A Game For All The Family (32 page)

The policeman had turned bright red. “You’re right,” he said. “I suppose it’s just so rare that someone’s entire family tells me they’re a killer—I assumed it must be true.”

“It is true,” said Sorrel.

“Even if it is,
he
shouldn’t say so!” Lisette protested. “His standards of evidence should be higher. Perrine deserves a fair trial, however evil we might think she is. We might be wrong!”

“You are right, miss,” said the policeman. “And if everyone has finished with the breakfast buffet, I will now go upstairs and arrest young Perrine, so that we can proceed as quickly as possible to that fair trial that we all agree she should have.”

As he left the room with Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey following behind him, Mrs. Dodd called out, “I don’t agree she deserves a fair trial! I think she should be hung, drawn and quartered in front of a large audience.”

“It’s ‘hanged,’ you illiterate fool!” said Mrs. Butcher, and Mrs. Dodd retaliated with an obscenity-strewn character assassination of Mrs. Butcher. Mrs. Butcher then did something that surprised everyone. She walked over to where Mrs. Dodd was sitting, put her face right in front of Mrs. Dodd’s and chanted defiantly, “You know what? You know what? You know what? I don’t care.” (The rhythm was similar to when Eminem raps, “My name is . . . my name is . . . my name is . . . Slim Shady.”)

All the aggression and swearing sent Mrs. Sennitt-Sasse over the edge. She started to chant frantically, “
Pas devant, pas devant, pas devant
. . .” as if she too were a white rapper. There was such a commotion going on that at first no one noticed when Sorrel, white-faced and shaking, reappeared in the drawing room. Bascom and the policeman followed close behind her.

“Mum?” said Allisande, rushing to her mother’s side. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Perrine,” stammered Sorrel. “She’s . . . she’s not there! She isn’t in her room. She’s missing.”

12

S
o, Mr. Colley, to be sure I’ve got this right: you were woken by the sound of your dog barking excessively, and you judged the barking to be coming from outside. You went to investigate, and found that a large hole had been dug in the lawn immediately in front of your house, and that your wife had fallen into it.”

“That’s right,” says Alex.

Every morning has to start with a policeman. That’s the new law. Today it’s DC Euan Luce again, standing in the corner of the drawing room, holding his notebook at a forty-five-degree angle as if his ambition is to be a human lectern.

Alex and Ellen got dressed, knowing he was coming. I’m still in pajamas, robe and flip-flops, in accordance with my no-proper-clothes-before-lunchtime rule.

I take a few deep breaths to quell the accelerating tide of rage that’s coursing through me. Luce has said “large hole” several times and not “grave,” which is what I told him I’d fallen into.

“And you didn’t see anyone?” he asks Alex. “You’re sure?”

“No, but it was dark and I didn’t look. My only concern was pulling Justine out of that . . . pit, and calming Figgy down. He was going bananas.”

“I slept through it,” says Ellen.

“It isn’t a pit or a hole,” I say. “It’s a grave. She promised me three, remember? This is the first.”

“Not necessarily,” says Luce. “The . . . recess you fell into isn’t coffin-shaped.”

It’s like being hit in the face with a sock full of stupidity.

“Are you serious? Have you never attended a funeral?”

“Several.”

“A burial?”

Luce’s face stiffens.

“No? Then take it from me, because I have. There’s only one coffin-shaped thing at a burial, and that’s the fucking coffin.”

“Justine,” Alex murmurs.

“I’m sure DC Luce has heard worse, Alex. I’ll swear if I want to—and everyone else can try not to make me want to. How about that? A game for all the family!”

“All right, point about shape of graves taken,” says Luce.

“What’s happening on the call-tracing front?” I ask him.

“It’s proved more difficult than we’d anticipated. Whoever’s behind the telephone harassment has taken steps to cover their tracks. Still, it’s not all disappointing news. The last call, you think, was the one to the landline that your husband answered, correct? And the caller ended it without speaking?”

“Right,” says Alex.

“That’s good, then. That’s a move in the right direction, from verbal antagonism and direct threats to silence, from longer calls to a shorter one. Let’s hope hearing your voice will have put this woman off, Mr. Colley.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Why the hell is Alex nodding along?

