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.
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 weren’t conducive to making a witness feel relaxed. Not that Mrs Johnson was likely to ever feel relaxed, given the purpose of her visit.
‘I think my mother was murdered,’ she’d announced on arrival. She had eyed Murray with a determined air, as though he might be about to disagree. Murray had felt a rush of adrenalin. A murder. Who was duty DI today? Oh … Detective Inspector Robinson. That was going to rankle, reporting to a whippersnapper with fluff on his upper lip and five minutes in the job. But then Anna Johnson had explained that her mother had been dead a year, and that in fact a coroner had already ruled on the death and pronounced it to be suicide. That was the point at which Murray had opened the door at the side of the front desk and invited Mrs Johnson in. He suspected they were going to be some time. A dog trotted obediently at her feet, seemingly unfazed by its surroundings.
Now, Anna Johnson twisted awkwardly behind her and took a handful of paper from inside the pram. As she did, her T-shirt rode up to reveal an inch of soft stomach, and Murray coughed hard and stared fiercely at the floor, wondering how long it took to feed a baby.
‘Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death.’ She spoke loudly, with a force Murray guessed was an attempt to override emotion. It made her voice strangely dispassionate, and at odds with her troubled eyes. ‘This came in the post.’ She thrust the bundle of paper at Murray.
‘I’ll get some gloves.’
‘Fingerprints! I didn’t think … will I have destroyed all the evidence?’
‘Let’s see what we’ve got first, Mrs Johnson, shall we?’
‘It’s Ms, actually. But Anna is fine.’
‘Anna. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ Murray returned to his seat and stretched the latex over his hands, in a gesture so familiar it was comforting. Putting down a large plastic evidence bag on the table between them, he laid out the pieces of paper. It was a card, crudely ripped into four.
‘It didn’t come like that. My uncle …’ Anna hesitated. ‘I think he was upset.’
‘Your mother’s brother?’
‘Father’s. Billy Johnson. Johnson’s Cars on the corner of Main Street?’
‘That’s your uncle’s place?’ Murray had bought his Volvo from there. He tried to remember the man who had sold it to him; pictured a smartly dressed fellow with hair carefully coiffured over a bald patch.
‘It was my granddad’s. Dad and Uncle Billy learned the trade with him, but they went off to work in London. That’s where my parents met. When Granddad fell ill Dad and Billy went back to help him, then they took over the business when he retired.’
‘And now the business belongs to your uncle?’
‘Yes. Well, and me, I suppose. Although that’s a mixed blessing.’
Murray waited.
‘Trade’s not great at the moment.’ She shrugged, careful not to disturb the baby in her arms. Murray made a mental note to return to the detail of who had inherited what from Anna’s parents. For now, he wanted to examine the card.
He separated the pieces of card from the sections of envelope, and laid them out together. He noted the celebratory image on the front of the card; the cruel juxtaposition with the anonymous message inside.
Suicide? Think again.
‘Do you have any idea who might have sent this?’
Anna shook her head.
‘How widely known is your address?’
‘I’ve lived in the same house all my life. Eastbourne’s a small place; I’m not hard to find.’ She switched the baby expertly from one side to the other. Murray examined the card again, until he concluded it was safe to look up. ‘After Dad died, we got a lot of post. Lots of sympathy cards, lots of people remembering cars he’d sold them over the years.’ Anna’s face hardened. ‘A few weren’t so nice.’
‘In what way?’
‘Someone sent a letter saying Dad would burn in hell for taking his own life; another one just said, “Good riddance”. All anonymous, of course.’
‘That must have been incredibly upsetting for you and your mother.’
Anna shrugged again, but it was unconvincing. ‘Crackpots. People pissed off because of cars that didn’t work out.’ She caught the look on Murray’s face. ‘Dad never sold a lemon. Sometimes you get a dud, that’s all. People want someone to blame.’
‘Did you keep these letters? We could compare them to this one. See if it’s from someone holding a grudge.’
‘They went straight in the bin. Mum died six months later and …’ She looked at Murray, her train of thought abandoned in favour of something more pressing. ‘I came to see if you’d re-open the investigation into my parents’ deaths.’
‘Is there anything else that makes you suspect they were murdered?’
‘What more do you want?’ She gestured to the card, lying in pieces between them.
Evidence, Murray thought. He took a sip of his tea to buy himself time. If he passed this to DI Robinson now, it would be dismissed by the end of the day. CID were up to their necks in live investigations; it would take more than one anonymous note and a funny feeling to make them re-open a cold case.
‘Please, Mr Mackenzie, I need to know for certain.’ The control that Anna Johnson had shown all the time they’d been talking was starting to crack. ‘I never believed my parents would kill themselves. They were full of life. Full of ambition. They had big plans for the business.’ The baby had finished feeding. Anna propped it on her knee, one outstretched hand beneath its chin, the other rubbing circles on its back.
‘Your mother worked there too?’
‘She did the books and front-of-house.’
‘Quite the family business.’ Murray was heartened to hear there were still a few of them about.
Anna nodded. ‘When Mum was pregnant with me, she and Dad moved to Eastbourne to be closer to Dad’s parents. Granddad wasn’t doing too well, and it wasn’t long before Dad and Billy were running the show. Mum, too.’ Tired now, the baby’s eyes rolled in their sockets like drunks in the cells on a Saturday night. ‘And when she wasn’t working, she was raising money for her animal charity, or out campaigning.’
‘Campaigning for what?’
Anna gave a short laugh. Her eyes glistened. ‘Anything. Amnesty International, women’s rights. Even bus services – although I don’t think she ever took a bus in her life. When she got behind something she made things happen.’
‘She sounds like a wonderful woman,’ Murray said softly.