A Game For All The Family (38 page)

“You know who killed Perrine,” Lisette raised her voice to be heard over the song. “You know it not because of anything you saw, but because it’s the only possibility.”

“In the night, the golden spurs ring. In the dark, the leather boots shine. Don’t come tapping at my window now your heart no longer is mine . . .”

“You know when it was done, and why.”

“Don’t come tapping at my window now your heart no longer IS MINE!”

“You know why Perrine’s bed was dismantled, taken and reassembled on the jetty. The police would never work that out, would they, Sandie? Not unless we tell them. And we have to. We have to explain to them why Perrine’s killer or killers decided to make life difficult by taking apart furniture and putting it back together again.”

“
No!
” Allisande roared. “We tell the police nothing!”

“We must, Sandie. It’s the right thing to do. Telling the truth is right, and sticking together is even more right.”

“No! Lionel the boatman did it! He’s always hanging around that jetty!”

“Don’t be silly—he didn’t come to the house. How would he have gotten Perrine?”

“All I know is, he’s
exactly
the sort for whom taking apart a bed and putting it back together again would be no problem at all. I bet he wouldn’t even need the instruction leaflet!”

“You know Jetty Lionel had nothing to do with it,” Lisette snapped tearfully. “All right, then, if you won’t tell the truth, I will. I’ll go to the police right now.”

“No, you won’t.” Allisande smiled a menacing smile. “Because if you do, then as soon as you come home, I’ll kill you, sister dear.”

14

I
t’s up to you, El,” says Alex. “If you want to go, you can go.” He looks at me to check that I haven’t changed my mind.

Ellen’s standing by the front door in her school uniform, with her satchel over her shoulder. “I have to go to school somewhere,” she says. “And even though it’s sad being at Beaconwood now that George is gone, at least he was there once. If I started at a different school, there wouldn’t be any memories of being there with George or of meeting him there. It would be worse.”

“Then you should go,” I say, shocked all over again by the strength of her feelings. I didn’t love anyone as much as Ellen loves George until I was in my early twenties. “Alex, can you walk her down to the bus? Take Figgs?”

“We can do that, can’t we, Figgs?”

Please let her tell him soon about her plan to marry George.
I need him to reassure me it won’t happen, that Ellen and George will both come to their senses by the time they reach marriageable age.

Whatever she says, Ellen’s feelings for George are not platonic. Her eyes light up and her voice changes when she mentions his name. If they got married, it would be a disaster. George would fall in love with somebody eventually—the kind of love that would count for more than the friendship bond he has with Ellen—and that would break her heart. Meanwhile, if it took him too long to realize his mistake, Ellen might have missed out on her chance to have children.

“You sure you’re okay with me going, Mum? Not long ago you were dead against.”

“That was . . .” I clear my throat. “I’ve been a bit all over the place, El, but I was wrong to say that. I don’t approve of the way Lesley Griffiths and her staff have behaved over the George business, but they were in a tricky situation. Now that the Donbavands have extricated themselves from Beaconwood, I’m hoping it’ll revert to normal.”

“No school is normal,” says Ellen. “Any building with more than five people in it is going to contain weirdness. People just
are
weird.”

I wonder if she’s wiser than I am. It wouldn’t be hard. Maybe she and George will marry and live happily ever after, always loving each other best in the world. What do I know?

It’s a beautiful crisp morning. The kind of morning when even the grave that a malevolent stranger has dug in your garden without permission can’t spoil the view. I stand in the doorway, watching as Ellen, Alex and Figgy disappear over the hill and out of sight. The fading voices I hear are talking not about mixed-orientation marriages but about when we’ll be able to start watching
The Good Wife
again, or will Mum always say she’s not in the mood, like she’s started saying every night?

I can’t help it. How can I immerse myself in fictional intrigue when I know Lisette Ingrey might be outside with a spade, moving earth around to create two more graves?

I realize the implication of “two more”: that the one already there is going to remain as it is.
Unthinkable.
I’ve left it too long already. I’m going to fill it in today. The contents of the hole are sitting beside and around it, in mounds on my lawn. I’ll push them back in. Have we got a spade? Can I do it with my bare hands?

I think of Stephen Donbavand’s red, mud-lined palms, and shudder.

