Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

Nothing is leaping out at me.

I inspect the window itself and find nothing remarkable or significant, only an ordinary sash window that needs repainting at some point.

“Justine? What’s up?”

“I . . . Nothing.” There’s no way I’m telling Alex and Ellen about another strong, illogical feeling that probably means nothing. I’ve used up my allowance for the year, I think.

Could it be connected to the story Ellen’s writing about the Ingrey family? This is, after all, the same window out of which Malachy Dodd fell to his death, pushed by the evil Perrine.

But you weren’t even looking at the window, not at first. You were facing the other way, watching Figgy running around in a circle with Ellen’s sock in his mouth. Then you turned to face the window, expecting to see . . . what?

“Justine, are you with us, darling?”

My mobile phone starts to ring. The sound clears my head, like a plunge into cold water. “Police or psychopath?” I say brightly as I pull it out of my pocket.

“Or school bus driver, wondering why Ellen never turns up these days,” says Alex.

“Hello?”

“So you’re still there. Bold as brass. You’re not going to go, are you? Well, neither am I. I’m staying put too. You won’t drive me away.”

“You’re mad,” I say quietly. “Where are you staying put? Do you live nearby?”

“Why are you doing this to me, Sandie? I’ve kept quiet all these years. I’ve kept a vile secret that I wish I didn’t know because you wanted me to . Not only because I was scared of what you’d do—though I was, terrified—but also to please you. So why are you punishing me now?”

“My name isn’t Sandie.”

“Tell me what you’re planning to do to my family!”

Ellen starts to sob. Alex moves to comfort her, but she runs from the room.

“You’re mixing me up with another person,” I say, detached from my words as if it’s someone else speaking. “I’m not Sandie. My name’s Justine Merrison.”

“Don’t lie. I know your name and you know mine.”

“No. Neither of those things is true.”

“Shut up! This is your last chance.” The words come out like a controlled scream. She’s hysterical, but trying to keep her voice down. Trying not to be overheard, perhaps? “Your last chance, and your family’s too,” she says. “I’ll bury you all. Go home, Sandie, if you want to live.”

“First things first,” says Detective Constable Euan Luce. “Your two phone numbers, landline and mobile—who has them? Let’s make a comprehensive list.”

He’s in his late forties and comprehensive about everything. When he arrived—an hour earlier than expected, with no apology—he spent so long wiping his feet on the mat that I thought we’d have to have our conversation standing in the hall.

Alex and Ellen were getting ready to leave, with Figgy rolling over their feet. Luce had to wait while I Googled local vets and brands of worming tablets, and made a list for Alex of everything he needs to buy at Pet World after dropping Ellen at school.

Now he’s asking me questions in the living room, in what he plainly regards as less-than-ideal circumstances. I had to bring Figgy in here with us so that he didn’t try to follow Alex and Ellen out of the house. Luce has tutted several times at Figgy’s harmless pottering around the room. I’m guessing he has zero experience of dogs, and a wife who jumps to smooth down curtain pleats every time she hears his key in the door.

He must be this uptight for a reason. Maybe he has a mountain of a workload that follows him around in his mind like a big bully. I was the same when I had a career. My days often started with a strong desire to kill my poor postman, and tear up letters without opening or reading them, because the mail had fallen messily all over the hall floor. When you work too hard for too long, you start to suspect innocent objects and people of conspiring against you.

I don’t know why Luce is saying “First things first” when it’s not “first” at all. He’s spent the last half hour asking me for pointless details: my full name, Alex’s, Ellen’s; how long we’ve lived at Speedwell House, where we lived before, what Alex and I do.

“I do Nothing,” I told him gleefully and enjoyed watching him recoil. I stare at the strange, protruding chins of visiting policemen. Luce’s is separated from the rest of his face by a deep crease and has a foldaway look about it—as if it ought to be pushed back in or extended more fully.

His was the best reaction I’ve had so far to my “I do Nothing” announcement. I wish I’d given him a longer, fuller answer: I can’t remember the last time I was in a hurry. If every clock and electronic device in the house died on the spot and I had no way of knowing what time it was, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Guess how many people will seek me out today, in person, by email or by phone? None!

Well, none apart from my psycho caller. Come to think of it, she doesn’t count, since I’m not the person she’s after. I hope this is as clear to Euan Luce as it is to me. I’ve told him everything she’s said to me since her campaign of intimidation started, word for word. I did more than tell him; I reenacted each phone call for him, imitating the crazy woman’s voice, mimicking her tone as best I could.

“Let’s start with the landline,” says DC Luce. “Who knows that number?”

“My father and stepmother, Alex’s parents. A few old friends.”

“How many?”

I total them up in my head. “Seven.”

“And you can give me names and contact details?”

“Well, I can, but I promise you none of them—”

“You can’t promise me anything,” he dismisses me briskly. “You don’t know what anyone’s capable of, however many years you’ve known them. So only eleven people know the phone number for this house?”

“A few more than eleven. Ellen’s school obviously has all our details.”

“Doctor, dentist?”

“Yes. Utility companies, our bank, credit card people. I can’t think of anyone else.”

“All right. And your mobile number? Who knows that?”

“Hardly anyone. My father and stepmother, and Ellen’s school.”

“Not your husband’s parents?”

“No. They have his mobile number.”

“What about your mother?”

“Dead.”

“And the seven old friends?”

“They’re all people I . . . Figgy, down. Come here. Sorry.”

Tut tut.

Figgy is oblivious to the disapproval being beamed his way. He sticks his head under the sofa and wags his tail as if he’s seen something under there that he’s excited about.

“I see those friends once a year at most,” I tell Luce. “They wouldn’t need to call me on my mobile, so I didn’t give them the number.”

“So if you’re meeting somewhere, you don’t swap mobile numbers? That’s unusual.”

I might as well tell him; there’s no reason not to. “This mobile’s very new. When we moved from London to here, I ditched my old phone and number—deliberately. I didn’t want anyone from my London life to be able to contact me.”

“How come?” DC Luce looks up from his note making.

“I was sick of them all. I wanted to shake them off.”

“Without exception?”

Except Ben Lourenco.

“Yes. All my friends—my entire social circle—were TV industry people. They all kind of merged into one after a while—in my mind, I mean.”

“Did something bad happen to you in London?” asks Luce. “Is that why you moved?”

“I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but this London angle’s a waste of time. Honestly. No one I knew there has my new mobile number. This is nothing to do with London.”