Moonflower Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘But in that case, what did Cecily read? And what’s happened to her?’

  I had no answer to that.

  Behind the bar, Lars had been wiping a glass. He set it down and called out to us. ‘Last orders in five minutes, Mr MacNeil.’

  ‘That’s OK, Lars. I think we’re finished. You can start to close down now.’

  ‘I haven’t asked you about Cecily,’ I said. This was the conversation I was most nervous about but we seemed to be comfortable with each other and this had to be the right time. ‘What happened on that last day . . .’

  ‘Wednesday.’ He spoke the single word in a low voice, gazing into his drink, and I felt a distinct change in the atmosphere between us as I moved into painful territory.

  ‘Do you mind talking about it?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’ve already gone over it, again and again, with the police. I don’t see how it will help. It’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘That’s true. And I know it’s none of my business. But I’m worried about her too and if there’s anything you can remember, any small detail, even if you think it’s irrelevant, you never know . . .’

  ‘All right.’ He called over to Lars. ‘Lars – I’ll have one more before you close.’ He glanced at me. ‘You?’

  ‘No. I’m OK, thanks.’

  He steeled himself. ‘I don’t really know what to tell you, Susan. It was a very ordinary day. I mean, that’s the hell of it. It was just another Wednesday and I had absolutely no idea that my whole fucking life was about to be torn apart. That afternoon, Eloise took Roxie to the GP. It wasn’t anything very important – just a tummy upset.’

  ‘Tell me about Eloise.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘How long has she been with you?’

  ‘From the very start. She arrived after Roxie was born.’

  ‘Roxana’s a pretty name.’

  ‘Yes. Cecily chose it.’

  ‘So Eloise came to Suffolk the year after Frank Parris was killed?’

  ‘That’s right. Roxana was born in January 2009. She arrived a couple of months after that.’

  ‘Was she in England at the time of the murder?’

  ‘You don’t think she had anything to do with it, do you? I’m sorry, but that’s crazy. Eloise Radmani is from Marseille. She never knew Frank Parris. And actually how she got here is a very sad story. She was married. She met her husband in London – they were both students. But he died.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘AIDS. He’d had a stomach ulcer and needed a blood transfusion. He was very unlucky. He died in France, but after that she decided to come back to England and joined a nanny agency.’

  ‘Which agency?’

  ‘Knightsbridge Knannies.’ He spelled out the second word so that I would get the joke.

  I didn’t smile. I was still remembering the way Eloise had looked at me as I left the house – utterly vengeful. ‘So on the day Cecily disappeared, she took Roxana to the doctor.’

  ‘After lunch. Yes. I’d taken the dog out in the morning . . . just round the grounds. It was Cecily’s turn in the afternoon. She was in and out of the hotel during the day. We both were. It’s not too far to go.’

  ‘Did she talk about the book with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know that she’d sent a copy to her parents in the South of France?’

  Aiden shook his head. ‘The police asked me that,’ he said. ‘Pauline told them about the telephone call. Of course she did. I mean, was it really a coincidence that on the Tuesday she rings her parents to tell them about this stupid novel and the very next day—’ He broke off and drank some of the vodka, the ice rattling against the side of the glass. ‘For what it’s worth, Detective Chief Superintendent Locke doesn’t think there’s any connection. His theory is that if Cecily was attacked, it was by someone completely random.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the answer to your question is – no, she didn’t say anything about posting the book. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t take her seriously. Or maybe it was because she knew I’d never had any time for Stefan Codrescu, so she didn’t think I’d be interested.’ He reached out and closed the book. ‘It hurts me that she didn’t confide in me. It makes me feel responsible.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions. I don’t understand what you want to know!’ He stopped himself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just very difficult.’ He finished his drink just as Lars brought over the last one he had ordered. He took it gratefully, pouring the contents into the glass he had just emptied. ‘The last time I saw her was about three o’clock in the afternoon,’ he said. ‘She took the VW. I went out about half an hour later in the Range Rover. I had to go over to Framlingham. I had a meeting with our solicitor, a man called Sajid Khan.’

  It was funny the way Sajid Khan’s name kept cropping up. He was Alan Conway’s old solicitor. He had told the Trehernes where to find me. He was working for Martin and Joanne Williams. My sister, Katie, had used him. And now, on the day of Cecily’s disappearance, Aiden was telling me he’d been to see him too.

  ‘There were some papers to sign,’ he went on. ‘Nothing very important. And I had a few errands to run. Cecily had asked me to drop some clothes into the charity shop. She’s a big supporter of EACH.’

  ‘Each?’

  ‘East Anglia’s Children’s Hospices. There isn’t a branch in Woodbridge. I had to pick up a chair which we’d had reupholstered. I went to the supermarket too. I got home at fiveish. Maybe half past. I was surprised Cecily wasn’t there. Inga was making Roxie her tea. She comes in and helps sometimes.’

  ‘Where was Eloise?’