I’m on my way out to the shed to see if there’s a shovel there when the phone rings.

Her again. This time there’s no hello, no “It’s me.”

“You’ll never find me!” she says, her voice flailing and shaky, as if she’s been screaming at me unheard for hours and has only just this second thought to call me so that I can hear her. “You don’t know the name of my house, do you? If you did, it would be no use to you anyway. I’ve covered up the name, but I can find you. I know where you live, so I’ve got the advantage.”

“So why did you cover up my house sign with the name of your boat,
Tide Glider
?” I say. “I mean, I can see the logic in covering
your
house sign if you think it’ll help you to hide from me, but why mine when, as you say, you know where I live, and, obviously, so do I?” The more out-of-control she sounds, the calmer I feel. This isn’t a woman with a clear head and a strategy. It’s not the voice of someone who can’t be outwitted. “Why swap around the names of so many houses and boats—was it because you wanted to disguise the fact that this was a thing just between you and me? Your family and mine? Would that have been too obvious, Anne? Created a link between us that even the dumbest policeman would be unable to deny?”

“How do you know what my boat’s called?” Her voice rises and gathers speed. “How do you know I’ve got one? I haven’t got a boat!”

“I know quite a lot about you. I know your husband has a mug in his office with ‘150% of statistics are wrong!’ on it. I’ve seen the blisters on his hands from digging up my lawn at your request—ouch. You should make him see a doctor, Anne. Those sores need treatment. He could get septicemia.”

“I hope you get it!”

“Why would I get septicemia?”

“I’m going to laugh and laugh when you choke on mud and die!”

“Actually, I’m just about to replace the mud you . . .” I stop. Someone’s pounding on the front door.

“Mum! Open!”

Ellen.
I drop the phone and run faster than I knew I could. Why isn’t she on the school bus?

She looks all right. Scared but unhurt. “What’s happened? Where are Dad and Figgy?”

“Following me,” she pants, out of breath. “George’s mum was there.”

“What?”

“She was at the bus stop, leaning against her car. Waiting for me. I knew it was her—she looks exactly like George. And then she smiled and beckoned me—like this!” Ellen does the gesture with her index finger. “I totally freaked out and ran.”

“Ellen!” Alex is running toward the house. “Go inside, both of you.”

At first I think Figgy’s not there because he’s not running alongside Alex. Then I see him in Alex’s arms, a little gray bundle with surprised eyes. Figgy can run faster than any of us. If he’s being carried, it means Alex thinks he needs protecting.

“What’s going on?” I shout.

“She’s coming—followed me up from the bus stop and didn’t try to be subtle about it.” As Alex crosses the threshold, he looks over his shoulder. “You should see her face. I think there’s going to be trouble. Let’s lock the door.”

“Mum, seriously, she’s in full beast mode,” says Ellen. “I think she knows.”

“About . . .” I nearly said “the engagement.”

“About George’s visit! She’s going to go mad.”

“This is . . . what does ‘full beast mode’ mean?” I ask. “Is she showing signs of violence?”

“Violence? I don’t know,” says Alex. “From her face, I wouldn’t rule it out. No one’s ever looked at me like that before.”

“She’s here,” I say. Alex and Ellen turn to look. Fifty meters away, beyond the open grave in our garden, Anne Donbavand is standing where the lawn starts to slope down to the river.

“Dad, keep hold of Figgy,” says Ellen. “Keep him well away from her.”

“Can’t we all keep well away?” Alex asks me. “We don’t have to speak to her, and if necessary we can call the police and ask them to remove her from our land.”

“Did either of you see her on a mobile phone?” I ask.

Alex nods. “She was speaking on one while she was following me. Looking angry. That wasn’t . . . ?”

“Yup. My not-so-anonymous-anymore caller.”

“Mum, why the fuck—sorry—is she just
standing
there?”

Very slowly, Anne Donbavand starts to walk toward our house.

I am very calm. I say to Alex, “Go to the kitchen. Take Ellen and Figgy. I’ll deal with her.” I sound like someone with a plan. That must be why Alex doesn’t argue, when I am half-hoping he will.

