Under a Silent Moon

by Elizabeth Haynes

  Brian considered this for a moment. “No, no, this is fine. As long as you’re not going to shout about it all.”

  Jane gave him a sweet smile. “May I?” And without waiting for a definite response, she perched on the edge of the high-backed chair by the head of the bed.

  “Why don’t you tell me about Polly, Brian? When did you first meet?”

  “I went to the stables for horse riding lessons. Nigel Maitland and I played golf together and we’ve been to dinner at the farm a few times. He suggested I should have some riding lessons to keep fit, get me out into the fresh air.”

  Jane sat completely still, trying to maintain eye contact, letting the vacuous sweet smile remain on her lips, listening to what she could already tell was a complete load of bollocks. “And did you have lessons with Polly?”

  “A couple. I didn’t know her name then. She was at a dinner party we went to at the farm a few weeks later.”

  “You had lessons with her and you didn’t know her name?”

  “No—yes. I mean, she told me her name, but I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “And did you carry on with the lessons for a while?”

  “I had a couple, as I say. Then we were away on holiday, and I was busy at work, and it sort of tailed off. I can’t say it was really my thing. I’m too old to be starting things like that.”

  Jane made a little sound to suggest that she considered him far from decrepit, managing to get him to raise a slightly suggestive grin in response. He leaned toward her a little.

  “I do believe she was a bit of a naughty girl, though. I heard a rumor that she was seeing a married man in the village, but I can assure you it wasn’t I.”

  “Come on, Brian. You must have a good idea—who do you think it could have been? Nigel Maitland?”

  Brian tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “I’m saying no more,” he said.

  Jane leaned back in the chair, satisfied. He was lying through his teeth about Polly, of course.

  “What about Barbara? What did she think?”

  Brian’s face flushed a little. He took too long over his answer. “My wife was a jealous woman. She was always ready to believe rumors in that respect.”

  “She believed you were having an affair?”

  He let out a sigh, raised his eyes to the ceiling as he spoke. “Someone made a comment about Polly and a married man, she put two and two together and made eighteen, the way she always did.”

  “You argued about it?”

  “More than once.”

  “Was your relationship ever a violent one, Brian?”

  “No!” His answer was quick, his voice raised. Then he added: “At least, never on my part.”

  Jane leaned forward again a little to make sure she didn’t miss anything. Ali, scribbling furiously in his notebook the whole time, had barely looked up.

  “What do you mean?” Jane asked.

  “Barbara was always—er—physical when she had had a drink. She would lash out at me sometimes. Never hurt me, of course, but she would get tongue-tied, slur, and then she would resort to slaps, pushing me away, that sort of thing.”

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I would walk away.”

  Brian’s eyes met hers, unfaltering this time. He’d been lying about Polly, but he was telling the truth about the arguments. Whether he was lying to protect his reputation, his integrity, or to distance himself from Polly’s murder, the outcome would be the same. Lying to the police was never a good idea.

  “We understand that your wife had been diagnosed with depression, anxiety. That must have been quite tough on you.”

  “Oh, it was. She tried to kill herself a couple of months back, you know. Not seriously. Just enough to make it bloody awkward for me when I had some important meetings coming up at work.”

  “How was she recently?”

  “All right on some days, bad on others, especially when she’d had a drink.”

  “Did she ever drive when she’d had a drink?”

  “If she needed to get somewhere. Most of the time, though, she got drunk at home.”

  Jane sat back again. “Thank you, Brian. Have they said how long it will be before you can go home?”

  He breathed out in a long sigh, visibly relaxed. Jane wondered what it was he’d been expecting her to ask.

  “It can’t be soon enough as far as I’m concerned. This place is appalling.”

  Jane gave him a reassuring smile, remembering the irony that his wife was actually lying in a cold storage compartment not a million miles away, and he’d not mentioned the loss of her at all, or shown any concern for the violent way she’d apparently chosen to die.

  “Will your daughter be coming back to see you?”

  Brian shrugged. “Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if she comes back to have another gloat.”

  Jane stood, raised the strap of her handbag over one shoulder. Ali took the signal and stood too. Jane took hold of Brian’s hand and gave it a friendly squeeze.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Brian said, his voice a low whisper once again. “She’s just making things difficult for me, that’s all.”

  “Your daughter?” Jane asked.

  Brian nodded.

  “We will need to interview her again,” Jane said reassuringly, “but I promise I’ll bear in mind what you’ve said.”

  With that they said their goodbyes and left. On the way back to the car, Ali phoned Sam Hollands to report on their progress and see if they had another tasking.

  “Head back to the Incident Room for now, guys,” Sam told them. “I’m on my way to the quarry with the DCI. Les Finnegan says they’ve found something that might be the murder weapon.”

  “In the quarry?” said Jane into the hands-free kit. “What is it?”

  “No idea. Les is being all secretive, canny old git. It’s like he lives for moments like this. I’ll let you know later, okay?”

