up here. Do you think she knew she was going to die?”