A Game For All The Family (43 page)

“Would you, El?” I ask.

“No.” She chews the inside of her lip and looks down at her knees.

“Because George swore you to secrecy? Did he tell you that he and his family would be harmed if you told anyone at all? Even me and Dad?”

“No.”

Olwen gives me a look that says, “Don’t put words in her mouth. Let her speak.”

I let the silence grow around us, hoping Alex doesn’t pick this moment to come back. He’s out with Maggie, doing the supermarket shop.

“I don’t know who killed Perrine,” Ellen says eventually. “Neither does George. The story’s written as he told it to me. I’ve put in every detail I can remember, exactly as he said it. Most of it’s word for word what his mum’s told him, though George added a few comic touches for fun—like the Eminem rappy bit.” Ellen smiles proudly. It’s a sad smile. Unlike me, she isn’t relieved to be far from the Donbavands. She misses being able to see George’s window from hers.

“George doesn’t know who murdered Perrine?” I snap.
For fuck’s sake.
How can he not know?

Could Ellen be lying? She already feels guilty for “betraying” George by letting me read the story. Was that the compromise she made with her conscience: share the text but offer nothing beyond it; keep the family secret of her beloved fiancé Urban Ingrey?

A false secret is the worst kind of lie.
Swear you won’t tell anyone this thing I’m telling you that isn’t true—or else you’ll soon find out I’m manipulating you. Swear you’ll keep it to yourself and never check the facts with anyone else, especially not anyone more honest than me.

Anne Donbavand invented a web of fake secrets to imprison her children and make them fear strangers. George decided he loved Ellen enough to stretch out that web and entangled her in it too. Now she’s trapped with the Donbavands in their shared false knowledge of events that never took place, and I’m the stranger she fears confiding in.

“Whenever George asks his mum, she says he should be able to work it out,” Ellen tells Olwen. She’s given up on me as audience. I must look too angry. “She says the facts are all there for him to see. That’s why my story ends the way it does.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

“She won’t tell George explicitly because that would put his life even more at risk than it is now, and she’s always said that if he ever comes up with the answer, she’ll refuse to confirm it.”

“Well, then why tell the poor boy the story at all, for goodness’ sake?” says Olwen.

“I wish she hadn’t,” Ellen says bitterly. “George hates knowing that all those horrific things happened and that he’s related to them. Why did Anne have to tell him? I mean, she wanted to protect him and Fleur—I get that—but what kind of protection is that? ‘Don’t forget, children, there’s someone out to get us all and there always will be, unless and until they succeed’?”

“Don’t feel too sorry for George, Ellen,” Olwen says. “His mother might be far from ideal, but he has the best and most loyal of allies: you.”

Ellen looks slightly mollified. I wonder if she’s told Olwen about her and George’s marriage plans. For some reason, I suspect she might have, though Olwen hasn’t said anything about it to me. Alex still doesn’t know; he would certainly have mentioned it.

“Ellen, you know it’s not true, don’t you?” I say gently.

“What’s not true?”

“The story you’ve written. I know George believes it because it’s what his mother’s told him, but . . . it’s a lie from start to finish.”

Ellen recoils. She shakes her head vigorously, as if to dislodge something. I wish I’d found a better, more tactful way to say it.

“But . . . no! How can it not be true, Mum? No one would make up something so elaborate! That would be, like, the craziest thing ever!”

“I think that’s what Anne Donbavand is,” I say. “No, actually—not crazy, but deeply and wickedly manipulative, disguised as crazy. Think about it, El. I can’t believe you haven’t Googled all the names—Perrine Ingrey, Lisette, Urban. I did, and I found nothing. No stories of murders, no Malachy Dodd death. No Ingreys ever living at Speedwell House . . .”

“That’s because it was all hushed up! It was kept out of the papers, and never reached the internet. That’s what George’s mum told him.”

“She’s a pathological liar, El. I know which families have lived at Speedwell House in the last hundred years. I can show you a timeline, with no gaps. There are no Ingreys, and no families containing a murderer who was subsequently murdered.”

I leave a gap for this information to sink in. Then I say, “George’s family never changed their names. His dad was born Stephen Donbavand. He’s been called it all his life. Anne Offord—that was her maiden name—married him and became Anne Donbavand. I have paperwork from a private investigator to prove all this.”

