Under a Silent Moon

by Elizabeth Haynes

  First slide, the Op Nettle title slide.

  “Okay, we’ve got the initial pathology report back which tells us that Polly was killed between midnight and two, no later than that. Priority for me is to trace her exact movements on the evening before she died. Andy, can you give us an update on the Fletcher-Normans?”

  Andy coughed to make sure he had everyone’s full attention. “Right. Well, I understand we’re working on the possibility of the cases being linked. If you weren’t here yesterday, come and see me and I can give you an update after the briefing. To summarize: Barbara Fletcher-Norman was found around the same time as Polly. She was in her car at the bottom of Ambleside Quarry. We’re still waiting on the full PM report, which should be later today. Patrol reported that when they went to give the death message to Brian Fletcher-Norman, there was blood in the kitchen of Hayselden Barn, as if someone had washed their hands in the sink. The Barn’s been sealed since then, but until now we’ve not had the powers to go in. However, the CSI report from Yonder Cottage shows Barbara Fletcher-Norman’s bloody fingerprints in the kitchen and the hallway. She was in the cottage when Polly was dead or dying, and so we have a suspect, albeit a dead one.”

  There was a little murmur from the people in the room.

  “Thanks,” Lou said. “Les, did you get back to Dr. Francis about the seat belt?”

  Les peered round Andy Hamilton. “Yeah. She had half fallen out of it when she was hanging upside down, but it was in place. I’m off back to the hospital in a minute for the rest of the PM.”

  “When can we get CSI into the Barn—do we know?”

  “Later today. Simon Hughes is going to be the senior.”

  Lou had all but forgotten that Buchanan was there; this was one of her favorite bits of the job, bringing everything together, prioritizing, making sure that things got done and nothing was left out.

  “Okay. Our priority for today is to find out what the connection was between Polly Leuchars and the Fletcher-Normans. How’s Miranda getting on with the Maitlands—anyone know?”

  Jane Phelps said, “She’s still there. There seems to be plenty of people paying visits to the farm. Nigel Maitland claims he was out all day, came home late, last saw Polly a few days ago. He won’t say anything else without his solicitor.”

  “And the daughter?”

  “She seems to be the most sensible one in the house, shame she doesn’t live there.”

  Lou thought for a moment. “We should talk to her properly, I think. Get to know her a bit.” She looked around for a suitable person, aware that allocating tasks was something she should trust to her sergeant—old habits were dying hard. “Andy, can you take that for me?”

  He looked up in surprise. Did he think he’d done his bit?

  “I’ve got meetings—I was going to brief the CSIs, sort out the Fletcher-Normans.”

  He was trying it on, Lou thought. She took a deep breath. “Nevertheless, since you’re going to be across the road from the farm most of the day, I’d appreciate it if you’d take a moment to talk to Flora.”

  “Jane’s going to be at the farm all day.”

  An embarrassed hush descended on the briefing room and for a moment they all faded into the background, even Buchanan, until it was just her and Andy, facing each other. It reminded her of the last confrontation they’d had, when she’d been in tears and he’d been tender, gentle with her, pleading. She hadn’t backed down then, either.

  There was a cough and Ali Whitmore raised a hand. “Ma’am, I’d like to take that one, if I can? I’ve worked on Nigel Maitland before, so I might be able to bring something to that line of inquiry . . . if it would help?”

  Andy kept up the hard stare but didn’t say anything else. It was tempting to push him to take the job but he’d been thrown a lifeline by Whitmore. Really, that had been embarrassing and unprofessional. He should have known better, and the room was charged with excitement now, as if they’d all enjoyed the little argument.

  “That would be really helpful, Ali, thank you. Which brings us neatly on to intel,” Lou said briskly. “Barry—anything useful?”

  “We should be getting some stuff in this morning. One thing that did stand out for me, though, is that on the list of the farm employees is one Mr. Connor Petrie. He’s showing as a casual farmhand-slash-groom. Been there since March.”

  “Connor Petrie?” Lou echoed.

  “One of the younger Petries. Son of Gavin Petrie and Emma Payswick, charming couple that they are.”

  Lou smiled. “Well, at least this one seems to have a job. But, Ali, can you find out how Mr. Petrie came to be employed by Nigel Maitland? That seems like an odd combination. You might need to put in a request for more intel. Anyone else interesting on the list, Barry?”

  He shook his head. “They’ve got a cleaner for the farmhouse, comes twice a week, various people who work with Nigel on the farm side of it, mostly casuals, but nobody jumps out. We’re working our way through them.”

  She had one eye on the clock—half an hour to go until she was in front of the press.

  “Jane, how are we doing with the phones?”

  “We don’t have Polly’s phone—wasn’t in the cottage—but we’ve got Felicity’s and Nigel’s, although from the casual way he handed it over I would imagine it’s clean. I don’t know about the ones from the Barn, though.”

  “Andy?”

  He looked pissed off. “I’ll get back to you on that one. Leave it with me.”

  “I will,” Lou said. “I want billings and cellsite for both their mobiles. Landline billing too.”

