Moonflower Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘If he ever gets back to me.’

  ‘It may take a while. The prison system makes things as difficult as possible for everyone involved – inside and out. That’s what it looks like, anyway.’

  The main course came. We talked for a while about prisons.

  When I’d first met Craig, four years earlier, he’d had the nervousness of all new writers; the sense that he needed to apologise for what he was doing. He had just turned forty, quite old to be starting out as a writer, although quite a bit younger than Alexander McCall Smith had been when he published his first major hit, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and maybe that was partly in my mind when I took him on. He was also wealthy. He didn’t show off, but his clothes, his car, the house in Ladbroke Grove, all told their own story. He had just left Goldman Sachs, where he’d headed up their UK Shares division. This information never appeared in his blurb.

  I had assured him that Jail Time (as it eventually became) didn’t need any apology and I had enjoyed working with him. His main character, Christopher Shaw, was a plain-clothes policeman, sent into maximum-security jails to get information from high-profile inmates, and this was a formula that had worked well for the first three books in the series.

  ‘What got you interested in prisons?’ I asked him now. We were getting to the end of the main course. We’d worked our way through the bottle of wine.

  ‘Didn’t I ever tell you?’ I saw him hesitate. The lights from the candles were reflecting in his eyes. ‘My brother was in prison.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ I was surprised he had never told me before. The more cynical part of me could have used it as publicity.

  ‘John was the chief executive of one of the high-street banks. He was trying to raise investment from Qatar – this was in 2008, just after the financial crisis. He was paying them sweeteners, which of course he didn’t declare. The Serious Fraud Office went after him. And . . .’ he waved a hand ‘ . . . he got three years.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No. It’s OK. John was scared and stupid rather than greedy, and what happened to him made me rethink my whole career. It could just as easily have been me. And prison! I’m not saying he shouldn’t have been punished, but prison is such a bloody waste of time. I’m convinced that one day people will look back on the twenty-first century and wonder how we could perpetuate such an absurd, Victorian idea. Do you want a dessert?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s have coffee at home.’

  It was another warm night and we decided to walk back. I wondered if I had spoiled the evening by asking about his personal life, but it had actually brought us closer.

  ‘Were you ever married?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ The question took me by surprise.

  ‘Me neither. I came close a couple of times but it didn’t work out, and now I suppose it’s too late.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘You’re not even fifty.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. Who in their right mind would want to marry a writer?’

  ‘I know lots of writers who are very happily married.’

  ‘I was seeing someone last year. She was divorced, about my age. We shared a lot of interests. I really liked her. But I never allowed her anywhere near me . . . not when I was working. And the trouble was, I was working all the time. In the end she got fed up with it and I can’t blame her. When you’re writing a book, the book is all that matters and some people can’t accept that.’

  We had reached his front door. He opened it and we went inside.

  ‘Are you with anyone, Susan?’ he asked.

  That was the moment when everything changed. God knows, I’ve read enough romantic novels to recognise when subtext comes galloping over the horizon and I knew exactly what Craig was asking – or rather, I saw the invitation behind the question he had just put to me. It should have been obvious the moment I’d entered his swish bachelor’s home or accepted dinner at that quaint local restaurant with its candles and its wine bottles in straw baskets.

  The worst of it was that I didn’t know how to answer.

  I wasn’t in Crete. I wasn’t with Andreas. I was tempted. Why not? Craig represented a metropolitan lifestyle, parties, bestselling books . . . everything, in fact, that I had left behind. He was also handsome, good company, civilised and rich. And if one little voice whispered in my ear that this was what I had been afraid of from the moment I had invited myself into his home, another reminded me that it was what I’d actually wanted and advised me to grab it with both hands.

  ‘No. I was with someone but we broke up.’

  That was what I wanted to say. That was what I could have said. It would have been so easy. But right then it wasn’t true. Not yet. And maybe I didn’t want it to be.

  ‘Are you with anyone, Susan?’ he asked

  ‘Yes. Didn’t I tell you? I’m engaged.’

  I watched as he took that in. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’

  ‘His name is Andreas. He’s the co-owner of the hotel in Crete.’

  ‘I have to say, it’s the last thing I’d have expected you to get up to but that’s wonderful. So – shall we have a coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s been a lovely evening, but I’ve got an early start if I’m going to get back to Suffolk.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks for dinner, Craig.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  We were like two actors in a play, reciting lines that had been written by someone else. He gave me a peck on the cheek and then – exit stage right – I went upstairs on my own.

  Page One

  A large gin and tonic. A club sandwich held together by a cocktail stick flying a miniature Stars and Stripes. A packet of cigarettes. And the book.

  I was ready.