  ‘She had the evening off.’ He lifted his glass and emptied it. I did the same. ‘When Cecily still hadn’t got home at seven o’clock, I went looking for her in the hotel. Sometimes she’d work in the main office and lose track of the time. But she wasn’t there. Nobody had seen her. I still wasn’t too worried. I mean, this is Suffolk. Nothing much happens in Suffolk.’

  Both Frank Parris and Alan Conway had been murdered in Suffolk, but I decided not to mention it.

  ‘I rang a few of her friends. I tried calling Lisa but I couldn’t get hold of her. I was thinking something might have happened to Bear. He’s getting on a bit and sometimes he has trouble with his hips. Anyway, at eight o’clock, when I still hadn’t heard from her, I made a decision and called the police.’

  He fell silent. That had been when the long silence had begun.

  I was trying to work out the timings. He’d left the hotel at approximately half past three. He was back sometime after five; maybe as late as five thirty. Framlingham was about twenty minutes from Woodbridge. That felt about right for a couple of errands and a meeting.

  ‘What time did you meet Sajid Khan?’ I asked.

  He gave me a peculiar look and I knew I’d asked one question too many. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m just trying to—’

  But he didn’t let me finish. ‘You think I killed her, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ I denied it but I didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘Yes, you do. When did I leave? When was the last time I saw her? You think the police haven’t asked me the same questions over and over again? Everyone thinks I killed her, the one woman who actually made me happy, and that’s what they’re going to think for the rest of my life. My daughter is going to grow up wondering if her daddy killed her mummy and I’m never going to be able to explain . . .’

  He got unsteadily to his feet and I was shocked to see tears streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘You have no right,’ he continued hoarsely. ‘You have no right at all. I don’t mind getting it from the police. That’s their job. But who are you? You’re the one who caused all the trouble in the first place. You were the one who published the book – turning what happened here into some sort o
f entertainment. And now you come here like Sherlock Holmes or Atticus fucking Pünd asking me questions that have got nothing to do with you. If you can find something in the book, then get on with it. Do what you’ve been paid to do. But from now on, leave me alone!’

  He left. I watched him weave his way out of the room. Behind me, Lars brought a metal shutter rattling down and crashing against the bar. Suddenly I was on my own.

  Framlingham

  I felt sorry for Aiden and worried that I’d gone too far. But that didn’t stop me checking out his story the next day.

  It was strange being back in Framlingham, the market town that Alan Conway had chosen as his home and where I had spent so much time immediately following his death. I parked on the main square opposite the Crown, where I had stayed and where I had enjoyed a remarkably drunken meal with James Taylor, Alan’s partner. It reminded me that I still hadn’t heard back from him and I wondered if he had received my email. I wanted to stretch my legs so I walked up the High Street, past the cemetery where Alan was buried. I thought about visiting his grave – I could see it between two yew trees – but decided against it. We’d always had a difficult, edgy relationship and if I’d gone to have a quiet chat at the gravestone there was every chance it would have turned into a quarrel.

  Framlingham seemed quieter than ever. Despite its wonderful castle and surrounding countryside, it suffers from a strange midweek emptiness. It’s hard to tell if the shops are open and frankly, it’s hard to care. There’s a country market every weekend but otherwise the main square is little more than a car park. The supermarket that Aiden had visited is right in the middle but hides away as if it knows how ugly it is and feels ashamed to be there.

  The EACH charity shop was at the bottom end of the town, just along the road from an estate agent. It was quite small, occupying what must once have been a cottage, one of four identical buildings in a little terrace, but someone had imposed four large, modern windows in the front, completely divorcing it from its neighbours. I’m afraid I find charity shops quite dispiriting. There are so many of them and at the end of the day, each one is a reminder of a failed business and the general collapse of the High Street. But this one had a cheerful volunteer called Stavia, lots of books and toys and three racks of surprisingly high-end clothes. There was no one else in there apart from the two of us and Stavia was keen to talk. In fact, once she’d started, it was hard to get her to stop.

  ‘Aiden MacNeil? Yes, of course I remember him. I was here when he came in and afterwards I had to speak to the police. Isn’t it awful, what’s happened! You don’t usually get that sort of thing in Suffolk, although there was that business in Earl Soham all those years ago and the death of that writer. Yes, Mr MacNeil came in that Wednesday afternoon. I saw him park his car on the other side of the road – just over there.

  ‘He brought in four or five dresses, some jerseys, shirts. Some of them were quite old but there was a Burberry dress that had never been worn. It still had the label. We sold it almost at once for a hundred pounds, which is a lot more than we usually get for anything off the rail. The police wanted to know who bought it but I couldn’t help them because they’d paid cash. They took her other clothes away – the ones we hadn’t sold – and we never saw them again, which I think is a little unfair, although I suppose I can’t complain, given the circumstances. Oh – and there were some men’s clothes too. A jacket, some ties, an old shirt and a very nice waistcoat.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Yes. We did have a chat. He was a very nice man, very friendly. He told me he was going to pick up a chair. He’d had it resprung or something. He said that his wife was a big supporter of EACH and had donated quite a bit of money to our Treehouse Appeal. I can’t believe he had anything to do with her disappearance. I mean, he couldn’t have just stood here and chatted if he had, could he?’

