A Confusion of Murders: There's murder on his mind...

by Marina Johnson

  The rest of the drawer is mainly full of bank statements and old cheque books. I put the Power of Attorney on the desk and push the drawer back in.

  The drawer sticks, and I can’t get it to go back in, something is stopping it, maybe something has fallen down the back. I give the drawer a sharp yank and the whole drawer comes flying out and lands with a thwack on the floor. God I’m so clumsy. I pick it up and try to line it up to get it back in when I see something flapping on the underside of the drawer. I turn the drawer over and there’s a brown envelope taped to the bottom. The tape is brown with age and the envelope is half hanging off which is probably why the drawer got stuck.

  Intrigued, I pull the envelope and it comes away easily. I open it and inside there’s a sheet of paper. I unfold it and am immediately disappointed, it’s just a death certificate.

  I smooth it out on the desk and read. I read it again. I actually rub my eyes in disbelief and read it again. Everything is right; the name, the date of birth. Except for the bit that’s wrong. Very wrong.

  I’m looking at my own death certificate.

  Chapter 11

  I try on three different outfits before I decide on a pale blue linen dress with a pair of strappy wedges.

  I look out of the window; no sign of him yet. My date.

  When I left Dad’s house I’d decided to cancel tonight as I couldn’t even think straight. But once I’d been home a couple of hours I changed my mind. I don’t think I could stand my own company this evening with the same thoughts going round and round in my head on a loop.

  So. Here we are. I look out of the window again and Gareth is just climbing out of a black open top sports car. I gawp for a moment, I didn’t expect him to turn up in a police car, but a sports car? He looks straight at me as he walks up the path and I hurriedly move away from the blinds.

  Great. So now I look like a desperate spinster waiting for her date to turn up. He does look gorgeous though; he’s wearing a soft blue shirt with cream chinos. Doesn’t look like a copper at all.

  ‘Hi!’ I open the front door with a bright smile on my face. ‘I thought I heard a car.’ I hear the clicking of Sprocket’s claws on the kitchen floor as he hears me open the front door.

  ‘Hi yourself.’ I feel Gareth’s appraising gaze on me and I’m pleased that I’ve made an effort to look nice.

  Sprocket stands statue-like in the kitchen doorway. He stares at Gareth without blinking.

  ‘Hello fella.’

  Sprocket stares at Gareth for a few more moments then waddles over to him, tail wagging slowly.

  Gareth kneels and rubs Sprocket’s ears; his tail wags faster and he gazes up at Gareth adoringly.

  Well. He’s passed the first test.

  ‘Right Sprocket. In the kitchen. You know the drill.’

  Sprocket ignores me, and I have to drag him away to shut him in the kitchen so we can leave. I close the front door to the sound of him howling.

  ‘I take it he doesn’t like being left on his own?’

  ‘He’s fine normally. Just showing off. He’ll stop as soon as we’re gone.’ Hopefully. I can still hear him when we get to the car.

  Gareth opens the passenger door for me and I slide onto the plump red leather seat.

  He walks round and gets in and starts the engine.

  ‘Up or down?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Roof. Up or down? I can put it up if you’d rather.’

  ‘Down is fine,’ I say confidently, as if I’ve been sitting in convertibles all my life. I’ve never been in one before, this is going to be fun. It’s a lovely warm evening and I can’t wait to feel the breeze in my hair and the evening sun on my face.

  ‘Thought we’d go to a nice little gastro pub I know. Just outside Frogham near Puckleberry village, should be there in about twenty minutes. It’s called The Gamekeeper, have you been there before?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  It’s really quaint, oak beams and good food. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ I settle back into the seat.

  ‘You look lovely by the way.’ He fixes his twinkly eyes on me.

  ‘Thank you.’ The engine roars into life and we zoom off.

  We arrive at The Gamekeeper and pull onto the rough ground that serves as a car park behind it. It’s a typical country pub, painted white with black cross beams and a shabby thatched roof.

