A Game For All The Family (33 page)

Sarah Parsons the artist. With an “estranged” sister, Anne.

“She’s a painter,” says Ops. “Apparently Anne doesn’t have much to do with her family, though. Christmas and birthday cards is about the extent of it.”

“One sister living,” I say. “What about dead ones?”

“Are you thinking the substance of your daughter’s story might be true but the names altered? Sorry to disappoint again. Anne Donbavand—Offord as was—has only ever had one sister.”

“But did you—”

“Give me a chance,” he says wearily. “Yes, after I got your last message I looked into the history of Speedwell House near Kingswear. No murders or unexpected deaths associated with it, going back the last two hundred years. Nor with any of the families who’ve lived there. I double-checked to see if Anne was adopted by the Offords as a baby—I thought that might point me in the direction of this other family containing a murderer, but it was a blind alley. Anne wasn’t adopted. So . . . how far do you trust this headmistress?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Well, she’s the one who’s fed you this line about the Donbavand family changing their name and being in hiding, isn’t she? That doesn’t sit right with me, after looking into it. As I say, Anne and Stephen Donbavands’ pasts look conventional and uncontroversial.”

I think about the word “estranged.” It implies a rift—something more dramatic than a gradual drifting out of touch.

“People that good at covering their tracks don’t generally turn up in their safe haven of choice and immediately start blabbing to the local schoolteachers about their new identities and the terrible threat they’ve escaped from. It just doesn’t tie in.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Where does this leave me?

I say, “I’ve got Anne Donbavand’s work email address. Could you get into her account, do you think?” If what Lesley told me is true, some correspondence about taking George and Fleur out of Beaconwood would presumably be in there. Unless Anne has a different email account for nonwork correspondence.

“I could.” Ops chuckles. “But it’d be illegal, and you and I could both go to prison.” He said the same thing the last time I asked him about hacking; I hoped my increased desperation would net me a different answer. Apparently not.

This is ridiculous. Is he a private detective or a mouse? “I understand you might not want to take that risk, but I’m prepared to,” I tell him. “Is it illegal for you to explain to me how to do it?”

“Listen, Justine—you don’t want to go down the law-breaking route. I’ve seen clients do it, against my advice, and it never ends well.”

But does it end?
I want to ask him. All I want is not to have to wonder anymore. I know that, somehow, the Ingreys are real. I just have to find out how.

You also want to be safe, remember? And keep your family safe?

“What about Malachy Dodd?” I ask.

“Right,” says Ops sheepishly. “I must admit I haven’t gotten around to that one yet. I’ll try to fit it in tomorrow. Want me to have a look into this headmistress while I’m at it? No extra charge.”

“Lesley Griffiths? You think she might be . . .”

“I think she might be telling you fibs, yes. She’s done it before, hasn’t she? Told you George Donbavand was never at her school, then admitted he was.”

“Yes, but she had a fairly persuasive reason. I believed her.”

“I don’t doubt she was convincing, but it doesn’t happen, does it?”

“What doesn’t?”

“Heads of schools making out pupils they’ve taught for years are a product of someone else’s imagination. Heads of schools pretending to expel kids, to make it easier for their parents to remove them.”

But Lachlan Fisher endorsed every word she said.

“You want my best guess? She’s changed her lie, but she’s still lying.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. I want to sit down on the pavement and close my eyes. Do I need to put Lesley back on my list of untrustworthy people? Lachlan Fisher too? When he gave me George’s story and I told him Ellen’s was about murder, he looked startled and fled. I wonder if he had the same idea I did once I’d read George’s—that he and Ellen had swapped family stories.

Did Lachlan run away scared that the Donbavands’ secret, the one they’d successfully kept from everyone at Beaconwood, involved murder?

“George told me things himself about his parents that tallied with what the headmistress said,” I tell Ops.

“You said he gave the impression they were unreasonably strict. Did he mention them being on the run from a previous life?”

“No.” I must sound naïve and clueless.

“Justine?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that if something sounds far-fetched, it must be true. It’s what we call No One Could Make That Up Syndrome. There’s nothing so eccentric and bizarre that someone can’t invent it.”

“Can I ask you something? Something more psychological than factual?”