Ellen’s eyes are all over the place as she struggles to take it in. “George said . . . he’s got grandparents called Offord, but he says they’re not blood relations. His mum told him they were her godparents, and took over as parent figures once she was estranged from her biological family.”

“I’ve seen Anne’s birth certificate, thanks to this detective,” I say. “Martin and Denise Offord are her biological parents.”

“So . . . so . . .” Ellen is starting to look angry. “She just . . . I mean, she just
lied
about that whole story, all the . . . ins and outs of it? She created a whole other life and tragic past for herself and
she made her kids believe it
?”

“Yes. And let them think that they were under threat from someone who doesn’t exist: Allisande Ingrey. When the only real threat to their well-being is Anne herself.”

“But . . . but George
believes
it. Oh my God,” Ellen whispers. “Why would anyone do that? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. Mad, crazy, loopy, insane . . . none of these words does justice to the enormity of what Anne has done.

“It has to be true,” Ellen insists.

“No, El. It doesn’t and it isn’t. Why were George and Fleur called Urban and Garnet Ingrey when Ingrey was supposed to be their mother’s maiden name? What about their father’s surname? What happened to that?”

“Anne might be a feminist,” says Olwen.

“More like a rampant narcissist,” I say. “Her children—whom she regards as her property—had to have the same name as her in her fabrication. I think she views Stephen Donbavand as irrelevant—just a lackey.”

“But all the details . . .” Ellen is still shaking her head. “I mean, is
any
of it true? I can’t believe anyone would come up with all that, based on nothing.”

“Anne’s lies are based on at least one piece of very real pain,” I say. “I had my suspicions when I was in her house—something occurred to me, but I needed to check with her sister Sarah to be sure. So I did. I also needed to read your story, El, and now I have. Now I’m sure.”

“What?” asks Ellen. “Tell me.”

“I will. First, though, I need to write Anne a letter.”

“Why? If you’re right and she’s that big a liar, you should have nothing to do with her. What are you going to say?”

“I’m going to give her the chance to see sense and change her behavior. Don’t tell me it won’t work—I know that.”

Do you? Or are you secretly hoping that you—the voice of pure, unbiased reason—will be able to get through to her and save the day?

“I’m doing it for my own sake as much as Anne’s or anyone else’s,” I tell Ellen and Olwen. “Having heard and read so many lies, I’d like to see it written down: the truth. What I know. I need to know Anne’s seen it—that she’s read every word. After that, if she turns away from the chance of sanity for her family, that’s up to her.”

“And that’s when you call Social Services and tell them she’s keeping her son locked up on his own in the house day after day,” says Olwen. “Though, as I’ve said, I’d do that right now.”

“No,” Ellen says flatly. “George would end up in care. That can’t happen.” She looks at me. “He wouldn’t last five minutes, Mum. You know what people are like. Not all people, but lots,” she qualifies.

I nod. It’s as if we’re two adults discussing a vulnerable child.

“If we’re going to talk about knowing what people are like . . .” says Olwen. “Confronting a pathological liar doesn’t work. Ever. Trust me, I’ve tried it.” She sighs. “One day, if you’re unlucky, I’ll tell you my life story.”

Pas devant les enfants.

“When challenged, all they do is make up more lies. ‘Oh, you hired a detective?’ Anne will say. ‘Well, guess what? I hired him first and paid him to tell you the wrong thing and hide his true findings.’ She’ll lie and lie and lie—because you’re not real to her, Justine. You’re a pawn in her game. Everyone is.
She
isn’t real in her own mind. That’s how she can believe in a false identity for herself so easily. She has a tenuous, shaky, unsatisfying sense of self—all compulsive liars do. Generally, they’ve grown up in family structures that reward dishonesty and punish honesty: ‘Yes, Dad, of course you’re right about everything. You’re a loving, caring family man, and not a violent alcoholic narcissist—of course.’ ” Olwen shakes her head. “That kind of family brainwashing’s almost impossible to undo. I’d say your chance of persuading Anne Donbavand to pursue a more truthful path through life is almost nil.”

“How do you know all this?” Ellen asks her. “About liars?”

