A Game for All the Family

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘I don’t have a boat called Tide Glider,’ I tell him through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve never owned one, sailed in one or heard of one. Never heard the name until I read it just now.’

  ‘I wasn’t saying you did.’ He widens his eyes at me. ‘I’m saying there’s boats all over the show with their names covered up with house name stickers: The Old Forge, Lilac Cottage, The Laburnums, what have you. Speedwell House is on one of them, which is why I come here. I wondered, see. Meanwhile, there’s a fair few houses – the ones whose names I’ve mentioned, and others besides – with boat names stuck over their signs: Oh, Buoy!, Watersprite, Wave Weaver. Local paper’s doing a piece about it. I think the photographer’s over at the jetty now, snapping the boats. If you want to pose next to your new sign, give the paper a bell.’

  I claw at the ‘Tide Glider’ transfer with my fingernails but can’t prise loose a single corner. The policeman tries to help and ends up bashing his fingers into mine. I push his hands away and he shrugs as if to say, ‘No pleasing some people.’

  ‘Let me get this right,’ I say. ‘You’re honestly telling me that during the night, someone has gone out with a load of these big industrial-adhesive stickers and put boat names on houses and house names on boats? And all these names belong to actual houses and boats – they’re not made up?’

  ‘Oh, no, they’re all real. And yes, you’ve hit it on the nail. That’s what’s happened. As to why, I couldn’t tell you. There’s always a practical joker out to commit mischief, isn’t there? I take it you heard nothing during the night – because someone was stood right here at some point, weren’t they? Sticking it on.’

  Her name arrives in my head as the obvious answer: Anne Donbavand. Outside my house at two in the morning, her nasty fingers smoothing down the sticker …

  ‘It might be more than a joke,’ I tell the policeman.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Someone wants to create confusion about which house is which and which boat is which.’

  ‘Now why would they want that?’

  Because they’re unbalanced.

  Isn’t there a Bible story about houses being marked for some kind of attack? I shiver.

  ‘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 offence. 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 towards 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 any time 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 ring 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 nit-picky, 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 over-excited 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 over-sensitive about their parents muscling in. Puppies are the same with their owners, at roug
hly 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 realise 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.’

  ‘No. Alex wouldn’t have a disc made for Figgy and put it on his collar without showing me and Ellen. No way.’ I turn in a slow circle, fixing my eyes on one cluster of trees after another. Figgy’s been in and out of every one since I brought him home. Many are dense enough to conceal a person.

  ‘Well, some fool’s put the wrong address on this disc,’ says Olwen. She moves out of the way so that I can take her place. I cover my mouth with my hand as I read the engraved words. On one side it says, ‘Little Dog’. On the other: ‘Want to keep me safe? Then take me home: 19 Lassington Road, Muswell Hill, London, N10.’

  ‘It’s our old address,’ I say.

  ‘I suppose it’s an easy mistake to make if you’re on autopilot,’ Olwen says doubtfully.

  ‘It’s not a mistake.’ I pick Figgy up and wrap my arms around him. He’s shaking, poor thing. Then I realise he only is because I am. ‘It’s a threat,’ I tell Olwen. ‘From Lisette Ingrey, AKA Anne Donbavand.’

  It’s 5 a.m., I’ve failed to fall asleep, and what I must do now is obvious: email ‘prefect parent’ Stephen Donbavand again, except more deviously this time.

  When I wrote to him before, I was honest about who I was and what I wanted. Was he tempted? Did Anne forbid it? Is he in agreement with her, or is his compliance based purely on fear?

  I need to find out more about him. Hopefully he’ll agree to meet me – or rather, the person I’m going to pretend to be in my email.

  ‘Dear Stephen Donbavand,’ I type, with the end of Figgy’s lead clamped between my knees. Once she understood about the writing on the medallion and what it meant, Olwen pleaded with me to let her take Figgy back with her – only temporarily – for his own safety.

  I should have agreed. It made sense, but I couldn’t do it. The idea was unbearable. I promised Olwen that Alex and I would keep Figgy with us and on the lead whenever we were outside. I’ve taken it even further: here I am in the library with him on the lead in case …

  Don’t even think it.

  When I went up to say goodnight to Ellen earlier, I pulled open the small mint-green door beside her bed, praying I wouldn’t see feet walking quickly away. ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked me.

  ‘I thought I heard Dad there,’ I lied.

  I was looking for Lisette Ingrey.

  The silver disc with ‘Little Dog’ on one side and Anne Donbavand’s threat on the other is in my pocket, ready to be dropped on to the desk of DC Euan Luce tomorrow.

  Concentrate, Justine.

  I delete ‘Dear Stephen Donbavand’ and type ‘Dear Dr Donbavand’ instead.

