I think what you’ve done to your family is unforgivable. Or rather, it’s only forgivable if you’re crazy and not responsible for your actions, but when we met, I had the impression that you knew exactly what you were about. If you’re sane, clever and in control, then your lies are evil.
Your name is not and never was Lisette Ingrey. It’s important that you face up to that. And my name isn’t Allisande Ingrey, nor was it, ever. My name is and always has been Justine Michelle Merrison. I grew up in Northenden, Manchester. I am not your sister who threatened to kill you if you didn’t leave Devon, or if you told the truth about Perrine’s murder – a murder that didn’t happen, since Perrine is a figment of your imagination. And, just to avoid any ambiguity, Allisande/Sandie is also someone you invented. Speedwell House was never the home of anyone called Ingrey. The last two owners, before my husband and I bought it, were called Ainscough and Rutherford. Before that, the house belonged to the Deller family, having been passed down through the generations since 1765. No Ingreys. This has been checked and double-checked. (I hired a private detective – if you look at the email I’m sending this letter from, you’ll see I’m writing to you from an address that begins ‘Justine4PI’ – this isn’t my normal email, it’s an account I set up solely in order to correspond with a private investigator.)
Before I sat down to write this letter, I had a long telephone conversation with your mother, Denise Offord. She said she didn’t see much of you these days, and sounded strangely unemotional about it. Also weirdly incurious. She wasn’t eager to find out why I was interrogating her. It was as if I were asking about some glove or sock she’d mislaid in the late 1980s and not thought about since.
Maybe she’s not particularly imaginative. From the Ingrey story you created, it appears that you’re the opposite. I would guess that part of your reason for drifting away from your parents might have had something to do with this. They weren’t on the same wavelength or intellectual level as you. But what about your sister, Sarah? When I met her, she seemed bright and interesting. I think you don’t see much of her for a different reason. You’re holding a grudge from childhood – against her and your parents.
The first time I spoke to Sarah, she said an interesting thing without realising it. I asked her if she could think of anything in her and your childhood that might have turned you against her, or against Martin and Denise, and she couldn’t think of anything. She described your family life as ‘building-society-advert dull’. She said the most dramatic thing to happen was when she came down with what appeared to be some sort of respiratory illness, which later turned out to be an allergy: to the family dog.
I thought nothing of it at the time. It was only afterwards that I put the pieces together. What would happen, I asked myself, if a child were allergic to the family pet? It’s not the kind of allergy that’s curable, and one can hardly evict the child from the family home. I also can’t imagine that many families would force a child with such an allergy to continue to live with the dog in question.
The dog would obviously have to go. Where? To be put down? Or would a new home be found for it? In either scenario, how would the other child feel, the older of the two sisters, who wasn’t allergic to dogs but who was nevertheless forced to say goodbye to her beloved pet?
I think she might blame her younger sister, while simultaneously knowing it wasn’t her fault. I think she might fabricate a life story to substitute for her real one, in which her little sister was a cold-hearted killer.
But here’s the interesting part: instead of two sisters in the fictional biography, there are three. Why?
I have a theory. You can tell me if I’m right.
After Perrine’s murder, Lisette argues in favour of doing the right thing and telling the police the truth. She is shocked when Allisande suggests that perhaps they ought to kill Perrine. Even someone as awful as Perrine doesn’t deserve to be murdered, Lisette believes. Allisande, meanwhile, would rather protect Perrine’s killer and doesn’t seem to give a toss about securing justice for her dead sister. Allisande ends up threatening Lisette’s life more than once. And – though you might not include this detail in your version of the story, Anne – Lisette also goes on to threaten Allisande’s life in return – by which I mean that you, Professor Anne Donbavand, plague me, Justine Merrison, with anonymous phone calls because you’ve decided I’m ‘Sandie’ and we’re sisters, and we’re so at odds over the murder of Perrine that our once unbreakable bond is now in tatters. We are plotting one another’s downfall. Well, you’ll be glad to hear that I agree with that last part at least: we are plotting each other’s downfall, but under our own names. It seems we don’t need to be called Lisette and Allisande Ingrey in order to do battle.
I think you created Lisette and Allisande to represent two sides of you that were, and still are, at war: the one that hated your sister Sarah and wished her dead because if it weren’t for her the dog could have stayed, and the one that knew Sarah wasn’t to blame and that she couldn’t help having an allergy.
Was that where your hatred of your family started, with the loss of the pet you adored? Your dog was part of the family, and when your parents said he had to be given away I can imagine you thinking, ‘They pretend that we’re a loving family, but what kind of loving family banishes its most defenceless member when he’s done nothing wrong?’ Maybe you thought that if you had been the one with the allergy, you’d have endured the runny nose and weepy eyes without complaint.
Does all this sound like the wildest of guesses? Did you notice that in the paragraph above this one, I referred to your dog as ‘he’? I began with guesswork and deduction, but as soon as I started to suspect what I now know to be true, I contacted your sister Sarah again and asked her for more details about the dog.