  On reflection the decision of roof down may have been a mistake. The warm breeze I was expecting was more of a stiff wind and my eyes are stinging a bit as well. I don’t suppose Gareth thought I looked very lovely with my hands clamped over my head trying to stop my hair from flying everywhere and my eyes squinting and watering from the wind.

  Gareth gets out of the car then comes round and holds the door open for me like a proper gentleman. I haul myself inelegantly out of the car as all my joints also seem to have seized up. He looks as pristine as when he picked me up.

  We both duck as we go into the pub through the low back door. Obviously designed for short people. The room is low and dark in the way of old pubs and I follow Gareth to the bar.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘White wine, please.’

  He orders the drinks and I use the opportunity to excuse myself, so I can tidy my hair up.

  I squeeze myself into the tiny toilet at the back of the restaurant and can’t believe what I see in the rust speckled mirror. Or maybe I can, I should probably just have stayed home. My freshly washed and blow-dried hair, which before we left fell in soft waves around my shoulders, now resembles a greasy mop. The combination of the warm wind and my desperate attempts to keep it from flying everywhere have pulled every bit of wave out of it and it hangs limply around my head.

  The crisp linen dress that I was so pleased with is now like a crumpled tea towel. The leather seat and my sweaty legs have pretty much ruined it.

  To finish it off the wind has made my eyes water and my mascara has run down my face. To say I feel a mess would be an understatement.

  I rummage in my handbag and find a comb and attempt to drag it through my hair. No luck. The only way those tangles will be coming out is when I wash it. I wet a paper towel and dab at the mascara on my face. I dab as much of the mascara off as I can along with most of my foundation.

  I spend so long faffing around in there that Gareth is probably on dessert by now.

  I emerge from the fluorescent glare of the toilets into the gloom of the pub and it takes a moment to see Gareth. He’s seated at a table in the corner of the bar by the fire. I start to walk over and am nearly there when I stumble on the ancient flagstone floor. I completely lose my footing and can’t stop myself. The floor rushes up to meet me when a pair of strong arms catch me just before I smash my head into the floor.

  ‘Steady on!’

  I gaze up into those twinkly eyes. Could this evening possibly get any worse?

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’ I step away from him and sit down. ‘Thank you for catching me.’ Great. Now I sound like a complete idiot.

  ‘Lucky I’ve still got the rugby reflexes,’ he says, sitting down. He grins.

  ‘Well I’m glad you find it so funny. Have a good laugh at my hair at the same time. You could have warned me what the wind would do.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your hair? It looks fine to me.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m incredulous, ‘REALLY?’ I almost shout at him. ‘Look at me, I’m a mess.’ I feel like crying.

  He reaches over and puts his hand over mine.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’ I should have stayed at home. I am dead after all.

  He looks crestfallen and I realise what I’ve said.

  ‘I’ve had a rotten day – stuff to do with my Dad, so maybe I shouldn’t have inflicted myself on you. I didn’t mean I didn’t want to come.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ he says pick
ing up a menu, ‘let’s order some food and start over.’ Those twinkly eyes again.

  ‘Okay, let’s.’

  ‘And just for the record,’ he says, ‘you look gorgeous, wild hair or not.’

  ‘Up or down?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll make any difference now, so down.’ I smile. ‘It’s a beautiful evening, be a shame to shut it out.’ Warm, and still. The sort of stillness that you only get in the countryside.

  ‘Down it is.’ He grins, ‘I like that dishevelled look anyway.’

  We pull out of the car park, the tyres crunching over the gravel. I don’t bother trying to hold my hair down and my eyes don’t stream this time.

  I’ve had such a lovely evening. Gareth is so funny and easy to talk to; the evening flew by and we were the only people left when we realised that the staff were waiting for us to leave. We’d hardly got out of the door when we heard the bolts and locks being shot across. We both collapsed in giggles and couldn’t stop, I don’t know why it was so funny, it just was.

  It seems much quicker getting home than it did going, and we pull up outside my house.

