Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“It’s ‘hanged,’ you illiterate fool!” said Mrs. Butcher, and Mrs. Dodd retaliated with an obscenity-strewn character assassination of Mrs. Butcher. Mrs. Butcher then did something that surprised everyone. She walked over to where Mrs. Dodd was sitting, put her face right in front of Mrs. Dodd’s and chanted defiantly, “You know what? You know what? You know what? I don’t care.” (The rhythm was similar to when Eminem raps, “My name is . . . my name is . . . my name is . . . Slim Shady.”)

All the aggression and swearing sent Mrs. Sennitt-Sasse over the edge. She started to chant frantically, “ Pas devant, pas devant, pas devant . . .” as if she too were a white rapper. There was such a commotion going on that at first no one noticed when Sorrel, white-faced and shaking, reappeared in the drawing room. Bascom and the policeman followed close behind her.

“Mum?” said Allisande, rushing to her mother’s side. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Perrine,” stammered Sorrel. “She’s . . . she’s not there! She isn’t in her room. She’s missing.”

12

So, Mr. Colley, to be sure I’ve got this right: you were woken by the sound of your dog barking excessively, and you judged the barking to be coming from outside. You went to investigate, and found that a large hole had been dug in the lawn immediately in front of your house, and that your wife had fallen into it.”

“That’s right,” says Alex.

Every morning has to start with a policeman. That’s the new law. Today it’s DC Euan Luce again, standing in the corner of the drawing room, holding his notebook at a forty-five-degree angle as if his ambition is to be a human lectern.

Alex and Ellen got dressed, knowing he was coming. I’m still in pajamas, robe and flip-flops, in accordance with my no-proper-clothes-before-lunchtime rule.

I take a few deep breaths to quell the accelerating tide of rage that’s coursing through me. Luce has said “large hole” several times and not “grave,” which is what I told him I’d fallen into.

“And you didn’t see anyone?” he asks Alex. “You’re sure?”

“No, but it was dark and I didn’t look. My only concern was pulling Justine out of that . . . pit, and calming Figgy down. He was going bananas.”

“I slept through it,” says Ellen.

“It isn’t a pit or a hole,” I say. “It’s a grave. She promised me three, remember? This is the first.”

“Not necessarily,” says Luce. “The . . . recess you fell into isn’t coffin-shaped.”

It’s like being hit in the face with a sock full of stupidity.

“Are you serious? Have you never attended a funeral?”

“Several.”

“A burial?”

Luce’s face stiffens.

“No? Then take it from me, because I have. There’s only one coffin-shaped thing at a burial, and that’s the fucking coffin.”

“Justine,” Alex murmurs.

“I’m sure DC Luce has heard worse, Alex. I’ll swear if I want to—and everyone else can try not to make me want to. How about that? A game for all the family!”

“All right, point about shape of graves taken,” says Luce.

“What’s happening on the call-tracing front?” I ask him.

“It’s proved more difficult than we’d anticipated. Whoever’s behind the telephone harassment has taken steps to cover their tracks. Still, it’s not all disappointing news. The last call, you think, was the one to the landline that your husband answered, correct? And the caller ended it without speaking?”

“Right,” says Alex.

“That’s good, then. That’s a move in the right direction, from verbal antagonism and direct threats to silence, from longer calls to a shorter one. Let’s hope hearing your voice will have put this woman off, Mr. Colley.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Why the hell is Alex nodding along?

“Wait,” I say. “The woman—and let’s stop being coy and call her by her name: Anne Donbavand—has not been put off. That’s why she came around in the middle of the night and dug a grave in my garden! Does that sound like the action of a deterred person to you?”

“I think DC Luce means that it’s possible the digger was someone else,” says Alex. “In which case, the caller might have been scared away by getting me instead of you, at least for the time being.”

“For God’s sake, do you honestly think two separate people are—”

“Ms. Merrison, did you say Anne Donbavand?” Luce interrupts.

“Yes. Don’t tell me you know her.”

“Wife of Steve Donbavand?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“I know Steve very well. We’re part of a group that organizes charity fun runs every so often to raise money for good causes. I doubt very much indeed that his wife—who’s a university professor—has ever vandalized anyone else’s property or made threatening phone calls. Steve’s one of the most likeable men I’ve ever met.”

“Of course he is.” I roll my eyes. “Every monster needs a weak, likeable sidekick to collude with them in their tyranny.”

“Please put the idea of this caller being Anne Donbavand out of your mind,” says DC Luce firmly. “Take it from me: it isn’t her.”

“Why? Because you’re mates with her husband? Does she speak in the way I described to you last time? Almost a lisp, but not quite?”

“I’ve exchanged no more than a couple of brief hellos with her, so I couldn’t tell you. It’s more likely the caller is someone you know, holding a grudge—”

“Except I’ve told you she isn’t—remember?”

Luce looks blankly at me.

“I understand why you find it hard to believe,” I say. “You’ve watched the same movies I have, where a threatening figure from someone’s past rings up and says, ‘It’s me.’ The caller always knows a guilty secret about the heroine, don’t they? It doesn’t make for a good story to have the heroine say cheerfully, ‘Sorry, I’ve no idea who you are. Bye!’ ”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know my anonymous caller, but I think I know her name: Professor Anne Donbavand. No, I’m not one hundred percent sure. You think I’m wrong, so how about a bet?” I suggest. “Five grand.”

“Justine, for Christ’s sake.” Alex covers his face with his hands.

“Shut up, Dad,” says Ellen. “Five grand’s too much, though. A grand.”

DC Luce glances at his watch. “We need to move this dialogue on,” he says. “I have to be somewhere else ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, sorry to keep you,” I say. “Next time I’ll try to fall into an unmarked grave when you’ve got more free time.”

“Are you going to investigate what happened here last night?” Alex asks him. “I mean, grave or not, someone trespassed on our property last night and spent what must have been several hours digging up our lawn.”

“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Colley. We’ll look into it, of course, but at that time of night, dark, no one around—we’ll be lucky if we find anything.”

“Improve your odds by looking in the Donbavands’ house. There’s probably a muddy shovel on the kitchen table. Not that you’d be swayed by that. She’s a professor, so even with a muddy shovel, she must be innocent!”

“Your attitude doesn’t help,” says DC Luce.

“It helps me.”

“If you’re worried, go and stay with a friend for a while, but in my opinion the risk to you isn’t as great as you imagine it to be.”

“And Figgy’s silver tag? What about that?” I snap. “Someone had that made who wasn’t us. That person attached it to his collar. Is that another example of the anonymous caller being put off?”

“As I’ve just said: Why not go away for a while?”