“Shoot.”

“How far should one trust one’s instincts about people? I mean, if I meet someone and get a strong feeling they’re a good thing and inherently reliable, is that a hunch worth trusting?”

“If there’s no opposing case to be made, absolutely,” says Ops. “If it’s all good, you trust the person. We all do. Life’d be impossible otherwise. None of us’d ever get married, for a start. Your dilemma comes when you start noticing details that don’t fit with the overall picture, things that can’t be reconciled. Personally, though I’ve never met this head teacher, I can’t reconcile a trustworthy, sensible managing director—she’s effectively managing director of the school, isn’t she?—with someone who’d fake an expulsion to please demanding parents, then deny the existence of the boy in question.”

“You’re right,” I sigh. “I should keep an open mind.” Who asked Ellen and George to write their stories, after all? Craig Goodrick and Lachlan Fisher: Beaconwood people. What if they specifically asked for stories about family secrets? What if they did so at Lesley’s request?

Which would mean . . . what?
I’ve got so many suspicions spilling out in every direction, I’m losing track.

“I’ll email you later with a list of names,” I tell Ops. “Teachers at Beaconwood as well as the head. I’m happy to pay a bit more if it’s a lot of extra work, but I’d like you to look into all of them.”

There is generally no way to avoid going home eventually, however much one might dread it. I delayed my return for as long as I could, but Figgy got tired of walking up and down the hilly streets of Torquay in the rain. He plonked himself down on a pavement and refused to budge. I ended up carrying him back to the car and was dripping with sweat by the time I got there.

Now I’m lying in a lily-of-the-valley-scented bath with my eyes closed, wondering if DC Luce has spoken to Stephen Donbavand.
Hey, Steve, you don’t know a lady called Justine Merrison, do you? Daughter at Beaconwood? I shouldn’t tell you this but between you, me and the gatepost, she’s only claiming you and Anne are trying to drive her out of Devon.

“Mum?” Ellen appears in the doorway. “Wow. How much bubble bath did you put in? A whole bottle?”

“A lot,” I say unashamedly. “Bubble baths should be like lemon meringue pies. The bubbles are the meringue layer, and it needs to be as thick as the—”

“Yeah, I’m not really interested,” Ellen waves her hands to shut me up. “I just came in to tell you I Googled Vita Sackville-West.”

“Oh. And?”

“She didn’t exactly have the sort of marriage George and I want, though she kind of did.”

“Oh.” I desperately don’t want to talk about this now. Or ever, in fact. I want it to go away.

“It’s called a mixed-orientation marriage.”

“Right. That makes sense. El, I don’t suppose you’ve told Dad yet, have you?”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to do it today. I just wanted to watch a movie and be a normal teenager.”

I nod, hopefully not too hard.
Yes, yes, be normal.

“Anyway, I was wondering,” says Ellen. “Do you know any examples of famous dead people whose future mothers-in-law were so against them when they were only fourteen that they dug a grave for them? Like, on their property?”

I laugh. Ellen smiles.

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“Great. What a way to be unique.”

“Ellen, I don’t know for sure that the person who wrecked our lawn is George’s mum. It might not be.”

“That’s not what you said to DC Luce this morning. You’ve got bubbles on your chin, by the way. It looks like a Santa beard.”

“I know—about Luce, I mean, not the beard.” I wipe my chin and pull myself up a bit. “It’s strange. Sometimes I feel as if I have more proof than I could ever need that Anne Donbavand’s out to get me and other times I worry I’ve got nothing. Nothing concrete. There’s something you could do that would really help me, Ellen.”

“Ask George?” she says. “I will when I next see him, but God knows when that’ll be. He hasn’t done the signal yet and he probably won’t for ages. I know what he’d say, though. He’d say, ‘I wouldn’t put anything past my mother. She’s a basket case.’ He calls her that all the time.”

More proof? Or still no proof?

“Will you let me read your story about the Ingreys?” I ask.

“No. Why do you want to?”

“I think you know why.” Bearing Olwen’s advice in mind, I say, “I’m sorry if I came on too strong the first time I asked to read it. It was the family tree. It rubbed me the wrong way. I’ve got a thing about family trees—almost a phobia.”