  ‘I know you must be extremely busy, but I wonder if you might spare ten minutes or so, at your earliest convenience, to discuss with me the possibility of becoming my PhD supervisor. I’m thinking of applying to do my doctorate at Exeter, and my chief research interest is similar to research you have done that I’ve found interesting. I’m leaning towards working on microeconomic analysis of competition in online markets, but would love to discuss this further. Are you by any chance able to meet me in the next few days? As soon as possible would be great for me. I’m staying near Exeter at the moment, with relatives. I look forward to hearing from you. Very best wishes, Julia Vowles.’ I use my stepmother’s first name and the surname of a detective from a TV drama I put a lot of effort into that never got commissioned.

  I press send. Then, still not ready to go to sleep, I Google all the names I’ve already Googled more than once. Unsurprisingly, all the same results come up. I swear under my breath. I’m not being imaginative enough, that’s my problem. I should try something different.

  I try ‘Ingrey anagrams’, ‘Perrine Ingrey anagram’, ‘Anne Donbavand formerly called’. Nothing. ‘Little dog’ yields plenty, but none of it’s relevant.

  On a whim, I type ‘Tide Glider’ into the search box and press return. I click on the first result that comes up because it contains the word ‘Totnes’, though I’m not holding out much hope. When the page opens, I suck in a breath, not daring to let my thoughts flow until I’ve enlarged the picture.

  Oh, my God. The resemblance is unmistakeable. I clutch the side of the desk as Figgy’s lead slips from between my knees. He stays where he is, and looks up at me in a point-proving way: ‘See? I can be trusted to stay here of my own volition.’

  I’m looking at a 2011 article from the Totnes Times about a local artist, Sarah Parsons, whose painting Anne, Tide Glider won a local art prize. It’s a portrait of a woman of about my age. The text beneath the photograph says that Sarah cares more about this painting than any of her others because of its sentimental value; she is delighted and moved that it has won this prestigious prize. The woman depicted is her estranged sister Anne. There’s no explanation of the ‘Tide Glider’ part.

  Those features: the wide forehead, large blue-grey eyes with irises like hollow cylinders … The woman in the portrait has George Donbavand’s face.

  Get out of my house, bitch. I slam the computer’s lid shut to banish her, and find myself staring at the library’s wood-panelled wall. She could be behind one of the panels. Hiding.

  I have to get out, get some fresh air.

  I pick up Figgy’s lead and give it a gentle tug towards the door. ‘Come on, Figgs. You must need the loo. Well, not the loo – the grass.’ He seems to agree, and runs ahead to the front door.

  I unlock and open it as quietly as I can, and step out into the cold air that smells of deepest night. ‘Isn’t this—’ I start to say to Figgy, but straight away I’m falling, leaving my words stranded up in the air as I hit hard blackness.

  Chapter 10

  You Know What? You Know What? You Know What? I Don’t Care

  The following morning, the gates to the grounds of Speedwell House were opened and left standing open for the first time in absolutely ages. Guests were expected: the police, the Dodds, the Sennitt-Sasses, the Carelesses, Jack Kirbyshire’s wife and children and David Butcher’s parents.

  Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey had laid out a big breakfast spread: toast and jam, steamed prawn dumplings, fresh fruit, Parma ham and thin slices of Dutch cheese. To drink there was tea, coffee or freshly squeezed orange juice. Bascom was exhausted. He had been up all night squeezing oranges.
(Sorrel had been asleep. One of her principles that she never broke was that she had to get nine hours’ sleep every single night.)

  The feast laid out in the kitchen seemed unnecessarily elaborate to Lisette and Allisande. ‘Why is this happening?’ they kept saying. ‘Today isn’t someone’s birthday party. It’s a horrible day. The food is too nice.’

  ‘We’ll all need to eat,’ Sorrel explained. ‘You can’t invite people to your house so early in the morning and not provide breakfast, and it might as well be a nice breakfast. Now go and sit in the drawing room, girls – you’re getting in the way.’

  Lisette and Allisande went to the drawing room and Bascom brought them each a plate of breakfast while Sorrel clattered and swore in the kitchen. She hated the stress and the faff of entertaining.

  Each of the guests grabbed a drink and a plate of food and congregated in the drawing room. (On the way to the drawing room, however, there was much to-ing and fro-ing in the wide Georgian hallway, much wandering into other rooms to have a peek at the famously locked-up house that was eagerly wondered about by all those who lived near it. For at least half an hour, people bumbled about and explored and roamed freely. I’m telling you this because it will become important later on.)

  Eventually, everyone had quenched their nosiness for the time being, and they all ended up in the drawing room (apart from the police officers who had come to remove David Butcher’s body from the library – they had gone). Only the police and the Ingreys knew what was about to happen. It was clear from the faces of the Dodds and the Kirbyshires that they were puzzled to be at Speedwell House, and wondered what they were doing there.

  Once everyone had finished eating and boosted their energy levels for the ordeal ahead, Sorrel stood up and spoke to the crowd. ‘Thank you all so much for coming. These gentlemen here are policemen. In a moment, they will go upstairs and arrest my youngest daughter, Perrine, for three murders: the murders of Malachy Dodd, Jack Kirbyshire and David Butcher.’