  “I’ve already applied for billings from the farm,” Jane said.

  “Thanks, Jane. Can you make sure Jason’s down as the appointed analyst?”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “Great. Where are we up to? I’m conscious of the time, so any urgent questions?”

  She scanned the room, looking for hands, for confusion in the faces, and her eyes stopped when she got to Jason. He was looking right back at her, attentive, interested. That was a good sign, at least.

  08:21

  BT151—Message left on 01596 652144

  Hello, this is a message for Mrs. Taryn Lewis from Sister Roberts of the Lionel Gibbins Ward, Briarstone General Hospital to let you know that your father has regained consciousness. Could you call me, please, on 921000, extension 9142. Thank you.

  PRESS RELEASE

  Statement prepared by Eleanor Baker, Media Officer for Eden Police, Briarstone Police Station

  Briarstone Police are appealing for witnesses following the murder of Polly Leuchars in the early hours of 1 November. Polly was a regular at the Lemon Tree public house in Morden and had visited the pub on the evening of 31 October, Halloween. Police would urgently like to speak to anyone who saw Polly in the pub that evening, or who may have any other information that might help the investigation.

  “We’re trying to build up an accurate picture of Polly’s last day,” said Detective Chief Inspector Louisa Smith, leading the investigation. “In particular, we don’t know who Polly was meeting. Was it you? If so, I urge you to come forward now so that you can be eliminated from our inquiries.”

  Twenty-seven-year-old Polly Leuchars was found at her home, Yonder Cottage, Cemetery Lane, Morden, on the morning of 1 November. She had been brutally assaulted and was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Anyone with any information is asked to contact the Incident Room directly on 01596 555612. Alternatively, you can call Crimestoppers anonymously on 0800 555 111.

  - END-

  08:58

  “Andy,” Lou said.

  He was disappearing out of the briefing room, quicker to his feet than any of the others. He froze when he heard his name.

  “My office.”

  She went back to the MIR next door, hoping he was following but determined not to look back at the arrogant piece of shit.

  He came in behind her and closed the door. He didn’t move to sit and she didn’
t request it. Instead they stood facing each other, the space in the small office made still smaller by his bulk. Even though she was wearing heels, he towered over her.

  She waited for a moment, composing herself and wondering how on earth she was going to do this, and at the same time as being angry with him—furious—she realized that this was the closest they’d been since everything had happened and she could feel the warmth from his body, and her body was reacting to it in spite of herself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, unprompted. “It was unprofessional.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It was.”

  He started to say something else, then stopped.

  “What?” she said. “Say it.”

  “You should have known Ali Whitmore would have wanted to take that side of it. He did the last job on Maitland when he was in intel.”

  “I’m not bloody psychic!”

  “Well, it all worked out for the best, then, didn’t it?”

  “I don’t want you playing games like that again. I don’t do pissing contests.”

  In spite of her fury, Andy smirked. Damn the man! How was it possible to hate him so much and still find him attractive?

  His shoulders had relaxed and he leaned forward slightly. “It wasn’t that long ago that we were proper friends, Lou . . .”

  She didn’t need reminding of it. “Is that what you call it? Felt more like betrayal than friendship.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I just meant—sometimes I forget you’re in charge. And I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter what rank I am, what rank you are,” Lou said. “We’re here to do a job, aren’t we?”

  “Sure.”

  She waited for more, half-expecting him to bring up the one big subject that they were both ignoring, but he remained silent.

  “I think we should leave it there. Now are you doing the press briefing with me, or are you too busy?” She smiled, to soften the sarcasm, and to her relief he took a deep breath and smiled back.

  Opening the door of her office, the silence in the main room despite the number of people crowded into it made her realize that they’d probably all been watching through the glass, straining to hear.

  She took five minutes in the ladies’ to apply some lipstick and run a brush through her hair. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes staring back at her, challenging her to admit to the crushing weight of self-doubt that she was feeling. Why this case? Why not something nice and straightforward, like every other Major Crime job that had turned up in the last few months?

  You asked for it, her reflection suggested insolently.

  The main conference room at Police Headquarters was full: lots of cameras being set up at the back, press of varying types chatting happily together as if they were all best friends.

  Lou had had media training as part of the three-week Senior Investigating Officer’s program. They’d staged a press conference at which various police staff pretended to be members of the press, asking the most awful questions they could, with some sort of internal competition to see who could be the one to “break” the poor trainee. They’d got the police photographer in with his big camera to flash away while they were talking. Part of the test was to see if you could remember to set the ground rules for the press conference before it started—no flash photography until the end, all mobile phones turned off, no questions until the end of the briefing. If you failed to do this, you’d have mobile phones going off left, right, and center; flashing in your eyes the whole time; questions fired at you from the back of the room with no warning. You’d lose control of the room, lose your thread, lose your marbles.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Lou said in a voice that sounded more confident than she felt. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Louisa Smith and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Before we begin, can I ask you please to turn all your mobile phones off? Thank you. There will be time for photographs at the end of the press conference, so I would ask you to refrain from flash photography until then. I would like to introduce my colleague Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton—I will run through a brief summary of the pertinent points of the investigation, and then DI Hamilton and I will be happy to take your questions. We will also be issuing you with a press pack at the end of the briefing which contains photographs that can be used in your reports, together with a written statement. There are also telephone numbers for the Incident Room, which I would be grateful if you could make public for the benefit of those people who may have information for us so they can contact us directly. Thank you.”

