A Game for All the Family

by Sophie Hannah

  I need to get out of here. My head’s spinning. ‘I’ll have to tell Ellen what you’ve told me,’ I say, standing up.

  ‘I’m sure she already knows that George Donbavand is not George’s real name,’ says Lesley.

  My heart thumps faster. In my head it sounds like footsteps, running to catch up. ‘Why … why would Ellen know? She hasn’t said anything to me about that.’

  ‘She wouldn’t. She’d think telling anyone, even you, would put George at risk.’

  ‘You have no idea what Ellen knows or doesn’t know,’ I snap. ‘Soon she’ll know that George wasn’t expelled – that’s the main thing.’

  Is it?

  I came here hoping for answers. Instead, I feel as if I’ve been given a bigger, more impossible puzzle than the one I came in with.

  What if whoever wants to kill the Donbavands has added Ellen to their list because of her friendship with George?

  No. Don’t even think it. You don’t believe in this mysterious threat to the Donbavands. Do you?

  I mumble something – it’s meant to be ‘Thank you’ – on my way out of the room.

  Halfway down the corridor, I hear footsteps slapping the lino behind me. I turn and see Lachlan Fisher. He’s holding something: a typed document. ‘For you,’ he says.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘All the Year 9s were asked to write stories. George gave me his before he left. He wanted me to have it: his last piece of work for Beaconwood. It … it meant a lot to him.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I take it from him. ‘I’ll give it to Ellen.’

  ‘No. I mean, you can if you want, but read it first.’

  ‘What’s it about? His family?’ Wouldn’t it be great if the solution to the Donbavand mystery were contained in a fourteen-year-old’s Creative Writing homework?

  ‘No, it’s not at all autobiographical.’

  Then don’t waste my time.

  ‘It’s about injustice,’ Lachlan Fisher says, with a hard-blink for a heavy word. ‘And madness.’

  I’ve had enough of both for one day, but I take the story and put it in my bag because he persuaded Lesley to talk to me and I owe him a good deed.

  ‘Ellen’s story is about murder,’ I tell him. ‘A weirdly real-sounding murder.’

  He doesn’t like the sound of that at all. I watch him try to blink my words away.

  ‘Mr Fisher? Are you okay?’

  He mumbles something inaudible, then turns and hurries back to Lesley’s office.

  Chapter 9

  No Lock on the Little Green Door

  David Butcher, the Ingrey girls’ new music teacher, introduced himself to Lisette, Allisande and Perrine with the help of a Hungarian folk song. ‘My name is Mr Butcher,’ he said. ‘And so that you never forget it, here’s a song called “The Handsome Butcher”.’ Then he cleared his throat and began to sing:

  Seven locks upon the red gate,

  Seven gates about the red town.

  In the town there lives a butcher and his name is Handsome John Brown.

  In the town there lives a butcher and his name is Handsome John Brown.

  John Brown's boots are polished so fine,

  John Brown's spurs they jingle and shine.

  On his coat a crimson flower, in his hand a glass of red wine.

  On his coat a crimson flower, in his hand a glass of red wine.

  In the night. the golden spurs ring,

  In the dark, the leather boots shine.

  Don't come tapping at my window now your heart no longer is mine.

  Don't come tapping at my window now your heart no longer is mine.

  The Ingrey girls never did forget David Butcher’s name, but it wasn’t because of the butcher in the song. It was because Perrine murdered him.

  (I know he has barely been introduced, but there’s no point allowing you to get to know him. He’s nothing more than a victim in this story, however brilliant and life-changing a music teacher he would have been if he’d lived.)

  David Butcher did not fall to his death from one of Speedwell House’s upstairs windows. Instead, he was found lying cold and still on the library floor. It was one day when he arrived early for the lesson, and Perrine did too. When Lisette and Allisande entered the library at the correct hour, they found Perrine sitting curled up in a chair with a smirk on her face, and Mr Butcher’s dead body at her feet.

  There was not a mark on him.

  ‘What did you do to him, Perrine?’ Bascom wept.

  ‘Nothing, Father,’ came the nonchalant reply.

  ‘Don’t “Nothing, Father” me! Did you poison him? You must have poisoned him, since he has no visible wounds.’

  ‘I don’t think she did,’ said Sorrel Ingrey quietly. ‘I think she simply removed her mask – the one she always wears in our presence – and let him see who she truly is. I think that scared him so much, it stopped his heart.’

  ‘Or perhaps she did nothing more than wish him dead,’ Allisande suggested. ‘That might have been enough.’

  ‘You’re talking about me as if I’m a witch,’ said Perrine indignantly.

  ‘Come on, Perrine.’ Sorrel clapped her hands together. ‘I’m taking you upstairs to your room and locking you in there.’

