‘Nicely played.’
Murray listened as James passed the address to control room. As soon as the call was finished, Sussex would pass the information to the Metropolitan Police, who would whir into action; the CAD Room despatching officers left, right and centre. Silent approach … All officers to hold at the RV point. Firearms officers waiting for threat assessments, authorisations. An ambulance en route. Negotiators on stand-by. Scores of people, all working towards the same aim.
All hoping to get there in time.
‘That’s that, then,’ James said. He put down his mobile. ‘I hate these cross-border jobs. We do the legwork and MetPol get the collar.’ He gave a rueful shrug. ‘Frustrating, you know?’
Murray knew. Only he realised that, right now, he didn’t feel frustrated. He didn’t want to be there for the collar, for the body count, for the tea and medals.
He wanted to go home.
He cared what happened to Anna and Ella – of course he did – but he had finally understood what he should have realised a long time ago. Crimes weren’t solved by a single detective: they were solved by a team. Murray had been a good detective, but he wasn’t indispensable. No one was.
‘Murray.’ James was hesitant. ‘It was my team who dealt with the Johnson suicides originally. It was me who signed off the coroner’s files.’
‘We all miss things, James. Caroline did a proper job – it was practically watertight.’ Caroline. Murray’s brain wouldn’t switch off. How had Caroline got Tom’s body into the septic tank on her own?
‘I was newly promoted. Wanted to get stuck in to GBHs, sexual assaults, you know? Real crimes. I was too quick to get things off my desk.’
Murray remembered his own early days on CID. He remembered the buzz when a ‘good’ job came in; the collective groans when stretched resources were tied up with investigations going nowhere. If he’d been in James’s shoes, who was to say he wouldn’t have done the same thing?
He let the younger man off the hook with a light touch on his arm, his mind still on Caroline. ‘It doesn’t get much more real than this.’
Who had helped Caroline dispose of the body?
‘I’m going to take the team back to the office. You’re welcome to join us – wait for an update?’
‘Thanks, but I’m going to head home. See in the New Year with Sarah.’ Murray looked out into the garden, where the tent had been zipped closed and a uniformed officer stood sentry, a thick black scarf wound around his neck.
‘Don’t blame you. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear from the Met.’
They stood up. On the wall, next to Murray, was a corkboard, and he looked idly at its contents as he waited for James to gather his paperwork. A pregnancy scan had pride of place in the centre. A wristband from some festival or other dangled from a pin on the frame, a relic from Anna’s life before the baby. There was a wedding invitation – evening reception only – and a thank-you note from Bryony for the lovely flowers – filled two vases!
And at the bottom, on the right-hand side, was a flyer.
That was it.
The final piece of the puzzle.
It wasn’t euphoria Murray felt. Just relief – that his previously sharp memory hadn’t failed him. He had finally remembered what he had seen on Diane Brent-Taylor’s noticeboard. And – more importantly – he knew exactly what it meant.
‘One last thing,’ he said to James, as the two men walked towards their respective cars. He wondered, as he said it, if he might subconsciously want to hang on to the information – to check it out himself and claim the credit when everything fell into place – but he found that he didn’t. In fact, he was glad to let it go.
‘Yes?’
‘I know who helped Caroline Johnson get rid of the body.’
SIXTY-FOUR
ANNA
There’s a noise from the landing. The quiet ‘ping’ of the lift as it announces its arrival. I look at Mum, but her eyes are fixed on the door.
‘Who is it?’ I whisper, but she doesn’t answer.
Could it be the police?
Mark would have called them as soon as we left Eastbourne; they know we’re here. And now that they’ve found Dad’s body, they must know what she did – they must realise who I’m with … I pin my hopes on Mark and Murray, on them adding two and two and making four.
‘Open the door. I know you’re in here.’
The rush of relief makes me so heady I almost laugh. Not the police, but the next best thing.
Mum doesn’t move, but I do. I’ve been stupid. The black Mitsubishi Shogun wasn’t chasing us; it was trying to make Mum stop. I run to the door and yank it open, because suddenly we’re two against one and I feel invincible.
‘Thank God you’re here.’
I’m braced for attack from behind, not in front. It catches me square in the chest and forces me backwards, where I just manage to hold Ella aloft as I trip and land on the floor. I let out a moan. My head is trying to catch up with what my eyes are telling me is happening.
This is no rescue.
Laura shuts the front door and bolts it. She’s wearing skinny black jeans with high heels and a shimmery top, dressed for a party she won’t be attending. Our New Year’s Eve party. Her hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders and her eyes smoulder with glittery greys and greens. She ignores me, directing her anger at Mum, who is backing slowly away towards the balcony.
‘You double-crossing bitch.’
SIXTY-FIVE
I can still remember Laura’s face.
She stood in the doorway, her features frozen in horror.
‘I rang the bell. The door was open, so …’ She stared at your body. The blood was congealing. The ceiling lights were reflected in the sticky gloop on the floor – a halo of silver around your head. ‘What happened?’
I’ve thought a lot about that moment. About what I said. Would things have been different if I’d explained to her it was an accident? That I’d lost my temper, lashed out? That drink made me do things I hadn’t planned to do?
‘I killed him.’
The colour drained from her face.
I felt my muscles spasm and I realised I’d been in the same spot since I … since you fell. I straightened. Remembered I was still holding the neck of the bottle. I dropped it, and it fell with a thud. Rolling, not breaking. It made Laura jump.
The sound jolted me into action. I picked up the phone but didn’t dial. My hand shook.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Calling the police.’ I wondered if being drunk made it better or worse. An aggravating factor to be under the influence, or mitigation that I didn’t know what I was doing?
‘You can’t call the police!’ Laura crossed the kitchen and took the phone out of my hand. She glanced at you again and I saw her wince as she took in the seeping mess from behind your ear. ‘Caroline, you’ll be arrested! They’ll put you in prison.’
I sank onto a chair, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. There was a strange smell in the kitchen, a metallic, sour odour of blood and sweat and death.
‘You could get life.’
I imagined what it would be like to live my life in a prison cell. I thought of the documentaries I’d seen. I thought of Prison Break and Orange Is the New Black, and wondered how close they were to the truth.
I thought, too, of the help I might get.
Because you were right, Tom, it was no way to live. I kidded myself that I didn’t have a problem, because I didn’t wake up shaking, or sit in a park with a can of Special Brew. But I shouted at you. I taunted you. I hit you. And now I’d killed you.
I had a problem with alcohol. A big problem.
‘I’m calling the police.’
‘Caroline, think about this. Think carefully. Once you make that call, there’s no going back. What’s happened is …’ She shudders. ‘God, it’s awful, but you can’t undo it. Going to prison isn’t going to bring Tom back.’
I looked at the series of photographs printed on canvas and hung above the Aga. You, me and Anna, lying on our stomachs wearing blue jeans and white T-shirts. Laughing. Laura followed my gaze. She spoke quietly.