  I had driven back to Suffolk in time for lunch and after unpacking and taking a quick shower in my room, I had deposited myself at one of the wooden tables in the area outside the bar. I was right next to the stretch of grass – the east lawn – where Aiden and Cecily’s wedding marquee had been pitched. The main entrance to the hotel was round the corner and I thought of Helen, the house manager (I imagined her as elderly and serious in a well-cut uniform), running breathlessly across the gravel to find Lawrence and tell him what Natasha had just found in room 12. How horrible it must have been for all of them that day! All the guests in their smart clothes, Aiden and Cecily married barely an hour, and then suddenly police cars and photographers and questions from the unlovely Detective Superintendent Locke and finally the body brought out on a stretcher . . .

  The sun was shining but I shuddered. I’d have been more comfortable indoors, but I’m afraid reading and smoking have always gone together for me and even though it was a disgusting habit (the smoking, obviously) I needed to concentrate. The book was Atticus Pünd Takes the Case. It was the copy that Craig had given me in London. The time had finally come to confront not just the text but my memories of its creation. It felt strange. I was about to read one murder mystery while sitting inside another.

  I had put off reading it for reasons that I have already explained. I was perfectly well aware of the identity of the killer in the novel and I remembered all the clues. I think it would be fair to say that a whodunnit is one of the very few forms of literature that rarely merit a second read.

  But by now I had a good idea of what had happened at Branlow Hall on the 14th and 15th of June. I had met most of the characters involved. Alan Conway had come to the hotel. Perhaps he had even sat where I was sitting now. And he had seen something. ‘They’ve got the wrong man.’ That was what he had said to James Taylor. He had come here in search of inspiration but he had left with much more. And yet he hadn’t gone to the police. He had hidden the answer in his book. It was the only way to make sense of Cecily’s disappearance and I was going to find it.

  The paperback was in front of me. I ran my finger across the raised letters of the
title, feeling them as if they were in Braille. It was extraordinary how much damage Alan Conway had managed to do in his career. Magpie Murders had almost killed me. Had this prequel killed Cecily Treherne?

  I lit a cigarette. I turned to the first page.

  I began to read.

  Atticus Pünd Takes The Case

  About the Author

  ALAN CONWAY had not written anything before his first published novel, Atticus Pünd Investigates, which became an overnight sensation and won the Gold Dagger award given by the Crime Writers’ Association for the best crime novel of the year. It was to be the first in a series of nine books, all featuring the German detective, which only ended following the sudden death of the author at his home in Framlingham, Suffolk, in 2014. Formerly married, with one son, he came out as gay six months after Atticus Pünd Takes the Case was published, by which time he had become an internationally recognised bestseller. In his obituary in The Times, Conway was compared to Agatha Christie for the ingenuity of his plotting, and he has been frequently mentioned as a late arrival to the ‘Golden Age’ of detective writing. More than twenty million copies of his books have now been sold and the BBC 1 adaptation of Atticus Pünd Investigates, starring Sir Kenneth Branagh, will soon be aired.

  Also by Alan Conway

  The Atticus Pünd Series

  Atticus Pünd Investigates

  No Rest For the Wicked

  Atticus Pünd Takes the Case

  Night Comes Calling

  Atticus Pünd’s Christmas

  Gin & Cyanide

  Red Roses for Atticus

  Atticus Pünd Abroad

  Magpie Murders

  Praise for Atticus Pünd Takes The Case

  ‘Lock the door, curl up in front of the fire and get into the latest Alan Conway. It won’t disappoint.’ Good Housekeeping

  ‘I love a whodunnit with a real sucker punch and, boy, this absolutely delivers. I can’t wait for the next one!’ Peter James

  ‘Once again, Conway serves up a vision of a gentler, long-forgotten England. And he does it murderously well.’ New Statesman

  ‘Number three in the series and Atticus Pünd is still going strong. A terrific, twisty story that will leave you guessing all the way.’ Observer

  ‘A new Atticus Pünd has almost become an annual event. Will you guess the ending? I didn’t!’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘Atticus Pünd has become even more famous than Angela Merkel. And he’s more entertaining too.’ Der Tagesspiegel

  ‘A famous actress is strangled and who’s the suspect? Everyone! The latest Atticus Pünd is a real blast.’ Lee Child

  ‘Murder and skulduggery beside the English sea. Atticus Pünd Takes the Case could be my favorite so far.’ New Yorker

  Copyright

  An Orion paperback

  First published in Great Britain in 2009

  by Cloverleaf Books

  This paperback edition published in 2016

  by Orion Fiction,

  an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd,

  Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment,

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  5 7 9 12 8 6 4

  Copyright © Alan Conway 2009

  The moral right of Alan Conway to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the

  prior permission of both the copyright owner and the

  above publisher of this book.