“Wait,” I say. “The woman—and let’s stop being coy and call her by her name: Anne Donbavand—has not been
put off.
That’s why she came around in the middle of the night and
dug a grave
in my garden! Does that sound like the action of a deterred person to you?”

“I think DC Luce means that it’s possible the digger was someone else,” says Alex. “In which case, the caller might have been scared away by getting me instead of you, at least for the time being.”

“For God’s sake, do you honestly think two separate people are—”

“Ms. Merrison, did you say Anne Donbavand?” Luce interrupts.

“Yes. Don’t tell me you know her.”

“Wife of Steve Donbavand?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“I know Steve very well. We’re part of a group that organizes charity fun runs every so often to raise money for good causes. I doubt very much indeed that his wife—who’s a university professor—has ever vandalized anyone else’s property or made threatening phone calls. Steve’s one of the most likeable men I’ve ever met.”

“Of course he is.” I roll my eyes. “Every monster needs a weak, likeable sidekick to collude with them in their tyranny.”

“Please put the idea of this caller being Anne Donbavand out of your mind,” says DC Luce firmly. “Take it from me: it isn’t her.”

“Why? Because you’re mates with her husband? Does she speak in the way I described to you last time? Almost a lisp, but not quite?”

“I’ve exchanged no more than a couple of brief hellos with her, so I couldn’t tell you. It’s more likely the caller is someone you know, holding a grudge—”

“Except I’ve told you she isn’t—remember?”

Luce looks blankly at me.

“I understand why you find it hard to believe,” I say. “You’ve watched the same movies I have, where a threatening figure from someone’s past rings up and says, ‘It’s me.’ The caller always knows a guilty secret about the heroine, don’t they? It doesn’t make for a good story to have the heroine say cheerfully, ‘Sorry, I’ve no idea who you are. Bye!’ ”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know my anonymous caller, but I think I know her name: Professor Anne Donbavand. No, I’m not one hundred percent sure. You think I’m wrong, so how about a bet?” I suggest. “Five grand.”

“Justine, for Christ’s sake.” Alex covers his face with his hands.

“Shut up, Dad,” says Ellen. “Five grand’s too much, though. A grand.”

DC Luce glances at his watch. “We need to move this dialogue on,” he says. “I have to be somewhere else ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, sorry to keep you,” I say. “Next time I’ll try to fall into an unmarked grave when you’ve got more free time.”

“Are you going to investigate what happened here last night?” Alex asks him. “I mean, grave or not, someone trespassed on our property last night and spent what must have been several hours digging up our lawn.”

“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Colley. We’ll look into it, of course, but at that time of night, dark, no one around—we’ll be lucky if we find anything.”

“Improve your odds by looking in the Donbavands’ house. There’s probably a muddy shovel on the kitchen table. Not that you’d be swayed by that. She’s a professor, so even with a muddy shovel, she
must
be innocent!”

“Your attitude doesn’t help,” says DC Luce.

“It helps me.”

“If you’re worried, go and stay with a friend for a while, but in my opinion the risk to you isn’t as great as you imagine it to be.”

“And Figgy’s silver tag? What about that?” I snap. “Someone had that made who wasn’t us. That person attached it to his collar. Is that another example of the anonymous caller being put off?”

“As I’ve just said: Why not go away for a while?”

“And then what? When could we come back?”

If we leave, the harassment will stop, and the police will stop investigating it, assuming they ever started. However long we waited before coming back, the malicious campaign would start again as soon as we crossed the threshold of Speedwell House.

No. No way am I going to let anyone drive me out of my home.

“Are you going to question Anne and Stephen Donbavand?” I ask Luce. “Will you carry on trying to trace the calls?” I make sure not to look at him as I speak. I want him to know I’ve given up on him, that I’m asking only to highlight his inadequacy.

“Yes to the latter. If you really want me to talk to Steve and his wife, I will, but—”

“I do. Tell them I’m not prepared to put up with their antics indefinitely. I’m going to fight back, and they won’t like any of the things I do.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Luce frowns. “Making threats is inadvisable, and that sounded like a threat.”