I consider, then rule out, calling the police. A woman is walking toward my house, that’s all. I have no evidence that I or my family are in danger. The police would be unhelpful, and I’ll stand a better chance against whatever danger there is if I don’t surround myself with unhelpful people.

What will I say when Anne gets close enough for us to speak? Will she start the conversation, or is that down to me? I’m the host, and she has arrived at my house. I can’t imagine myself saying, “Hello, Anne.” The only things I can picture myself doing are nonverbal. Violent. Perhaps I am the dangerous one.

Anne walks a curve around the open grave. Apart from the distinctive tunnel-effect eyes, she looks ordinary. Dark brown, shoulder-length straight hair in no particular shape or style. Royal blue wool coat buttoned to her knees, hands in her pockets. Black trousers, black boots with square heels, blue and brown checked shoulder bag.

Her face is not still. Her lips, eyebrows, nose, the skin around her cheekbones—all these parts are moving constantly, almost imperceptibly, as if someone’s tugging them this way and that behind the scenes. Either she has a neurological condition that causes twitching or else she’s rehearsing the exchange we’re about to have. Isn’t that most likely? Inside her head, a dramatic scene is playing out. She’s arguing, winning, enjoying it. Trying not to mouth the words. By and large, she’s succeeding, but I can see the effort.

As she comes closer, the facial tremors become less frequent. By the time she’s standing in front of me, they’ve stopped; she’s abandoned her imaginary conversation in preparation for our real one.

“I took the
Tide Glider
sticker off my sign,” I tell her. “I’ve still got it if you want it back. Did it ever end up in the papers, do you know, the feature about the day the houses and the boats swapped names?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m too busy to read newspapers.”

Newsspaperss.

It’s her. That voice: the not-quite lisp. My last doubt smoothes itself away, flattens into absolute certainty.

“It must have taken you ages to have those stickers made,” I say. “Did you delegate it to your husband? Like the digging?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about stickers or house signs.”

“Or digging?”

“Are you Justine Merrison?” What she says matters more to her than what I say, clearly. Her hard stare warns me that this will remain the case, however long we spend talking.

“Pardon? Oh right—you’re pretending not to know who I am. Yes, I’m Justine. Though you prefer to call me Sandie, remember?”

“I’ve never called you anything before. This is the first time we’ve met.”

“Met, yes. Spoken, no. I’m surprised you don’t recognize my voice. I recognize yours from all your threatening phone calls, including the one about ten minutes ago.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re Ellen’s mother?”

“Yes. Justine Merrison, Ellen’s mother, and therefore not your sister Allisande Ingrey.”

“Who?”

“Well . . . yes! Good point. Because we both know Allisande doesn’t exist.”

Anne stares at me coldly. “I have no idea what you mean. May I come in? I need to discuss something with you.” She looks over my shoulder into the hall.

“We can talk here. I’m not letting you in.”

“What? No, not here. I’d like to come inside.”

“But you can’t.”

“Why not, for heaven’s sake?”

“Because you’re disturbed and dangerous. You think you’re someone called Lisette Ingrey, but you’re not. Or maybe you don’t really think it. Maybe you’re pretending because it suits you to do so.”

Not a flicker of guilt or discomfort in her eyes. “No, you’re the one pretending. Wait—let’s call it what it is: lying. You’re making up lies about me—which is no surprise, I have to say. The thing is . . .” She glances at her watch. “I need to get to work, and I have a problem I need to discuss with you, so I’d appreciate it if you would stop talking rubbish and let me in.”

“No.” Could she push past me? Will she try? “You don’t have a right to come in if I want to keep you out, and I do. This is my house, not yours. It’s never been your house.”

She flinches at that. Which, if she doesn’t believe she’s Lisette Ingrey who grew up in Speedwell House, makes no sense.

“I don’t know what’s real in your mind and what’s an act,” I tell her, “but you’ve told your children that you’re Lisette Ingrey. That your sister Perrine murdered Malachy Dodd and was then murdered. Somehow this led to Allisande, your other sister, wanting to kill you, and so you and your family all had to change your names, and George and Fleur aren’t ever allowed to do anything or go anywhere in case that gives the dreaded Allisande an opportunity to get to them. That’s what George and Fleur believe, isn’t it? They believe it because it’s what you’ve told them.”