Moonflower Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  I had parked half an hour ago and as far as I could remember, I hadn’t been near another car. ‘Are you sure?’

  Lars shrugged.

  I looked at Melissa. ‘I’ll be two minutes,’ I said.

  I got up and left the lounge where we had been sitting. I entered the circular entrance hall and walked out the front door. What happened next was a series of images that hit me one after another, forming a sequence that told a story but would only make sense later.

  My car was there. And just as I thought, it wasn’t blocking anyone. I should have turned back then but I was still walking towards it, wanting to see who had complained.

  Across the drive, in front of the hotel, I saw Aiden MacNeil. He shouted at me. I thought he was angry about something. Then I realised he was warning me. He was staring at something above me, out of my line of vision.

  I looked up in time to see the most extraordinary sight. There was an owl, its wings outstretched, seemingly in full flight. It took my brain a microsecond to work out that it wasn’t a real owl at all. It was the stone sculpture from the middle of the parapet that spanned the front of the hotel and which I had seen when I had arrived. But it wasn’t flying, it was plummeting.

  Towards me.

  I was right underneath it. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t have time to get out of the way. But then there was a dark blur and someone crashed into me, a man who had been near the entrance. I felt his arms around me and his shoulder against my chest as he rugby tackled me out of harm’s way. Almost at the same moment, the owl hit the ground and smashed into fifty pieces. I heard the impact and knew without any doubt at all that it could have killed me.

  As we fell, the man had twisted so that I had landed on top of him. He had protected me from the gravel. Aiden was running towards us, horrified. I heard somebody shout. It was already clear to me that this had all happened deliberately. I had been tricked. The telephone call. My car blocking the way. All done to get me out of the hotel.

  The man who had saved me let go of me and I turned to him. I hadn’t seen him but I already knew who he was. And I was right.

  It was Andreas.

  The Moonflower Suite

  He pulled me to my feet.

  ‘Andreas . . .’ I said. ‘What are you . . . ?’ But I was too choked up to finish the question. I had never felt anything like it, the sheer relief overwhelming me, not just because I’d had such a narrow escape, but because, inexplicably, Andreas was here. I pulled him close to me.

  ‘You know, you’re becoming quite a liability,’ he said.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  But before he could answer, Aiden MacNeil arrived, looking horrified. He could have had no idea that Andreas and I knew each other so as far as he was concerned, some random passer-by had just saved me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. He sounded genuinely concerned and I felt bad that he had been number four on my list of suspects. Maybe, after this, I would drop him to number five.

  I nodded. My arm and shoulder had been grazed by the gravel and they were already stinging. I looked at the broken pieces of the stone owl. There was a large dent in the ground where it had landed.

  ‘There was someone on the roof,’ Aiden said. ‘I saw them!’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Andreas was still holding me.

  ‘I don’t know. But there was definitely someone there. I’m going up to check.’ He continued past us, into the hotel.

  Andreas and I were left on our own.

  ‘Who was that?’ Andreas asked.

  ‘Aiden MacNeil. He was married to Cecily Treherne. He’s one of my main suspects.’

  ‘I think he just managed to stop someone from killing you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He shouted a warning.’

  ‘Aiden didn’t save me. That was you.’ I grabbed hold of Andreas and kissed him on the lips. ‘What are you doing here, Andreas? How did you get here? And why didn’t you answer my email?’

  Andreas smiled at me in the way I remembered best: slightly crooked, challenging me. He hadn’t shaved or brushed his hair. He could have come here straight from the beach. ‘Do you really want to talk about this now?’ he said.

  ‘No. I want a drink. I want to be alone with you. I want to get out of this bloody hotel. To be honest with you, I wish I’d never come.’

  Andreas glanced up at the roof. ‘It looks as if someone else wishes the same.’

  There was so much I wanted to say to him but once again we were interrupted – this time by the arrival of Lisa Treherne who had come hurrying out of the hotel. She was pale and out of breath. ‘I just met Aiden,’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of those sculptures fell off the roof,’ I said.

  ‘Or someone helped it on its way,’ Andreas added. ‘Susan was almost killed.’

  Lisa looked at Andreas indignantly, as if he was accusing her. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘This is my partner, Andreas,’ I explained. ‘He’s just arrived from Crete.’

  ‘Aiden has gone up to the roof now,’ Lisa said. ‘There’s a service door on the top floor.’

  ‘Presumably, it’s kept locked,’ Andreas said. It was funny. I hadn’t told him that Lisa had forced me out of the hotel, but I could tell that he had taken an intuitive dislike to her.

  ‘I don’t know that it is. But I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt Susan.’

  ‘Well, she’s here investigating a murder and a disappearance so maybe someone’s decided that she knows too much.’

  This was all getting out of hand.

  ‘I’ve hurt my arm,’ I said. I showed Lisa the grazes. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going up to my room.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if Aiden finds anything.’

  Andreas had been carrying a travel bag that he had dropped when coming to my rescue. He snatched it up, then took my arm and led me into the hotel. As we passed through the doorway it suddenly occurred to me that we might well run into Melissa Conway, who was presumably still waiting for me in the lounge. It was one embarrassment I was keen to avoid so I steered him quickly into the reception area and stopped briefly at the desk where Inga was working.