  13:52

  Being on Stuart Ward was not unlike being in Piccadilly Circus at rush hour, Brian thought to himself. First of all, there had been the initial confusion about where he was to go: the porter had taken him to the cardiac ward, where he was left by himself, reclining on his bed in a draughty corridor for half an hour before another porter had turned up and wheeled him along to the far less attractive Stuart Ward. Then there was the ordeal that was Taryn’s visit. He’d been harboring hopes that she might have got over whatever foolish tantrum it was that had caused her to go off in a huff, but obviously that was not the case.

  After Taryn, Suzanne. Oh, he’d felt so much better, seeing her beautiful face looking for him—hearing her voice was the best tonic he’d had in days. Then, of course, the conversation that needed to be had. What was to be done? He wished someone would take it all away from him, leave him be to concentrate on getting better. Instead he found he was once again working to a detailed, precise set of instructions.

  And then, minutes after Suzanne had left, just as he was gearing himself up to head off to the bathroom for the first time, the two police officers had turned up for one of their friendly chats. He’d had to think quickly, worrying less about what it was he needed to say and concentrating instead on what he absolutely shouldn’t. When he spoke to them again he would make sure it was on his own terms.

  Now, though, the ward was quieting down. Official visiting time was a few hours away, and it was entirely likely that he wouldn’t have any visitors at all. He could just relax, close his eyes, and think about how he was going to recover.

  Date: Saturday 3 November 2012

  Officer: DC 13521 FINNEGAN

  To: DCI Louisa SMITH / Op Nettle MIR

  Re: Taryn LEWIS / Op NETTLE

  CC: Computer Crime Unit CCU

  Visited Mrs. Lewis at home at 1415hrs today. She confirms she has visited her father in hospital three times now but has no intention of visiting him again. She is quite scathing in her opinions of him.

  She confirmed that her fathe
r told her that he HAD been in a sexual relationship with Polly LEUCHARS (Op Nettle). There was no indication when this affair had begun or ended, although it seems that her father has recently been involved with another female, known to Mrs. LEWIS only as “SUZANNE.” Brian Fletcher-Norman asked Mrs. LEWIS to telephone this Suzanne and ask her to visit him in the hospital, which she duly did. Mrs. LEWIS used Mr. FLETCHER-NORMAN’s mobile to do this, which she handed over to officers at Hayselden Barn this morning.

  I would respectfully request that a contact number for “SUZANNE” should be obtained from this phone as a matter of urgency and subscriber check completed.

  13:52

  In Briarstone Police Station, Flora sat in what she couldn’t possibly know was the most comfortable of all the interview rooms. When difficult interviews needed to be conducted with traumatized people, this was the room they used. It had a window, albeit too high up to see out of unless you stood on tiptoe; carpet that was stained here and there with various spillages, but nevertheless it was carpet. The chairs were the sort you might find in an office reception waiting area, low and padded, with a coffee table in the middle and a further table against the wall upon which was the obligatory recording device.

  She had been sitting huddled on one of the chairs, waiting for Andy Hamilton to get back from wherever it was he’d gone. He’d explained that they were performing a search of her flat, and the farm, and that they were looking for Polly’s mobile phone. Flora had looked at him as though he were slightly mad. Why would she have Polly’s phone? Andy had told her they had a search warrant, but for all of their sakes it would be much easier if she were to give him the keys to her flat and save them having to break in.

  She handed them over without a word, and now she was sitting here, waiting for them to come back.

  They’d asked her if she wanted a lawyer, offered to provide one if she didn’t have one of her own, like a solicitor was a handy gadget you carried around in your pocket. She had said no automatically but now she was starting to wonder whether it would be worth calling the number on the card her father had given her. She went over the same arguments in her head: she didn’t need a solicitor, because she hadn’t done anything wrong. She should get one anyway, because she was her father’s daughter and who knew what the police would try to pin on her, even if only to get at Nigel? Joe Lorenzo was phenomenally expensive, and if he wasn’t needed, then she would have wasted a lot of money, and Nigel would know she’d been giving them a statement. Until she knew what it was they wanted, then she was better off playing it by ear.

  The door opened abruptly and her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton. He seemed mountainous to her, huddled as she was into her chair, her knees tucked up under her chin. A few moments later the door opened and Miranda Gregson came in. She gave Flora a smile. That was encouraging, at least.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Hamilton said, although he didn’t sound very sorry, and he wasn’t smiling. “I’d just like to remind you that you’re under caution, but you haven’t been arrested at this stage, and you’re free to go whenever you choose to. We asked you if you wanted a solicitor present while we speak to you, and you declined. If you change your mind at any time, we can get a solicitor for you.”

  “I understand. I don’t want a solicitor, not at the moment, anyway.”

  Miranda spoke next. “When we spoke to you yesterday, you told us that you’d been in a relationship with Polly Leuchars. Can you tell us how that came about?”

  Flora looked from one of them to the other. They wanted to know? Right, then. That wasn’t something she needed Joe Lorenzo for. Flora tilted her chin, just slightly, and assumed an air of quiet defiance.

  15:25

  Les Finnegan was waiting for them in the car park, leaning against the bonnet of an elderly BMW, smoking, looking for all the world like an extra from The Sweeney.

  “Ma’am,” he acknowledged when Lou got out of the car; “Sarge,” to Sam Hollands.

