Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“As would any jury,” said Bascom.

“But we’d have to lie in court, under oath,” Lisette protested.

“Yes,” said Sorrel. “I’m afraid you would, darling. It’s a terrible thing that we’re asking you to do, I know. But if we don’t do this, Perrine will kill again. I think we all know that. Don’t we?”

Bascom and Allisande nodded.

“But . . . can’t we just tell the police the truth?” Lisette asked. “That we know Perrine is a murderer, but can’t prove it? It’s their job to prove it, not ours.”

“And if they fail, as they surely will?” asked Sorrel.

“But . . . but . . .” Lisette spluttered.

Sorrel walked over to sit beside her. She put an arm around her eldest daughter’s shoulder. “Dearest Lisette,” she said. “I know you’re a person of high morals and principles. I very much admire that about you. But sometimes, one runs up against something that’s more important than principles. Look at poor dead David Butcher . . .” (David was still lying lifeless on the floor in front of them all.) “. . . a brilliantly talented musician, cut off in his prime by an act of evil. Can there be any higher, more vital principle than making sure nothing like this ever happens again?”

“Mum’s right, Lisette,” said Allisande. “We all have to stick together on this.”

“I suppose so,” said Lisette reluctantly.

“Good,” said Bascom. He stood up. “I’ll go and call the police.”

“Not yet, silly,” said Sorrel. “First I have to . . . you know. Stab the body.”

“Oh. Oh yes, quite.”

“Why don’t you and the girls go and start getting lunch together while I sort it out. There’s no need for any of you to be involved. I know what needs doing.”

(It might strike you as odd that Sorrel, the lazy parent who always preferred to do as little as possible, took the lead here. The sorry truth is that, whatever one’s natural inclination and personality type, when it comes to an abysmally unpleasant chore, it is the woman and not the man who ends up taking care of it in 99 percent of cases.)

Lunch was all laid out on the table by the time Sorrel reappeared: ham, chutney, French bread, hummus, taramasalata, salad and stuffed vine leaves, with apple juice to drink. “That looks lovely,” said Sorrel. “Good job, everyone.”

“What about your . . . side of things?” asked Bascom.

“All taken care of! Girls, please don’t go into the library again until further notice. I don’t want you to see the carnage. Bascom, you needn’t look either.”

“I certainly don’t want to,” her husband replied with a shudder. “Have you phoned the police?”

“Not yet. I intend to do so first thing tomorrow morning.” Sorrel started to pile food onto the plates that were laid out on the table.

“Tomorrow morning?” Bascom exclaimed. “Have you taken leave of your senses? We can’t just let a body lie around—”

“I’m not planning to leave him there indefinitely,” Sorrel cut him off. “I have a very good reason for waiting until tomorrow. I want other people to be present when the police arrive. I’m going to invite the Dodds, for a start. And the families of Jack Kirbyshire and David Butcher. I think they deserve to see justice come for Perrine, don’t you? I think we owe them that, especially since we’ve protected her all this time, hiding her away in our specially strengthened fortress of a house! I want to make it clear that we are not on her side against the families of her victims, and that we are the ones who, in the end, enabled justice to be done.”

“Yes. Of course,” Bascom agreed, as if all this should have been obvious to him.

“Mum, if people are coming, please could Henrietta Sennitt-Sasse come?” asked Allisande.

“Oh, and Mimsie Careless?” said Lisette. “Please!”

“Very well,” said Sorrel. “I shall invite the Sennitt-Sasses and the Carelesses as well.” She handed them each a plate with their lunch on it, then loaded one up for herself and laid it down on the table in front of her chair. She sat down and was about to start eating. Suddenly she leapt to her feet with an “Oh!” She went to get another plate, and piled it high with food. “I forgot Perrine,” she said. “We mustn’t starve her, whatever she’s done.”

“No, we mustn’t,” said Bascom with a sob of paternal anguish.

“I’ll take this plate up to her,” said Sorrel, shoving a stuffed vine leaf into her mouth because she was quite hungry and didn’t really want to wait for lunch. “Won’t be a second.”

“Are you going to tell her?” asked Lisette. “About the police?”

“No.” There were tears in Sorrel’s eyes. “Given what’s going to happen tomorrow, I’d like her to have one last nice day.”

It occurred to neither Lisette nor Allisande that it might be difficult to have any sort of nice day while locked in one’s bedroom. The whole Ingrey family had been hibernating in seclusion for so long, they all took it for granted that life now involved a certain amount of being shut away, unable to get out.

10

Alex is in the garden with Figgy when I get home. “Everything okay?” he asks as I get out of the car. I see he’s got a new leather leash for Figgy, who is using it to drag him toward a shrub called—I think—butcher’s broom. I still don’t know the names of half the things growing in our garden. Whatever it is, Figgy is determined to poke his nose into it.

Just like his owner .

“George Donbavand is real,” I tell Alex.

“Real, and in our house,” he replies with a grin.

A sharp pain in my head. Above my right eyebrow, from nowhere.

“What? Our . . . He’s in our . . .” I’m stumbling over my words. “Which house?”

“Do we have more than one?” Alex points. “That one over there. Speedwell House, Kingswear. Remember it?”

“This isn’t funny, Alex. George Donbavand is in there? With Ellen?”

“With a completely transformed Ellen, yes. Barely recognizable: radiant, witty, bubbling over with joy. It’s a bit of an eye-opener. I hadn’t realized how miserable she was.”

I told you a hundred times.

I start to march in the direction of the house. Alex catches my arm, pulls me back. Or maybe we’re both being pulled by Figgy, who is now thoroughly embedded in greenery. The only sign he’s still there is his taut leash protruding from the leaves.

“Justine, relax. Abandon all plans to embarrass the living daylights out of your daughter. No harm’s going to come to them. They’re fourteen, not three. They’re playing Monopoly.”

“ Monopoly? Who plays that these days? We don’t have Monopoly.”

“George brought it. He seems remarkably civilized for a teenage boy, I have to say.”

“I wish he hadn’t come. Not today. I need to talk to you, without visitors around—especially not him. Can you ask him to leave?”

“Why? That’s absurd. What happened at Beaconwood? You’ve come back all wound up.”

“He’s not allowed to be here. For as long as he’s in our house, we’re not safe.” I’m not sure I believe this. So why am I saying it?

“Darling, with the greatest respect, you’re sounding a bit”—Alex makes a winding gesture with his index finger, next to his head—“out to lunch.”

“Why’s the blind down?” I ask.

“What?”

“The kitchen blind’s down. And Ellen’s bedroom curtains are pulled shut. How could you not notice? How long have you been out here?”

“Hour, hour and a half? Figgy seems happy pottering around the garden, I thought I might as well—”

“Was the kitchen blind down when you came out? It wasn’t,” I answer my own question. “I don’t think it was down when I got out of the car. I’d have noticed. They’ve done it just now. Why?” I set off toward the house again: great big strides.