  All the characters in this book, except for those already in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN (Mass Market Paperback) 771 0 5144 4566 6

  Typeset by Arkline Wales

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Anus & Sons, Appledore

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  Dedication

  For Frank and Leo: in remembrance

  Contents

  List of Characters

  One: Clarence Keep

  Two: Algernon Marsh

  Three: The Queen’s Ransom

  Four: Secrets and Shadows

  Five: The Ludendorff Diamond

  Six: Crime and Punishment

  Seven: A Question of Time

  Eight: Taken by the Tide

  Nine: Scene of the Crime

  Ten: Come, Sweet Death

  Eleven: Darkness Falls

  Twelve: An Arrest Is Made

  Thirteen: Post-Mortem

  Fourteen: Hit-and-Run

  Fifteen: The Girl on the Bridge

  Sixteen: Pünd Sees the Light

  Seventeen: At the Moonflower Hotel

  Eighteen: Situation Vacant

  Characters

  Melissa James

  A Hollywood actress living in Tawleigh

  Francis Pendleton

  Melissa’s husband

  Phyllis Chandler

  Cook/housekeeper at Melissa’s home

  Eric Chandler

  Chauffeur/handyman – Phyllis’s son

  Lance Gardner

  Manager of the Moonflower Hotel

  Maureen Gardner

  Lance’s wife, also running the hotel

  Algernon Marsh

  A property developer and businessman

  Samantha Collins

  Algernon’s sister, Leonard’s wife

  Dr Leonard Collins

  The local GP, married to Samantha

  Joyce Campion

  Algernon and Samantha’s aunt

  Harlan Goodis

  An American millionaire, married to Joyce

  Nancy Mitchell

  Receptionist at the Moonflower Hotel

  Brenda Mitchell

  Her mother

  Bill Mitchell

  Her father

  Simon Cox

  (aka Sīmanis Čaks), a film producer

  Charles Pargeter

  Owner of the Ludendorff Diamond

  Elaine Pargeter

  His wife

  Detective Inspector Gilbert

  Investigating the Ludendorff Diamond

  Detective Sergeant Dickinson

  Working with Gilbert

  Atticus Pünd

  World-famous detective

  Madeline Cain

  His secretary

  DCI Edward Hare

  Investigating the Moonflower murders

  One

  Clarence Keep

  ‘Are you just going to sit there, Eric? Or are you going to give me a hand with the washing-up?’

  Eric Chandler looked up from the racing pages of the Cornish & Devon Post, biting back the answer that had been on the tip of his tongue. He had spent the last two hours cleaning and polishing the Bentley, a complete waste of time as once again the weather was on the turn. This had been a horrible April so far, with squalls of rain driving in across the sea. When Eric had finally come into the kitchen he had been cold and damp and definitely in no mood to help his mother with the dishes or anything else.

  Phyllis Chandler had been bending over the oven, but now as she straightened up she was holding a tray of freshly baked florentines, each one a perfect golden brown disc. She took them over to the counter and, reaching for a spatula, began to transfer them onto a plate. Sometimes Eric wondered how she did it, especially with eggs and sugar still rationed almost eight years after the end of the war, but somehow she never let such things get in her way. The first time white bread had reappeared it had been in two shopping bags she had carried up from the village, and she had always managed to stretch her one-and-eightpence
meat ration much further than it had any right to go.

  Eric’s mother reminded him of a hedgehog as she busied herself around the kitchen. What was that story she had read him as a child? Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. That was the one. The so-called adventures of a hedgehog washerwoman living in the Lake District . . . not that anything very much ever happened. His mother certainly looked the part: small and round, even wearing the same clothes, a printed gown with a white apron across her ample stomach. And prickly. That was definitely the right word to describe her.

  He glanced at the sink. His mother had been busy for the last few days, preparing for the weekend. Devilled eggs, split-pea soup, chicken à la King . . . Melissa James was expecting guests and had, as always, been very precise about what they were going to eat. It was definitely the weather for soups and casseroles, although there were also a pair of capons and a leg of lamb in the larder. Kippers and porridge for breakfast. Tom Collins cocktails at six. He felt his stomach rumbling, which reminded him that he hadn’t put anything in it since lunch. His mother had turned back to the oven and he reached out and helped himself to one of the florentines. It was still hot. He had to transfer it quickly from hand to hand.

  ‘I saw that!’ his mother exclaimed.

  How was that even possible? She’d had her back to him, her bottom in the air. ‘You’ve got plenty to spare,’ he said. The smell of dried fruit and golden syrup rose into his nostrils. Why did she have to be such a good cook?

  ‘Those aren’t for you! They’re for Miss James’s guests.’

  ‘Miss James’s guests won’t notice one missing.’