Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“You want to build a higher wall and install some security cameras, I reckon,” says the policeman, looking up at the top of the house. “As it stands, anyone could hop over into your garden and lurk here in the small hours, plotting mischief. I’ve never understood it myself: this yen rich folk have for living miles from other people, surrounded by all their acres, but no one to help them if they need it in a hurry. I wouldn’t feel safe living out here—no offense. I wouldn’t feel safe at all.”

“This is an almost indecent helping of beauty!” says Olwen later the same day. “What you need up here’s a hammock, or a big comfy armchair—right here, where I’m standing. Figgy, you are one extremely lucky pup. Oddly, I always knew that about you.”

Her enthusiasm goes some way toward dissolving the knot of misgiving planted in my mind by the terrine-faced policeman, with whom I’m still angry. What kind of person says, “I wouldn’t feel safe living where you live,” before scuttling back to his own place of safety?

Olwen says, “If you were a social climber, you could aggravate people at parties by saying, ‘Not only do I own a mansion—I can see the top of it from my own land. I can look at my own roof tiles anytime I fancy!’ ”

“Yes, well . . . anything rather than look at my own mortgage statements,” I say, not wanting her to think I’m a spoilt rich person.

She’s right, though: from the highest point in our garden, we can look down on our house from above. I knew this before today, but it’s only now, as Olwen remarks on it, that I’m struck by how unusual it is.

“So you reckon this Ingrey family lived here, then?” she asks. I’ve told her the full story, or at least the fullest version currently available.

“Possibly. Though if they did, they weren’t called Ingrey.”

“It’s odd that the surname doesn’t change from one generation to the next. On the family tree, I mean. If Lisette Ingrey married this Grevel chap, why are she and her kids all called Ingrey?”

I stop walking. “Of course. How did I miss that? I wonder if the Donbavands did the same thing—chose Anne’s maiden name as the family surname, not Stephen’s. If they did, that’s yet more circumstantial evidence the two families—Donbavands and Ingreys—are one and the same. I should call Ops and ask him to find out.”

“Ops?” asks Olwen.

“Yeah, the detective I’ve hired. That’s not his name, but his email address starts with ‘Ops.’ Short for ‘Operations,’ I guess.”

“I see. Justine, I don’t mean to be nitpicky, but I’m not sure ‘yet more circumstantial evidence’ is accurate. Is there any , really? I mean, absolutely, yes, Ellen’s story might be about George’s mother and her family, and the woman calling you Sandie on the phone might be Anne the professor whose sister might be Allisande Ingrey in the story, but isn’t it equally likely that none of those things is true?”

This isn’t what I want to hear.

“Humans are pattern-seeking animals,” says Olwen. “Your theory neatly covers everything strange that’s happening and ties it all together, but there are other less satisfying possibilities that are as likely to be true.”

“Such as?”

“Your malicious caller is unconnected to George Donbavand. She has mental health problems that include confusion: hence, she knows you’re Justine, but when she takes too many drugs, or too few, she gets your name mixed up with the name of her yellow Labrador, Sandie. Do you have any idea how many yellow Labs are given that name? Drives me crackers!”

“Yeah, why don’t people call their dogs proper names, like Stood a Lonely Cattle Shed,” I say, ducking out of the way when Olwen aims a pretend blow at me.

“George’s mum’s fear and paranoia might have nothing to do with the phone calls you’re getting,” she goes on. “It’s also possible that George decided to write a story about you without giving his mother’s story to Ellen to write.”

“Yes, and it’s possible that Ellen’s so obsessed with this story, like she’s never been about any homework ever before, for some other reason that’s not linked to George, but now I think we’re drifting into the realms of implausibility.”

“Not implausibility. Patternlessness. The two are different.”

“Anne Donbavand took George out of school because of his friendship with Ellen. At almost exactly the same time, these threatening calls started. If I’m seeing a pattern, it’s because there is one. It’s a fact, not an interpretation.”

Olwen gives me an “I don’t know how to break this to you” look. “Not to make excuses for the woman, but if George got overexcited and shared his future marriage plans with his family before Ellen shared them with you . . . well, it wouldn’t justify hauling him out of school, but I can see how a parent might overreact in the face of something so unusual.”

“That’s a point.” And something else I hadn’t thought of.

“While I’m suggesting things, I’ve got more if you’re interested,” Olwen says.

“Suggest away,” I say.

“You’ve signed over a stack of money to this Ops chap, and let’s hope he can help, but in the meantime, you’re not doing the thing that would be most useful.”

“What’s that?”

“Getting through to Ellen.” Olwen holds up a hand. I half-expect her to order me to sit. “Let’s say you’re right and her story is George’s family history—a traumatic history. It’s no surprise she’s resisting your attempts to invade what she sees as her and George’s private world. And yet it seems you do need to read what she’s written.”

“She’s writing it for school. If her teacher’s going to read it, why can’t I?”

“Justine, I’m not the one you need to convince. Children are oversensitive about their parents muscling in. Puppies are the same with their owners, at roughly the same point in their maturing. Between eight and twelve months—the teenage phase—they assert their independence in all kinds of inconvenient ways. Things they did before to please you, suddenly they won’t do. It passes of course, but . . .”

“Ellen isn’t a Bedlington terrier, Olwen.”

“I realize that. Still, though . . . I’d approach her as an equal on this, not parent to child. Is there anything you’ve kept from her since all these funny goings-on started?”

I want to say no, but it wouldn’t be the truth. There are things I could share with Ellen that I haven’t wanted to: the reason I see as little as I can of Dad and Julia; why I hate family trees.

“Whatever’s in your mind now, tell Ellen about it—all of it. Trust her with it. Once you’ve taken that leap, that’s when you ask her to level with you about the story she’s writing and to let you read it. Don’t act as if it’s your God-given parental right to know. Make her feel as if she has a choice.”

“Okay, Wise Dog Woman,” I say in a mock-resentful tone. “I’m going to put your advice to the test. If it works, the Crufts gold medal for family diplomacy is yours.”

The word “medal” snags in my mind as I say it. There’s something wrong about it. Where have I heard it recently? Come on, brain, come on . . .

“The policeman,” I mutter.

“Which one?” Olwen asks. “Haven’t you had three?”

“This morning. He mentioned Figgy’s medallion. ‘Little silver medallion,’ he said. I didn’t take it in at the time.”

“This one? Keep still for a minute, Figgy. Here, on his collar.” Olwen bends down to inspect it more closely. “Hmph. Wrong address. Did your husband get this made? Women don’t generally forget where they live.”