  ‘Inga,’ I said. ‘I have a guest in the living room. Could you tell her I’ve had to go up to my room?’

  I didn’t wait for an answer. Still leaning on Andreas, I headed for the stairs.

  ‘Who was your guest?’ Andreas asked.

  ‘No one,’ I said. ‘It’s not important.’

  I didn’t breathe until the door had swung shut behind us and we were alone in what I had come to think of as the Moonflower Suite. Andreas glanced with approval at the bed (Egyptian-cotton sheets, five hundred thread count), the flat-screen TV, the en suite bathroom. ‘Beats the Polydorus,’ he said.

  I disagreed. ‘Our views are better.’

  I sat on the bed. Andreas went straight to the minibar and took out a miniature whisky and added some water. He brought it over to the bed and sat down next to me. I took a sip and felt better already, although I didn’t know if it was the drink or having him next to me. I hadn’t realised how upset I was by what had happened outside.

  ‘Answer my question,’ I said. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘EasyJet.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean and you know it! I haven’t heard from you for days. I thought—’ I broke off. I didn’t want to tell him what I’d been thinking.

  Once again he took my hand. ‘Agapiti mou,’ he said, and it just made me happier, hearing him speak to me in Greek. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. I never got your email. Not until last night. It’s the stupid computer. Your email went to spam.’

  I should have remembered. There was a problem with his computer. Just before I’d left we’d lost two bookings exactly the same way.

  ‘I found it last night,’ he went on. ‘I was going to call you but then I decided to get on the first flight this morning. I wanted to speak to
you face-to-face.’

  ‘Who’s looking after the hotel?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t worry about the hotel.’

  ‘I’m sorry I wrote the email, Andreas. I’m sorry I left Crete.’

  ‘No. You were right.’ Andreas sighed. ‘It’s my fault. I’ve been trying so hard to make the Polydorus work that I haven’t been thinking about you. We should have talked a long time ago and if you weren’t happy you should have told me or I should have seen it for myself. The Polydorus was always my dream, not yours, and maybe I was selfish ramming it down your throat. But I’m not going to lose you because of a building. I can sell it. My cousin can look after it. I want us to be together again like we were, and if that means moving back to London and starting again, then that’s what we’ll do. I can get another job in a school. You can go back to publishing.’

  ‘No. That’s not what I want.’ I held his hand more tightly. ‘I want to be with you. That’s all.’ Maybe I was thinking about Katie or maybe it was the shock of what had just happened but suddenly my mind was clear. ‘I can’t stay here, Andreas,’ I went on. ‘I’ve more or less burned my boats in London. I sold my flat and to be honest with you, the publishing industry isn’t exactly waiting for me with open arms. You know, if I could just get some editing work, even on a freelance basis, that would be enough for me. It’s just that books have always been such a big part of my life and not having any connection with them in Crete . . . it’s been a bit too drastic.’

  ‘Have you been looking for a job?’

  ‘I had lunch with a friend but it didn’t come to anything.’ I didn’t tell him about my dinner with Craig Andrews. Nothing had come of that either so there was absolutely no reason to feel guilty – or so I’d persuaded myself. ‘Can you forgive me, flouncing out the way I did?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

  ‘I thought you were angry with me. I thought that was why you hadn’t got back to me.’

  ‘I could never be angry with you. I love you.’

  I drank the whisky. It was the first time I’d attacked the minibar since my arrival, but right then I was tempted to go back and hit the champagne. That reminded me. ‘Have you had any money from Lawrence Treherne?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I did ask him to pay you.’

  ‘I don’t want the money, Susan. Not if it’s going to get you killed.’

  ‘Well, my big investigation is probably already over,’ I said. ‘And I may end up not even getting anything. I got fired this morning. Lisa Treherne wants me to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘That was the woman we met outside.’ He smiled. ‘I knew I didn’t like her.’

  ‘It’s all been a complete waste of time – and we’ve spent a lot of money on flights and hotels.’ I got up. ‘Well, you can stay here tonight and we’ll eat the most expensive meal we can manage in the hotel restaurant. At least that’s free. Maybe you can bully a cheque out of Lawrence Treherne. And tomorrow we’ll go back.’

  ‘To Crete?’

  ‘The Polydorus.’

  ‘And what are we going to do until dinner?’

  ‘I think I’ve got an answer to that.’

  I walked across the room to draw the curtains.

  Just in time to see Martin Williams getting into his car. He was acting furtively, clearly not wanting to be seen. Only that morning I’d more or less accused him of murdering his brother-in-law. I’d threatened to expose him and the lies he’d told. And now he was here.

  I stood there watching as he drove away.

  HMP Wayland

  The next morning, everything changed. I was having breakfast with Andreas when Inga brought over a letter addressed to me. There was something about the address on the envelope – the handwriting clumsy and heavy-handed – that told me at once who it had come from and the single sheet of lined paper that it contained quickly confirmed it. Stefan Codrescu had written to me. He had arranged for me to visit him in prison that very day. All I had to do was register on the Internet. I did that and a few hours later we were away, Andreas and me in my MGB Roadster with the roof down, speeding up the A14 to Norfolk.

