Murray Mackenzie swirled a tea bag around a polystyrene cup.
“Milk?” He opened the fridge and surreptitiously sniffed three cartons before finding one he could safely offer a member of the public in distress. And Anna Johnson was undoubtedly in distress. She was dry-eyed, but Murray felt uncomfortably certain crying was in the cards. He wasn’t good with tears. He never knew whether to ignore or acknowledge them, or whether nowadays it was politically correct to offer a neatly pressed handkerchief.
Murray heard a quiet murmur that could have been the precursor to sobbing. Politically correct or not, if Mrs. Johnson didn’t have a tissue to hand he would come to her aid. He didn’t use a handkerchief himself, but he had always carried one, like his father had done, for these very occasions. Murray patted his pocket, but when he turned around—the polystyrene cup overfull in one hand—he realized the halfhearted squeaking noise was coming from the baby, not from Mrs. Johnson.
Murray’s relief was short-lived, as Anna Johnson deftly whipped the baby from its carriage and positioned it horizontally across her lap, before pulling up her top and starting to feed. Murray felt himself blushing, which made him redden even more. It was not that he objected to women breastfeeding; it was simply that he never knew where to look while they did it. He had once adopted what he’d intended to be a supportive smile toward a mother in the café above M&S, only to have her glare at him and cover up as though he were some sort of pervert.
He fixed his gaze somewhere above Mrs. Johnson’s left eyebrow as he put down her tea as reverently as if he were serving it in a bone china cup. “I couldn’t find any biscuits, I’m afraid.”
“Tea is lovely, thank you.”
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.
As Murray had grown older he had become less and less able to judge other people’s ages, with anyone the right side of forty looking young to him, but Anna Johnson definitely hadn’t seen thirty yet.
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 wasn’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 adrenaline. 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 favor of something more pressing. “I came to see if you’d reopen 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 reopen 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 good, and it wasn’t long before Dad and Billy were running the show. Mum, too.” The baby was tired now, its eyes rolling 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.
“There was a story on the news once. Years ago. I was at home with my parents, and it was on in the background. Some young lad who’d driven a moped off Beachy Head. They’d recovered the moped but not his body, and they showed his mum on the television, crying because she couldn’t even give him a proper burial.” The baby strained uncomfortably and Anna shifted position and patted it on the back. “We talked about it. I remember Mum watching with her hands over her mouth, and Dad being angry with the boy for putting his parents through it.” She tailed off, pausing her rhythmic patting to stare intently at Murray. “They saw what that boy did to his mother, and they would never, ever have done it to me.”
Tears welled in the corners of Anna’s eyes, finding the lines of her narrow nose and running in tandem toward her chin. Murray held out his handkerchief, and she took it gratefully, pressing it against her face as though brute force alone could hold back the tears.
Murray sat very still. There was much he could have said about the impact of suicide attempts, but he suspected it wouldn’t help Anna. He wondered if she’d been given the right support all those months ago. “You should have received a leaflet from the officers who dealt with your parents’ deaths. There are charities that support people bereaved by suicide. Groups you can go to; people you can see on a one-to-one basis.”
Some people found shared experiences a lifeline. They thrived in group therapy sessions, walking out stronger and better equipped to deal with their emotions. A problem shared . . .
But suicide support groups didn’t help everyone.
They hadn’t helped Murray.
“I saw a grief counselor.”
“Did it help?”
“I had a baby with him.” Anna Johnson gave a half sob, half laugh. Murray found himself laughing with her.
“Well, that does sound quite helpful.”
The tears had slowed. Anna’s smile was weak, but steady. “Please, Mr. Mackenzie. My parents didn’t commit suicide. They were murdered.” She pointed at the torn-up card. “And this proves it.”
It didn’t prove it. It didn’t prove anything.
But it did ask a question. And Murray had never been one to ignore an unanswered question. Perhaps he could take a look himself. Pull out the original files, read through the coroner’s reports. And when—if—there was something to investigate, he could hand over the package. He had the skills, after all. Thirty years in the job, and the best part of that on CID. You didn’t hand in your knowledge along with your warrant card.
He looked at Anna Johnson. Tired and emotional, but determined, too. If Murray didn’t help her, who would? She wasn’t the type to give up.
“I’ll request the files this afternoon.”
Murray had the skills, and he had the time. Lots and lots of time.