So now I know he was male. I also know his name, and what happened to him after he left the Offord family home. Happily, he was not put to sleep. He went to live with another family, didn’t he? The Dodds.
His name was Malachy. He was a Sealyham terrier.
When you told Stephen, Fleur and George your elaborate fake life story, you missed out a crucial detail, didn’t you? You didn’t tell them that Malachy – the Malachy who was murdered by Perrine – was a dog. Why not? I know George doesn’t know, because if he did, Ellen would know too, and she doesn’t. She assumed Malachy was a boy, as I did for a long time.
I know that pets are forbidden in your house. Lachlan Fisher from Beaconwood told me Fleur wanted a cat and came to school crying one day because she’d been told she couldn’t have one.
You lost a pet you loved, and now you can’t bear to be around animals.
How did you feel when you attached the medallion with the threatening inscription to my dog’s collar? Was that hard to do? You couldn’t miss the opportunity, though, could you? You knew I’d panic at the thought of anything happening to my puppy because you’d experienced it as a child – wouldn’t I do anything to keep him safe, including move far away from Devon and take my daughter away from your son, leaving him wholly in your clutches?
Did it make you feel better, scaring me in the same way that you were scared as a child? Did you feel powerful at the moment when you hooked the silver disc onto the metal ring?
I’m surprised Stephen and your children haven’t yet guessed that Malachy Dodd was a dog. They must have heard the Ingrey story countless times. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t cotton on much sooner. There were so many clues, but I only realised when I was inside your house, Anne. I found myself looking at a bedroom window and noticing how low off the ground it was compared to the windows in my house. That’s when I knew there was something wrong with what I’d read about Malachy Dodd’s murder.
I remembered the day I’d stood in Ellen’s bedroom and had a sense of something nagging at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t grasp hold of – an element of a half-formed thought that jarred. It had been no more than a tiny flicker across my brain, too quick for me to pin dow
n.
Suddenly, sitting on your bed, Anne, and looking out through the window, I knew exactly what it was that had bothered me that day in Ellen’s bedroom. Our new puppy was with us at the time – he was so little and helpless, and Ellen has a huge sash window in her room. I think my subconscious put those two things together, and in your bedroom – a different room, as I stared at a different window – it finally clicked. I knew what was wrong with the Malachy Dodd death story: it was the detail about it being impossible for Malachy to have fallen from the window accidentally because his centre of gravity was too low. In other words, he was too short to fall out by mistake. But in which case, how could Perrine have been tall enough to eject him? Was there that much of a difference between their heights? The impression I had – admittedly, I might have been wrong – was of two children of roughly the same age.
A little later, after examining the story in more detail, I discovered that my suspicions were spot-on: Malachy was thirteen at the time of his murder, and Perrine was the same age. Yet she was tall enough, and with a sufficiently high centre of gravity, not to throw Malachy or push him out of the very same window that he was too short to fall out of, but to drop him out?
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the word ‘drop’ was used in the version of the story that reached me.
If Perrine and Malachy were both thirteen-year-old human teenagers, there would not have been such a difference in their heights that one could have dropped the other out of a window.
Let’s talk about the meaning of ‘drop’. It’s not synonymous with ‘push’ or ‘shove’ or ‘throw’. If Perrine had thrown Malachy out of the window, she would have had first to pick him up and then to hurl his body out. Could a thirteen-year-old girl do that to a thirteen-year-old boy? I’m not sure. Maybe. Pushing him out would have been easier: there’s no picking-up requirement first – you simply stand behind and propel forward. But if Malachy wasn’t tall enough to fall, I’m fairly sure that must mean he wasn’t tall enough to be pushed either.
‘Drop’ implies that you first hold something, then let it go. Think about it using an egg as a test object. You can throw an egg out of a window without first holding the egg outside the window. Now think about dropping an egg out of a window. That suggests an outstretched arm protruding from the window, with the egg still held in the closed hand, and then … the hand drops the egg.
No thirteen-year-old girl could hold a thirteen-year-old boy outside a window in order to drop him a few seconds later, or even a second later. A small dog, on the other hand, a dog roughly the size of a Sealyham terrier, would present no problem. I think you use the word ‘drop’ when you tell the story because you’re picturing Perrine holding Malachy with both hands, her arms outside the window. I think you’re imagining her looking him right in the eye, savouring that moment when there’s nothing but her hands and her power between him and certain death. Do you torture yourself by acting out in your mind those seconds during which she might have decided to save him?
Is it a test for Stephen, Fleur and George? To see if they’re as clever as you think they ought to be? Because you don’t truly trust anyone, you test people constantly, setting yourself up as judge. You haven’t told your husband and children that Malachy is a dog, but you’ve given them all the clues – including your careful use of the word ‘drop’ whenever you tell them the story, and I bet you repeat it and discuss it often. They haven’t guessed yet. Does that satisfy you or frustrate you? Do you think you’re capable of having any interaction with another human being that isn’t entirely manipulative?