“Apart from the aforementioned life story, you mean? I’ve trained myself: observation and analysis.” Olwen manages to look humble as she says this. “People walk through my door, interested in a puppy from one of my litters? I’ve got roughly thirty seconds to size them up, decide if they’re likely to be able to provide a good home. In those thirty seconds, I have to notice everything: Do they look at me or do they look past me? Do they speak to connect or to impress?”

“All right, so what do you suggest I do?” I ask her.

“About Anne?” Olwen shrugs. “Depends what you want to achieve.”

“Apart from keeping my family safe, I want to help George and Fleur.”

“Well, if I were you, I might try and call Anne’s bluff. I might . . . I mean, obviously I haven’t thought this through, but I might pretend to be Allisande Ingrey, as per Anne’s fantasy, and see if that has any effect. How does a liar who’s also a control freak react when someone else, a stranger, opens up her lie and climbs right in to pretend it’s the truth? Suddenly she’s got an uninvited coconspirator—what would she do then?”

My breath catches high in my throat. “Oh my God. Olwen, you’re a genius.”

“Mum, what?” Ellen sounds anxious. “I don’t trust you when you get carried away.”

“I’ve had a brilliant idea.”

“But it was Olwen’s idea.”

“Part of it was and part of it wasn’t,” I mutter. “I’ll do both: my plan and Olwen’s.”

“I don’t have anything as solid as a plan,” says Olwen. “Only a vague leaning in a particular direction. I’m probably wrong.” She smiles. “Often wrong, but never in doubt—that’s me!”

“I have a solid plan, thanks to you,” I tell her. “It starts with me writing Anne a long letter. And then . . .” I run out of words. Too busy thinking. If I could work it out . . .

You never will. Neither will Ellen, neither will Alex. We are not magic.

“Ellen, would you mind if Olwen read your story?”

Ellen shrugs. “As long as I don’t have to read it, ever again. It’d only make me feel stupid for believing it. There were things in it I thought were beyond weird when George told me. I thought, ‘No way,’ but they were just too strange to be made up. Knowing he was telling the truth—knowing he
believed
he was—made me believe it. Even the parts that I can totally see now are too insane to be real. George kept saying the Ben Lourenco story was unbelievable—and he’s right, it is, it’s
insane
—and I just thought . . . impossible things that shouldn’t happen
do happen.
”

“It’s not your fault that you believed the story, El. Or George’s. However hard it was and is to believe, it’s close to impossible to believe any mother would lie to her son the way Anne has to George. You’ll probably spend several months reflex-thinking, ‘Surely it
can’t
be a lie.’ It still happens to me at least once a day.”

If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have said I was a suspicious, cynical misanthrope—especially after the Ben Lourenco business. Now I realize how trusting I am, without wanting or meaning to be, purely because the truth matters to me, and logic and reason matter just as much if not more. If you value verifiable facts and good sense, it’s hard to conceive of someone as eager to avoid both as Anne Donbavand.

“Why do you want me to read Ellen’s story?” Olwen asks me. “I’m happy to, but—”

“Because you get everything right. You’ve never given me bad advice. You gave me a dog I didn’t want, and it’s been completely life-enhancing. Turns out I want and need Figgy more than almost anything—we all do. The one part of this puzzle that I’ve already solved, I worked out thanks to you. And . . . I drove past your house and knew it would save me, and it did—here I am. It’s my safe haven.”

“Mum, you’re embarrassing everyone.” Ellen sighs.

I believe in you, Olwen, to a level that defies logic. You’re my lucky charm. Something made Alex draw your house to my attention that day—something that knew I was going to need you.

“So you think I’ll read Ellen’s story and . . . what?” Olwen looks skeptical.

“You’ll read it and you’ll know who murdered Perrine Ingrey,” I tell her. “That’s what I’m hoping, anyway—because if it doesn’t happen, my brilliant plan’s a nonstarter. I’m relying on you, Olwen.”

To:
Anne Donbavand
[email protected]

From:
Justine Merrison
[email protected]

Dear Anne,

There’s probably not much point in me writing you this letter. I’m hoping you’ll be curious enough to read it instead of deleting it immediately when you see it’s from me.

I know how interested you are in me and have been ever since I moved to Speedwell House. You’ve got a thing about that house—it’s the house you pretend you grew up in. How dare I come along and live in it for real, right? And then my daughter and your son started to develop a close friendship. No wonder you targeted me for harrassment.