“How come?”

I’m getting too hot in the tub. I haul myself out, grab the green bath sheet that’s draped over the towel rail and wrap it around myself. “Remember you asked me the other day about Granddad and Julia—why we don’t see more of them?”

“Yeah.”

Ellen follows me across the landing to my bedroom. Figgy’s sitting on the bed chewing a metal hair clip. “You should be on the leash, with Alex,” I tell him. “Where’s he gone, and why hasn’t he taken you with him?” To Ellen I say, “Do you think I should call Dad ‘Alex’ when I talk to Figgy, or . . . something else?”

“Like what?” She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “Dad? Daddy?”

“No.” I blush.

“Yes!” She points an accusing finger at me. “That’s totally what you were thinking, and ugh, no. Gross! Dad isn’t Figgy’s father.”

I might ask Olwen about this: get a second opinion from an expert.

“You changed the subject,” says Ellen. “You were supposed to be telling me why you hate family trees, and why we never see Granddad and Julia.”

“We don’t
never
see them. Occasionally we see them.”

“Mum! Stop . . . procrastinating.”

“I think you mean prevaricating.” Whatever you want to call it, she’s right.

I sit down on the bed. Why is it so difficult?

Ellen says, “You know some people are phobic about their relatives? It’s called syngenesophobia. George told me. He has it.”

“Is there a name for a phobia specifically of
George’s
relatives? Because I think I have that.” I smile.

“Mum. Tell me about Granddad and Julia.”

There’s no putting it off any longer if I’m going to do it at all.

“When I was about your age, Julia made me a family tree as a present. I’m not talking about a quick sketch on a bit of paper. She was into genealogy and family history at the time, so she did stacks of research and, once she’d gone back several generations, she commissioned an artist to turn the information into a proper family tree for me. It was enormous, and quite beautiful, really. There was only one problem.”

“What?”

It’s easy to make it sound mundane because there was no big drama, no overt conflict. “Julia thought it would be inappropriate to start researching my mother’s parents, grandparents, great-grandparents. Granddad had left my mother for Julia the year before, and Julia was sensible enough to work out that Mum, who was still heartbroken, wouldn’t welcome her getting in touch and pestering her for details of her ancestors. So she didn’t put anyone from Mum’s family on the tree. Just Mum, as Dad’s first wife, but as if she had no parents herself. Just on her own, in a little box sticking out next to Granddad.”

“Did Julia put herself on the family tree as Dad’s second wife?” Ellen asks.

“Yes. Which is fine, and what I’d expect her to do. But she also included several generations of her family above her.”

“
What?
” Ellen’s face contorts in disgust. “You’re kidding! Julia put
Julia’s
great-grandparents on the family tree she made for
you
?”

I nod.

“But . . . She did that when you’re the daughter of the woman whose husband she nicked, and whose ancestry she left off the same family tree?”

“Yes.” I ought to say that Julia didn’t steal my father, that he went of his own volition. It felt like a theft, though.

“That’s offensive,” says Ellen.

“I hated the family tree from the second I laid eyes on it. There was barely any space for my mother in her isolated little box amid Julia’s dozens of forebears. It didn’t occur to Julia that Mum mattered to
me
if not to her—that I might be upset by a visual representation of her insignificance.”

“She shouldn’t have made or given you a family tree at all,” says Ellen. “It’s like, hello? You’ve broken up a family and now you want to make an
illustration
of that, and give it to the child of the home you broke?”

I’m impressed that Ellen can see the problem. I tried to talk about it with my father many years later, and he shook his head in disgust at what he saw as my ingratitude.

“When Mum died a few years later, I blamed Julia and the family tree. The official cause of death was cancer, but I saw that as a symptom, not the true cause. Mum saw the family tree. Julia and Dad—Granddad, I mean—gave it to me in front of her. At her house, in fact—one Christmas when we were all trying to spend a halfway decent day together. Mum tried not to show it, but I could tell she was devastated. That’s when I think her cancer started. Though, like so many other things, I can’t prove it. And I know it can’t be true, really, I just . . .” I shrug. “Anyway, that’s why I was funny about the family tree in your story.”