Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“But if Anne Donbavand is or was Lisette Ingrey, she must know you aren’t her evil sister Allisande. And . . . all of this sounds made up,” Alex rounds off dismissively.

I hold my breath for as long as I can, then exhale slowly. “If she were sane, then, yes, she would know I’m not Allisande. Now think about what might happen if she isn’t. She’s had a terrible childhood—a murderer sister who’s then murdered. Somehow, she and her surviving sister end up as enemies. Lisette flees to get away from Allisande, whom she’s come to fear. She changes her name to Anne Donbavand, starts a new life, but grows increasingly neurotic, fearing that Allisande will track her down. Allisande never does, but the threat grows and grows in Anne’s mind. She keeps her kids under lock and key, scared her sister might harm them when she’s not there to protect them. Then she hears George has a friend—she does the maths and works out that this friend might have a mother roughly the age of scary sister Sandie, and a delusion is born. In her mind, I’m Sandie. She’s probably got some whole crazy narrative about how Sandie disguised herself as a TV development producer and changed her name to Justine Merrison to make it easier to get close to Anne and her family without arousing suspicion. Which is why it’ll be great if this detective can find the real Sandie. Maybe then Anne will snap out of this fantasy of hers and realize it’s not me.”

“You Googled all those Ingrey people and found nothing,” Alex tells me, as if I might have forgotten. “If one of them had murdered someone called Malachy and been murdered herself, they’d all show up in an internet search. Guaranteed. And didn’t you say they lived in our house in the story?”

“Yes, and I know no one called Ingrey has ever lived here. But what if Ellen changed the names as a security measure? I can see George asking her to do that, can’t you? Names changed to protect the guilty and the innocent—loads of writers do it. I’ve wondered if the characters’ names might all be anagrams. They’re so . . . unnatural sounding, somehow. I tried to rejig the letters of Ingrey in my head, but got nowhere.”

“Anagrams? That sounds unlikely. I mean . . . more unlikely than everything else. Why don’t you ask Ellen? It’s her story.”

No, it isn’t.

“She wouldn’t tell me. I’ve tried. Now do you see why I called a private investigator? He’ll be able to provide me with concrete facts: where Anne Donbavand grew up, what her name was, where her sister is now.”

Alex nods. “Admittedly, facts would be useful. Though I still don’t see what Olwen Brawn has to do with any of this.”

“Probably nothing. I just . . . I looked at her house the day we moved and had such a powerful feeling, as if someone were trying to tell me something. And then more weird things happened—lots more. What if . . .”

What if Olwen Brawn is Allisande Ingrey, Anne Donbavand’s sister?

I laugh at myself. That’s so stupid and irrational, I’m not going to say it out loud. Instead, I say, “You’re right. Probably Olwen has nothing to do with any of it, but asking her if she knows the Ingreys or the Donbavands won’t do any harm, will it?”

“I don’t think there’s much point,” says Alex. “You’d be better off waiting for the police and this detective to do their jobs, and doing normal things in the meantime—like calling The Car Men and arranging for the Range Rover to be valeted. All right, joke— joke! —but there’s no point keeping a dog and barking yourself. Is there, Figgs? You’re a dog—you should know. Let the investigators investigate.”

Normal things. Alex might as well have suggested I fly to the moon. Normality is temporarily on hold. Hopefully not permanently.

“Though if you are calling Olwen, can you ask her advice about neutering? The vet said we absolutely should do it, but I don’t want to ruin Figgy’s future sex life for no good reason. It’d be useful to know Olwen’s view.”

“I’ll call her now. Your question’ll be a good pretext.”

I’m in the hall when Alex calls out, “What about school? Do we send Ellen back to Beaconwood or not?”

“Neither name means anything to me,” says Olwen. “I don’t know any Ingreys or Donbarrands.”

“Donbavands.”

“Or them. Who are they? Doggy people?”

“It’s nothing to do with dogs.”

“I was going to say: if they were Bedlington breeders or Crufts people I’d know them, but I don’t know all kennel owners.”

“No, I wouldn’t assume you did. Oh well, never mind. It’s not important.” I try to sound like someone making an ordinary chatty phone call.

“Do they want puppies?”

“Who?”

“These people—Donbavands and Ingreys.”

“No. Really, it’s . . . unrelated.” Clearly Olwen finds it hard to conceive of pockets of the universe that don’t center around dogs.

“Fair enough,” she says. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ll have another litter until this time next year. Are you all right? You sound tense.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Figgy giving you the runaround? It takes a bit of getting used to, you know. Especially for novices like you and your husband. But stick with him and Figgy’ll make a lovely family pet. Beds always do.”

“He’s already a lovely family pet,” I say defensively, remembering the way George said “A game for all the family!” so enthusiastically, like someone in an advertisement. “We’re managing really well, I’d say. He’s been having fun going on long walks, nosing around in shrubbery and long grass.”

“Walks?” Olwen sounds wary. “He shouldn’t be out and about until ten days after he’s had his second jabs.”

“You said it was okay for him to be in the garden,” I remind her, omitting to add that he’s also been to school.

“Well, yes, but . . . you said long walks.”

“We have a big garden.”

“Big enough for a long walk?”

Fantastic. This is exactly the sort of conversation I want to be having with a woman who lives in a small end-of-terrace next to London’s North Circular. No way for me to come out of it well. “Yes. Eighteen acres.” Plus, it’s possible to walk around it more than once, and in different directions. Not that it’s any of your business.

Does she think I’m lying?

“Eighteen acres? So you live in a stately home?”

The conversation is plunging headlong into the unacceptable. Ellen has appeared in the kitchen, which might be the only thing that stops me from telling Olwen to stick her questions where the sun doesn’t shine. “Remember the Germander/Speedwell thing I told you about?” I say instead. “Speedwell House is where I live. Google it. It’s a registered historic building in Devon. If you think I’m lying about living there, let me have an email address and I’ll scan and send you a copy of the deeds.”

Ellen, from the sofa, twists her face into a cartoon-like expression that says, “Weird conversation much?”

“Justine—forgive me,” Olwen says. “I’m being silly. And rude. Of course I don’t doubt you. I panicked when I heard you say Figgy had been out on long walks, and you did sound slightly . . . well, odd at the start of the conversation. You asked so insistently about those two names, as if you thought I ought to know them, then you changed tack and said it didn’t matter at all. The truth is, I’m hopeless at letting go of my dogs. I worry about them once they’ve gone, and always want to come and snatch them back for the first week or so.”

“Please don’t,” I say. “I’d never have thought it possible, especially not so soon but . . .” I look down at Figgy. He’s yawning. He’s got some kind of seeds stuck in the fur around his mouth and nose. I’ll have to fish them out later.