  She moved to the chart stand on one side of the table where she and Andy were sitting and flipped over the top sheet to reveal a photograph of Polly Leuchars, happy, smiling, blond hair blowing away from her tanned face. How fortunate it was for the investigation that the murder of good-looking people always received more press attention than the murder of the unlovely. Lou had worked on the killing of a middle-aged prostitute and drug addict, back in the days when she was a new DC at the Met. They’d held a series of press conferences, and after the first one almost nobody came. None of their readers would be likely to know anything that would help anyway, one arrogant old hack had told her, as though they moved in certain circles and remained untainted by the detritus of life that floated past.

  “We are currently investigating the brutal murder of a young woman,” Lou began, turning to face her audience and standing in front of the table behind which Andy sat. She knew it was much harder to be intimidated by your surroundings when you were standing up with no barrier between you and your audience.

  “Polly Leuchars was twenty-seven years old, and was working as a groom at Hermitage Farm in Morden to earn some money to go traveling. In the early hours of Thursday, the first of November, Polly was violently assaulted in the hallway of her home, Yonder Cottage, which is part of the Hermitage Farm estate on Cemetery Lane. We are anxious to get a clearer picture of the events of Wednesday, thirty-first October, particularly in the evening, and we would like to appeal to anyone who has any information concerning where Polly might have been, and who she may have spoken to, on the day before she died. If anyone saw Polly’s vehicle, which is a blue Nissan Micra, I would ask them please to come forward and speak to a member of the investigation team as soon as possible.”

  There was silence as Lou scanned the journalists, some watching her intently, some busy scribbling notes.

  “I would like to emphasize that we are dealing with the murder of a popular young woman who had her whole life ahead of her. Her family and friends are needlessly dealing with her loss, and our feelings and thoughts are with all of them at this tragic time. If anyone has any information that might help us find out who was responsible for this crime, I would ask them to come forward and contact us as soon as they can.”

  Lou paused. Then, “Thank you for your attention. Are there any questions?” While she waited for them to decide which was their most pressing question, she took her seat next to Andy. They’d agreed to take it in turns answering, and the media officer was in charge now.

  “Yes—lady in the pink top.”

  Hers wasn’t the first hand to go up, but Lou knew that this particular journalist had been promised the first question because of a recent favorable article she’d written regarding the Force’s response to antisocial behavior.

  “Alison Hargreaves, Eden Evening Standard. DCI Smith, can you tell us anything about the death of Mrs. Barbara Fletcher-Norman? Are the two deaths connected?”

  Lou felt her cheeks flush.

  “Thank you,” she said, “we are not connecting the two incidents at this time. Next question.”

  There was a sudden buzz as all the other journalists started wondering who the hell Mrs. Barbara Fletcher-Norman was.

  “Do you have any suspects at this stage?” This was from the local BBC Radio reporter.

  Andy answered. “At this key early stage of the investigation, we are keeping an open mind
about who the perpetrator of the crime was.”

  “Roger Phillips, Daily Mail. Any idea of a motive at this stage?”

  Good question, thought Lou, and Andy was going to deal with this one too.

  “Again, we are keeping an open mind. We cannot rule out the possibility that the victim woke in the night to find a burglary in progress.”

  “Were there signs of a break-in?” Roger Phillips again.

  “Next question,” Lou put in. She was only being fair—there were several other people with their hands up and she didn’t want the inquiry to be pushed in one direction, especially not at this early stage.

  “What about forensics? Have you got any fingerprints, stuff like that?” This one was from Lucy Arbuthnot, from the local ITV news network.

  “Several sets of fingerprints have been identified at Polly’s home address. We are in the process of eliminating them as we speak. If anyone visited Polly in the days before her death, we would be grateful if they would come forward so we can eliminate them from our investigations.” Lou was ready for something made of chocolate. It felt like the longest day of her life, and she was only a tiny bit of the way through it.

  “This is a question for Ms. Smith. Can I ask about your personal qualifications to lead a murder inquiry?” It was Roger Phillips, revenge for her failing to answer the break-in question.

  Both Andy and Ellie, the media officer, looked like they were going to try and fight in her corner, but she silenced them with a look.

  “Thank you for that question,” she said with a wide smile that made it look as if she meant it. “I have been a police officer for fifteen years, the last eight of them spent working on major crime investigations. Although this is the first time I have led a murder inquiry, I have worked on several murder investigations, both with Eden Police and the Metropolitan Police. I am proud to be running this case with a highly professional, highly trained team behind me and I am confident that we will bring Polly Leuchars’s killer to justice very soon.”

  Ellie stepped in, despite more hands being raised. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time. I have the press packs here . . .”