It’s not only the word ‘drop’ that gives the game away. When everyone is invited to Speedwell House at the end of the story, the mother of Perrine’s third victim David Butcher says to Malachy Dodd’s ‘mother’, ‘Will you pipe down? Do you know who my son was?’ At first I thought, ‘Snooty elitist mother of Cambridge college organ scholar’, but, really, what mother would say that to another woman in the exact same position as her, when they’ve both lost their sons? I don’t believe anyone would, not even the snobbiest person in the world, and they certainly wouldn’t follow it up with: ‘Are you even a tiny bit embarrassed about how much airtime you’re taking up today?’ (See, Anne? The oral tradition is alive and well. I have the whole story, as if from your mouth.)
It makes far more sense if Malachy is a Sealyham terrier, doesn’t it: Mrs Butcher thinking, ‘This is unbelievable! People have died, and she’s playing the part of Chief Tragedy Queen when all she’s lost is a bloody pooch!’? Because so many people don’t understand, do they, that you can love a dog as much as you love a person?
Talking of love … there is more evidence in the Ingrey story to suggest Malachy is a dog. Lisette and Allisande loved Malachy, or so the story goes. Loved? Do teenage girls generally love teenage boys who are younger than them? Do they love teenage boys who are not relatives, or when no hint of romance or sexual attraction seems to be involved? Malachy made Perrine cry, though. This, I believe, is a direct reference to your real sister Sarah’s allergy. Did Perrine have the same allergy, Anne?
In the story, Malachy’s regular visits to the Ingrey house are ‘a compromise’ between Bascom and Sorrel, your fake parents. In what way, though? Did one of them want him to come round regularly while the other didn’t? I know the defining characteristic of Bascom and Sorrel as a couple is that they disagree about most things, but why would either of them not want Malachy to come round? From the rest of the story, there’s nothing about either parent being against friendships for their daughters, or disapproving of visitors to the house – at least not before the attempt on Perrine’s life during the rounders match led to a complete hunkering down.
There is, however, a reference to Sorrel wanting to fill the family home with cute, furry pets, while Bascom is determined not to have even a goldfish under his roof. Aha! – all of a sudden, this ‘compromise’ makes perfect sense. Malachy is the ‘pet compromise’. He’s not an actual pet, but, rather, a regular animal visitor.
Because, let’s face it, if he were a teenage boy of Perrine’s age, would he really be allowed to spend time with her up in her bedroom, with no one else around? Especially by Bascom, who, we are told, would never have let Malachy Dodd cross his threshold in an ideal world?
Let’s pause for a second to reflect on the workmen you refer to as ‘the bumcrackers’ – those poor men who were forced to sleep on coaches, because Bascom was so worried that they might molest his daughters: ‘One could never tell’, with strangers. Would that same Bascom Ingrey allow a teenage boy to stroll on up to his youngest daughter’s bedroom with impunity? I doubt it. An elderly thirteen-year-old dog, on the other hand, would not pose the same deflowering risk. Bascom expresses approval for Malachy at one point in the story – why, then, does he not want him at Speedwell House? Because, of course, Malachy is a dog and Bascom is one of those people who doesn’t want animals anywhere near him, however cute or well behaved they might be.
So, what do you think of my evidence, Anne? I think it’s pretty conclusive. I think you should sit Stephen and the kids down and tell them, before I do: ‘Malachy Dodd was a dog. My sister Perrine’s first murder victim was canine, not human. A Sealyham terrier.’ Or maybe you’d like to make him a different breed in the story, maintain a bit of emotional distance? Remember, though: choose a small breed, for dropping-out-of-the-window plausibility.
Then you can go on to explain to your husband and children that the whole story is a lie. You can tell them about the real Malachy, the genuine threat you believed your parents and sister posed to your wellbeing, even if it was only emotional and involved no death threats. Did you cry and beg them to let your dog stay? Did they ignore you? Tell you to stop being so silly?
Describe to Stephen, George and Fleur whatever it was that you went through that made you believe it was safer to retreat into fantasy and avoid the facts altogether. Admit to George that the reason you can’t stand the idea of his friendship wit
h Ellen is because of your buried fear and repressed trauma from childhood. Admit that it has fuck all to do with Ellen being the daughter of Allisande Ingrey, your avenging sister.
Admit to your family that there is no rational reason for the four of you to batten down the hatches and hide, as if you’re in danger of imminent attack. Explain to them that you aren’t in danger, but that you can only feel happy and safe if you have total control of your children and can guarantee that they aren’t subject to any influence apart from yours. Then tell them you know how screwed up that is, and promise to get help before you ruin all of their lives and what’s left of yours.
George’s name is George Donbavand, not Urban Ingrey. Fleur is Fleur Donbavand, not Garnet Ingrey. They have the right to know this. Why did you feel the need to give them secret names, secret identities? Do you believe no one can survive in the world if they are seen for who they truly are?
A Game for All the Family Page 35