  Gareth kills the engine and turns to me.

  ‘Thank you, I really enjoyed tonight.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  We lean slowly towards each other, neither of us willing to make the first move.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘would you like to come in for a coffee? I’m sure Sprocket would love to see you.’

  ‘Coffee would be good. And of course, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Sprocket.’

  Neither of us makes a move to get out and the break the spell. We inch closer.

  The opening bars of Depeche Mode shatter the silence between us and we jump apart.

  Your own personal Jesus, someone to hear your prayers...

  ‘Christ, sorry, I’ll have to get this.’ Gareth pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He moves over in his seat away from me and puts the phone to his ear.

  I sit back trying not to listen but still hear Gareth say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘when’ several times.

  He finishes the call and turns to me.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I have to go. Duty calls.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I shrug. ‘another time.’

  ‘No really,’ he says. ‘I am sorry. I’d like nothing better than to come in for a coffee.’ He grins. ‘To see Sprocket of course.’

  ‘He’ll be really disappointed.’

  ‘Not as disappointed as me,’ he says then leans over and kisses me gently on the lips, ‘Goodnight Louise, see you soon?’

  ‘Reach out touch faith,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘A fellow fan?’ He seems delighted.

  ‘Can’t beat a bit of Depeche Mode. I have every album.’ I laugh.

  ‘Me too.’ He kisses me again. ‘I knew you were perfect,’ he says, pulling me closer. I rest my head on his shoulder and we sit in stillness for a moment.

  I close my eyes and enjoy the closeness of him, I could sit here all night.

  ‘Louise?’

  ‘Yes?’ I say dreamily.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  I sit up. ‘Of course you do.’ I pick my handbag up from the footwell and clamber out of the car.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Night, Gareth.’

  He watches from the car as I unlock the front door and go in, I give him a wave and he zooms off down the road.

  I float into the kitchen and wrap my arms around Sprocket and give him a big cuddle, his cold nose pressed into my neck.

  ‘I’ve had a lovely evening Sprocket, with a really nice man.’

  Sprocket sighs and I stroke his ears feeling all warm and fuzzy. The warm fuzzy feeling lasts precisely five minutes before the fact of my death comes crashing down on me. Oh well, it was good while it lasted. Somehow, I’ve managed not to think about it all night, every time it threatened to start dragging me down I batted it away like a tennis ball. But now I don’t have Gareth to distract me I think it’ll be a different story.

  I get ready for bed and clean my teeth, but I know that I won’t sleep; not with the thing that I’m trying not to think about buzzing around in my head. I decide it’s pointless trying so go back downstairs and find a notebook and pen and settle on the sofa with Sprocket on my feet. All the self-help gurus say that if you write down the problem it’ll help you solve it. So, I head up the page:

  Facts:

  I have a birth certificate in my name.

  I have a death certificate in my name which states I died at three months old, a cot death.

  Reasons for finding a death certificate in my name:

  1. I have a twin

  2. It’s a fake certificate, someone’s idea of a joke

  3. I’m not who I think I am, I’m someone else

  3.1 If I’m someone else what about Mum, Dad and Nick?

  4. I’m dead. I’m a ghost.

  I sit and chew the end of the pen but as hard as I try I just can’t think of any other reasons. I cross out number four as I’m obviously not a ghost.

  Okay, number one, I have a twin sister – this is possible. But why would she have the same name as me? Perhaps Mum and Dad preferred her to me so changed my name to hers. Pretty farfetched and unlikely, but possible.

  Number two – the certificate’s a fake. I grab my laptop, open it up and Google it and am amazed at how easy it is to get a fake death certificate. There are hundreds of websites advertising how to obtain your own fake death certificate. Apparently, it’s a hilarious joke to play on someone, but more likely just their way of selling fake ID legally.

  But I can’t imagine Mum or Dad thinking this would be remotely funny and, also the envelope and certificate look pretty old.

  Number three – I’m not who I think I am.