  I had never visited a prison before and everything about HMP Wayland surprised me, starting with its location in a quiet community of what looked like retirement homes and bungalows a few miles north of Thetford. A series of narrow, twisty lanes brought us to a single red-brick building that might have been a university but for the ominous triple-height door that would presumably ratchet open to allow the prison vans in, and the endless stretch of walls and fencing behind. Though surrounded by houses, it was actually in the middle of nowhere with no public buses, no railway station for twelve miles and a twenty-pound taxi ride (each way) the penalty for anyone wanting to make a visit. It was as if the authorities were determined to punish families as well as the men locked up inside.

  I stopped in the prison car park and Andreas and I sat together for a few minutes. I was the only one who was authorised to go in and we hadn’t seen much in the way of pubs or restaurants nearby so it looked as if Andreas was going to be stuck in the car.

  ‘I feel bad about leaving you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I flew all the way from Greece in the hope of being abandoned in a car park outside a maximum-security jail.’

  ‘If they don’t let me out, dial 999.’

  ‘I’m dialling 999 in the hope they’ll keep you in. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ve got something to read.’ He took out a paperback copy of Atticus Pünd Takes the Case and I wondered if it was possible to love a man more.

  Then I went into the prison.

  It was funny how HMP Wayland managed to be modern and old-fashioned at the same time. Maybe it’s the whole idea of locking people up that has had its day: fine for the Victorians but somehow too simplistic and, for that matter, too expensive, given all the technology and the resources of the twenty-first century. I entered a small, brightly coloured reception area decorated with warning notices about drugs and mobile phones that might be concealed about – or even inside – my person. I had to bend low to speak through a hatch to a uniformed officer who inspected my ID and took my mobile phone for safe keeping. With another couple of visitors, I entered a cage. There was a loud buzz and the door I’d just come through slid shut. A moment later, a second door slid open in front of me. I was now in prison.

  A guard took us across a courtyard – on the other side of the fence – and we entered the visitors’ block. I found myself in what I can only describe as the worst cafeteria in the world, too brightly lit, with about thirty tables screwed to the floor and a small window opening into a kitchen where food and drink could be purchased. Not surprisingly – this was a male prison – I was surrounded mainly by women. I noticed one of them eyeing me sympathetically.

  ‘First time, dear?’ she asked.

  I wondered how she knew but I imagined that in a prison there would be all sorts of indications that would give you away. She seemed friendly enough, though. ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

  ‘You should go up and buy food now if you want anything. When they let the men in, there’ll be a long line and you won’t have time to talk.’

  I took her advice and went over to the window. I wasn’t sure what Stefan would like so I bought him a selection: a hamburger, crisps, three bars of chocolate, two cans of Coke. The hamburger reminded me of something you might buy outside a football match late at night, only without the cordon bleu cookery. I sandwiched it between two paper plates, hoping it wouldn’t get cold before he arrived.

  About ten minutes later, the men began to appear, streaming in through a side door and heading towards their wives, mothers and friends sitting at the tables. They were all wearing tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirts and really horrible trainers. A few guards stood around the sides but the atmosphere was quiet, relaxed. I had seen photographs of Stefan Codrescu and recognised him at once. He didn’t know me, of course, so I raised a hand and waved. He came over and sat down.
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br />   It was an extraordinary moment, meeting him. It was like coming across the central character in a novel but only after two or three hundred pages and in the knowledge that there are very few more before the end. All sorts of things went through my head. The first was that I might actually be sitting opposite a killer – but almost immediately I dismissed it. Even after eight years in prison, he had a sort of innocence that made him peculiarly attractive. He was well built with broad shoulders but still quite slight, like a dancer. I could easily see why Lisa Treherne would have wanted to possess him. At the same time, there was an indignation, a sense of injustice still smouldering in his eyes, a flame that the passing years had failed to extinguish. He knew he shouldn’t be here and I was immediately convinced of it too.

  Right then, I found myself questioning my own involvement in all this and suddenly I felt uneasy. I had come to England because I had been paid. I had taken on the case with the enthusiasm of someone solving a crossword puzzle when from the very start I should have realised that I was actually dealing with a massive injustice. Eight years in prison! While I had been tootling between Woodbridge and London, asking questions, making notes, he had been stuck in here. I had been fighting for a man’s life.

  There was something else about Stefan. He reminded me of someone – but at that moment I wasn’t sure who.

  He was examining the food and drink spread out on the table. ‘Is this for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get you.’

  ‘You didn’t need to get me anything. I’m not hungry.’ He pushed the hamburger to one side and cracked open the can of Coke. I watched him take a sip. ‘In your letter, you said you were a publisher,’ he went on.

  ‘I was an editor once. I actually live in Crete but I met Lawrence and Pauline and they asked me to come back to the UK.’

  ‘Are you going to write a book about me?’ He was looking at me with quiet hostility.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘But you paid Alan Conway.’