  ‘For how long?’ asked Perrine.

  ‘For as long as I feel like!’ Sorrel snapped.

  ‘Don’t forget the little green door,’ Bascom told Sorrel. ‘You’ll have to push the chest of drawers up against it on the other side, or else she’ll be able to get out there. There’s no lock on that door.’

  Lisette immediately rewrote ‘The Handsome Butcher’ song in her head:

  No lock on the little green door.

  Put a chest of drawers in the way.

  In this house there lives a killer and her name is Perrine Ingrey.

  In this house there lives a killer and her name is Perrine Ingrey.

  ‘What choice do Mum and Dad have, Perrine?’ asked Lisette, who still desperately hoped a rational approach might prevail. ‘When you’re free to do so, you kill. If you would only admit it and promise to stop …’ Lisette broke off when she realised none of her family were listening to her.

  ‘Shouldn’t she have a worse punishment than being locked in her room for a while?’ said Allisande. ‘This is her third murder!’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you would leave this to your father and me,’ Sorrel said sternly.

  Perrine was taken upstairs. Everyone heard the key turning ominously in the lock. Bascom Ingrey sat quietly weeping in an armchair in the corner of the library until his wife reappeared. She took one look at him and pursed her lips. ‘Pull yourself together, Bascom,’ she said briskly. ‘This is no time for sentiment. We have important business to discuss.’

  Sorrel sat down. ‘Girls,’ she said. ‘We have difficult times ahead of us, but Dad and I have made a plan, and if we all follow it to the letter, everything will be all right. Okay?’

  Lisette and Allisande nodded eagerly. Lisette wondered when this plan could have been made. Sorrel made it sound very new, but they had all only just now discovered David Butcher’s dead body.

  ‘No matter how much we all wish it were otherwise, we must face facts,’ Sorrel began solemnly. ‘Perrine is a killer. She has killed three times, and we can’t let it happen again. That would be socially irresponsible. We must call the police and tell them what we know. The only problem is that we have no proof. Perrine is extremely skilled at leaving no solid evidence of her crimes.’

  Now Bascom joined in. ‘There’s a strong chance that the police wouldn’t be able to do anything, because we have nothing concrete to offer them, and they can’t just lock people up willy-nilly. So …’ Hesitantly, he looked at his wife.

  ‘So we’re going to have to fake the evidence,’ said Sorrel. She produced a small knife – the one she used mainly to chop garlic – and held it up in the air.

  Lisette and Allisande gasped.

  ‘I’m going to plunge this knife into David
Butcher’s heart,’ said Sorrel. ‘And maybe slice his neck with it too. We need to make him look more murdered. It’s okay – he won’t feel a thing, so it’s not harming him in any way. I don’t want to do it – I hate the thought of vandalising a corpse – but I need to, to make it look as if that’s how he died. A stabbing – something that can be witnessed.’

  ‘You mean …?’ Lisette began tentatively.

  ‘Yes. We four must pretend to the police that we all saw Perrine stab David Butcher with this knife. Then there will be proof, and hopefully they will lock her up for a long time. Of course, it will still be her word against ours, and I’ll have to make sure I wipe all my fingerprints off the knife, but I’m confident the police will believe us.’

  ‘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 ring 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 per cent 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 lead for Figgy, who is using it to drag him towards 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 recognisable: radiant, witty, bubbling over with joy. It’s a bit of an eye-opener. I hadn’t realised 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 lead 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 civilised 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 hea
d – ‘… 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 towards the house again: great big strides.

  ‘Justine, wait! Can you put the brakes on and not overreact? Think about it: it’s getting dark. People draw blinds and curtains when it gets dark, don’t they? Come on, Figg – looks like we’re going in.’

  ‘Have you ever known Ellen to notice that the curtains need drawing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I do.’ I hurry ahead. Whatever is about to happen, I’d rather Alex and Figgy stayed in the garden, but I can hardly stop my husband from entering his own house. ‘Ellen never touches a blind or a curtain – not in her bedroom, not anywhere. I do it. As you can see, I’m not inside the house at the moment. Which means George Donbavand must have—’

  ‘Justine, you’re going off at the deep end for no—’

  ‘On his first visit to my house, he’s seen fit to close the blinds and curtains in two rooms. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s stretch the boy on a rack until he tells us, shall we?’

  I run into the house through the open front door. ‘Ellen? Ellen!’

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she calls out.

  This house is too big. I can’t get to the kitchen quickly enough. When I do, she isn’t in it. ‘Ellen? Where are you?’

  ‘Upstairs, with George. In my bedroom!’

  In her bedroom with a remarkably-civilised-for-fourteen boy from a severely dysfunctional family, with the curtains closed. Closed by him.

  Remarkably civilised means unusually mature – intellectually, and perhaps sexually too.