  ‘Do you remember what time he was here?’

  ‘It was four o’clock. I know because I remember thinking that I only had half an hour until we closed and that was when he walked in. Why are you so interested in all this, by the way? Are you a journalist? I hope I’m not going to get into any trouble talking about it all . . .’

  I managed to reassure her and, partly out of guilt, spent five pounds on a Mexican pot with a cactus that turned out to be fake. I donated it to another charity shop on the way back to the car.

  After that, I walked back up to the street with the mustard yellow building that housed Wesley & Khan Solicitors. It was two years since I had been there and I had a strange sense of déjà vu coming off the main road into what must have once been a private house. In fact, I was quite sure that it was the same bored girl sitting behind the reception desk: not only that, she might have been reading the same magazine. It was as if time had stood still. The potted plants were still half-dead. The atmosphere was as vacant as I remembered.

  I had actually phoned ahead for an appointment this time and I was shown upstairs the moment I arrived, the uneven floorboards creaking under my feet. It struck me that there were two mysteries attached to the practice of Wesley & Khan. Who was Mr Wesley? Did he even exist? And how had a man like Khan, of proudly Indian ethnicity, managed to end up in a place like Framlingham? Suffolk is not racist. But it is fairly white.

  Sajid Khan was exactly how I remembered him, dark and ebullient, with heavy eyebrows that almost met in the middle of his forehead, leaping up from behind his impressively large desk – fake antique – and bounding across the room to take my one proffered hand in both of his.

  ‘My dear Ms Ryeland, what a pleasure to see you again! And staying at Branlow Hall, I understand! How very much like you to get yourself involved once again in Suffolk skulduggery.’ He led me to a chair. ‘Will you have some tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘I insist.’ He pressed a key on his telephone. ‘Tina, could you bring up tea for two?’ He beamed at me. ‘How is Crete?’

  ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I have never been there. We normally go to Portugal for the summer. But if you’re running a hotel, maybe we should give you a try.’

  He sat down behind the desk. The photograph frame was still there, the one with the digital pictures sliding across the screen. I wondered if he had added new ones in the two years since I had been here. Looking at them, they seemed the same. His wife, his children, his wife and his children, him and his wife . . . an endless merry-go-round of memories.

  ‘That was an extraordinary business with Alan Conway,’ he continued, more serious now. ‘I never actually learned what happened, but I was led to believe that you were almost killed.’ He raised an eyebrow and the other one went with it. ‘Are you all right now?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from the young man who was his partner for a while. James Taylor. He ended up with all the money, as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you. The last I heard, he was in London, spending his way through his inheritance as fast as he could.’ He smiled. ‘So how can I help you this time round? You mentioned Cecily MacNeil on the telephone.’

  It was the first time I had heard her called that. To everyone else she was Cecily Treherne, as if the marriage had never happened.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Her parents came to see me in Crete. Strangely enough, Alan may be involved again. You know that he wrote a book partly based on what happened at Branlow Hall?’

  ‘I know. I read it. And I may be completely obtuse but I never actually got the connection. It never occurred to me that he was writing about Branlow Hall. The book wasn’t set in Suffolk, of course, and there wasn’t any wedding or anything like that. It was somewhere in Devon.’

  ‘Tawleigh-on-the-Water.’

  ‘That’s right. Nobody was mentioned in it by name.’

  ‘He always changed the names. I think he was probably afraid of being sued.’ It was time to get to the point. I was planning to drive to London and I wanted to be on my way. ‘Lawrenc
e and Pauline Treherne think that Cecily noticed something in the book and that it may be connected to her disappearance. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Please fire away. I’m afraid I didn’t help you very much last time. Perhaps this time I can do better.’

  ‘OK. I want to start with Aiden. He came to see you on the day Cecily disappeared.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Do you remember what time?’

  Khan looked surprised at that, as if it wasn’t something I should have asked. ‘Five o’clock,’ he said. ‘It was a short meeting. A contract with a new supplier.’ He paused. ‘I hope you don’t think that he had anything to do with his wife’s disappearance.’

  ‘Not exactly, no. But the day before she went missing, Cecily rang her parents. She believed she’d found new evidence about the murder of Frank Parris eight years before and she didn’t tell Aiden—’

  ‘I think I should stop you there, Ms Ryeland. First of all, Mr MacNeil is a client of this firm, and anyway, he had absolutely no reason whatsoever to murder Frank Parris, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  The door opened and the young woman from the reception desk came in with two mugs of tea and a bowl of sugar on a tray. The mugs were white with the logo W&K printed on the side.

  ‘What happened to Mr Wesley?’ I asked as he passed one of them over.

  ‘He retired.’ Khan smiled at the girl. ‘Thank you, Tina.’

  I waited until she had gone, then continued more carefully. ‘Were you here in Framlingham at the time of the murder?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I was. As a matter of fact, I spoke to Mr Parris. We had a brief conversation the day before he died.’

  ‘Really?’ That came as a surprise.