“Did it? Good,” I say. “Your job is to make sure the Donbavands believe I really mean it.”

Ops, who has no idea that this is how I and my family refer to him, calls me on my mobile at noon. “Justine? That you? I can hardly hear you.”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Shall I call back when you’re somewhere less noisy?”

“No, please . . .” I can’t say
Please talk to me now.
It would sound too desperate. “Wait, I’ll cross the road and get away from the beach noise.”

I’m in Torquay with Figgy, on the promenade. I did some internet research and found a sensible-sounding website that said nothing bad would happen to a puppy taken for a walk before its second set of vaccinations as long as it didn’t come into direct contact with other dogs.

I decided to believe it. I needed—need—to be in a crowded, busy place, not hidden from the rest of the world by a screen of trees so that no one would see if something happened to me. And Figgy’s safer here than at home.

Alex and Ellen have gone to the cinema. They also didn’t want to stay at Speedwell House, staring out of the window at the grave in the lawn.

We can’t go on like this. Can’t get into bed every night wondering if we’ll wake up to find a second grave in our garden, then a third. Ops has no idea how much I need his help.
Please, please, let him give me something I can use.

“Can you hear me better now?” I ask, once I’m across the street and tucked into a shop doorway.

“Yeah, a bit. I’m afraid I’m going to be awkward.”

“How?”

“I’m not going to tell you what you’re expecting to hear.”

“I’m not sure what I’m expecting.” I close my eyes and cover my free ear with my hand. I don’t want to be distracted by the hundreds of faces and voices. Is Torquay always this busy? It’s like central London, except here people look annoying in a completely different way.

If Ops has found something out that helps me—really helps—I’ll ignore the reply I had from Stephen Donbavand this morning saying he’d be happy to meet my economics-expert alter ego. I won’t go and meet him under false pretenses.

“All right, first off the bat,” Ops launches in. “No Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey, or their kids or grandkids. All those names you gave me, the whole family—not a trace of them. So unless they’ve successfully erased all evidence of their existence—unlikely if they aren’t in witness protection . . . and even when the police are involved in identity concealment—there are still trails you can follow, generally, if you know where to look. I’ve been in this business thirty years, and if you want my honest opinion? You’re looking for a family that doesn’t exist. Didn’t you say you found these Ingreys in a story? I think they’re fictional.”

Or they’re real but you didn’t find them because Ellen changed their names to disguise a true story as invention.

“On to the Donbavands,” says Ops. “They do exist, you’ll be glad to hear. Stephen Donbavand, born 1968 in Edinburgh. Only child. Father a chemist, mother a dance teacher—”

“Wait. What was his name?”

“Whose name?”

“Stephen Donbavand. What was he called when he was born?”

“Unsurprisingly, he was called Stephen Donbavand.”

“No, it is suprising.” My heart pounds as I try to figure out what it means. Has Ops forgotten what I told him? “Remember, Lesley Griffiths, the head teacher of my daughter’s school, said that the Donbavands had changed their names?”

“Because someone was after them, right? Based on what I’ve got in front of me, I’d dispute that. There’s nothing to suggest either Stephen or his wife Anne did anything that would have generated that level of ill-will, or that they took on new IDs. Both their lives are well documented all the way, and there’s no controversy in either. He had an ordinary upbringing in Edinburgh, went to Durham Uni, PhD at Leeds where he later got his first job.”

Ops swallows the yawn that crept into his voice toward the end of his last sentence. Finding out the truth about people must get dull after three decades. “He left Leeds after four years for the Economics Department at Exeter, where he is now. His wife was born in Totnes. Maiden name Anne Offord—that’s O-F-F-O-R-D. One sister: Sarah. Parents Martin and Denise. They’re still in Totnes, got a kitchen design business they run together. He does the building and fitting, she does the design and accounting. Anne was a bright spark at school, went to St John’s, Oxford, then to Pembroke, Cambridge, for her postgrad. First job in Leeds, where she met her husband. Then Exeter—they both moved at the same time. She was made professor three years ago. Two kids, Fleur and George—seventeen and fourteen respectively.”

“Tell me about the sister,” I say.

“She was married to a Gregory Parsons. They subsequently divorced.”