  If I’m not who I think I am, then who am I? This is the most likely and also the scariest. Because if I’m not Louise Russell then I’m someone else who’s been brought up as Louise Russell.

  Number three point one – Are Mum, Dad and Nick someone else too? Is Dad really a spy and we’re all foreign sleeper agents who have taken dead people’s identities? Is that why he’s obsessed with M15? I know this is farfetched and in the realms of fantasy but isn’t finding your own death certificate farfetched?

  If we’re all sleeper agents where are their death certificates? Why is there only mine? Or I am the only one that doesn’t know and they have their own death certificates? Do Dad and Nick (and Mum) know they’re sleeper agents but haven’t told me because they don’t think I could handle it?

  Also, finding a family where everyone has died would be a bit too convenient for foreign spies, so I think I’ll dismiss this one too.

  Which leaves me with not being who I thought I was. It also leaves the one explanation which I’ve been trying not to think about but seems most obvious.

  What if the real Louise Russell died and I was stolen as a replacement?

  First things first – I need to make sure the death certificate is genuine.

  There’s no time like the present. I search for family tree websites. There are loads. Before I have too much time to think about it and put myself off of the idea I sign up for a free fourteen-day trial on Family Search.

  I decide to start with Mum; I type in Betty Croker and her date of birth and sit back and wait.

  74 records found

  I was expecting a lot as we were all born in London and Mum’s maiden name is quite common. Lucky we’re not called Smith, I suppose. I scroll through and there she is; so she definitely existed. I do the same for Dad, then Nick, and up they pop. So far, so good. I put my own name and date of birth in and there I am.

  Next, I put Mum’s details in to see if there’s a death registered in her name. There is.

  Next, I put in Dad’s, then Nick’s. No match.

  Okay. Deep breath. I put my own name and date of death in and wait, watching the whirly thing chugging away.

  It’s a match. There is it in bla
ck and white.

  So if Louise Russell is dead, who am I?

  Although I have a death certificate in my name I have also carried on living. Is this possible? Wouldn’t I have flagged up as dead when I got married or applied for a passport?

  I know the answer to this: I wouldn’t.

  One of my temping jobs was in a pensions department of a large company. One of the pensioners died but no-one notified us, and her husband continued to draw her pension for twenty years. He was only found out when he moved house and didn’t notify the company. His payslip was returned to the office and the tracing agency used to trace his wife’s new address discovered she died twenty years previously and voila! The game was up. If he’d written in with his new address as he’d done several times before he’d still be drawing the pension now.

  I think back to my childhood. Did I feel different?

  No. I didn’t.

  I pull out one of the photograph albums that I brought home from Dad’s and flick through it.

  Nick looks like Dad – everyone agrees about this, he is a younger version of Dad only a better looking one. I look like Mum, everyone agrees about this too. I’ve always trotted this out myself, ‘Oh Nick looks just like Dad and I take after Mum.’ I’ve never questioned this, although I could never see it myself, but I couldn’t see the resemblance between Dad and Nick. I can never really see family resemblances, probably because of the age difference.

  I look at a picture of Mum and Dad on their silver wedding anniversary. They were probably around the age that Nick and I are now, and I can see that Nick does look a lot like Dad. The same direct smile, even the same hair. I’d never realised how handsome Dad was, he was just Dad to me. I don’t look anything like him, or Nick.

  I look at the picture of Mum. I try to be objective and compare a selfie on my phone with her. We have the same wavy fair hair and we’re the same height, but if I look at individual features we’re not alike at all.

  To someone who knows we’re related it’s easy to say we look alike but actually, we don’t.

  I am the cuckoo in the nest.

  I suddenly feel very alone. Nothing has changed as far as everyone else is concerned but everything has changed for me. I wish I could talk to someone about it, but who? How can I talk to Nick? I don’t want him to feel like I do or even worse. What if he already knows? I can’t believe he does; he’s useless at keeping secrets. He admits it himself; ‘don’t tell me any secrets,’ he says, ‘you know I can’t keep my gob shut.’