  “Hold on a sec, Les. Won’t be a minute,” Lou said. She beckoned Sam round the back of her car. “Just stand there, Sam. I’m going to get my jeans on.”

  She opened the boot of the Laguna. The first thing out was a piece of old carpet, about a meter square, which she flopped down on the gravel of the car park and then stood on to remove her shoes. Fishing around in the boot, she found a carrier bag containing a pair of jeans, muddy at the bottom, and some trainers. Sam stood with her back to the DCI, giving Les Finnegan a look, while behind her Lou wriggled into the jeans under her skirt, which she then unzipped and stepped deftly out of. A pair of trainer socks over her stockinged feet, and then the trainers. From another bag she pulled out a new pair of latex gloves, which she pushed into the pocket of her jacket. Lastly she picked up the square of carpet, shook it down, and threw it back in the boot.

  The wind was strong and cold as they walked toward Les, the sky gray and menacing above them. It was still early afternoon, but it was already getting dark.

  Les gave her a yellow smile. “They’re about finished down there, to be honest. Just thought it might be worth a visit.”

  As he spoke, three members of the party came into view, climbing up the slope. One of them was a CSI, the other two members of the Tac Team—but they were all dressed in white protective suits. Les introduced Paul Harper, the CSI.

  “We found it further down the slope, toward the bottom of the hill. Half buried in the sand. You can track it back up to where it landed—it must have been thrown a fair old way.”

  He held up a plastic evidence bag containing what looked like a black orb of some kind. Gray sand clung to half of it. The way it was pulling down the plastic of the bag, it looked heavy.

  “It’s a shot put,” Les said helpfully.

  Paul added, “There’s a stand for it on the small table in the hallway, with a little plaque. Apparently Felicity Maitland was a county champion when she was at school.”

  “The hallway . . . ?” Lou asked.

  “Yonder Cottage. I think it was a repository for all the ornaments Mrs. M didn’t want to keep at the farm.”

  Lou took the bag from Paul. It was heavy. And the sand clinging to the side of the shot put—“Is it blood under there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve got a sample—been biked over to the labs already. Hair, too.”

  “Prints?”

  “‘Fraid not.”

  Lou turned to Paul Harper again. “So where was it, in relation to the car?”

  Paul pointed vaguely over the edge of the cliff, the wind making the white suit flap against his arm. “About fifty yards further on. Although it was thrown from up here—it didn’t fall out of the car.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’ll take some proper measurements and check it all, but yes, I’m sure. We’re going to have a look at analyzing the trajectory to see if we can work out where it was thrown from.”

  “You want to show me?”

  The Tac Team officers exchanged a glance which said, actually, no we don’t, but Paul Harper gave a nod and took Lou back toward the edge of the slope. “Wait for me, Sam,” Lou called over her shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

  There was a steep path running around the edge of the quarry, and they followed this, a sheer drop to their left. Lou watched her feet, choosing her way carefully. When Paul Harper stopped in front of her, she nearly ran into his back. He indicated the quarry floor, small flags marking the place where the car had been found. Other markers indicated the path of the vehicle through the undergrowth, the locations of bits and pieces that had fallen off the car on the way down.

  “You can see it best from here. If we go all the way down you won’t get a sense of the perspective,” he told her. Just to the right of them, at the very bottom of the quarry, a small red flag flapped from within a patch of nettles. “That was where we found the ball. Right down there.”

  Lou tried to get a feel for whether the weapon could have
fallen out of the vehicle on the way down, but since it had gone so much further it seemed somehow doubtful. “Did it roll far?”

  Paul nodded. “There’s a definite track. That’s why I want to trace it back properly, but it’s going to take a while to do it with all the foliage, and the light’s starting to go. We’ll get back onto it first thing.”

  Climbing back up to the edge of the quarry, gingerly picking her way through the nettles and scrub, Lou stood for a moment, feeling the wind trying to free her hair from the ponytail, whipping it round her cheeks. Sam was waiting, shivering, at the top.

  “Dreadful place to choose to end it all,” Sam said, her voice all but lost in the gale.

  To: DCI Smith

  From: Mrs. Lorna Newman

  Message: Please phone regarding Barbara Fletcher-Norman.

  * * *

  MG11 WITNESS STATEMENT

  Section 1—Witness Details

  NAME: Flora MAITLAND

  DOB (if under 18; if over 18 state “Over 18”) Over 18

  ADDRESS: Flat 2

  14 Waterside Gardens

  Briarstone

  OCCUPATION: Artist

  Section 2—Investigating Officer

  DATE: Saturday 3 November

  OIC: DC Miranda GREGSON

  Section 3—Text of Statement

  My mobile phone number is 07194 141544, it has been my number for the past two years and it is the only mobile phone number I use.

  I have known Polly LEUCHARS for a number of years as she was a family friend. In December 2011 Polly started working as a groom at Hermitage Farm, which is owned by my family. I helped out in the stables often and we became very close. Around April 2012 our relationship became more serious, although I knew Polly was not monogamous and was involved with other people at the same time. She was the only person I was involved with. I believe she would have told me who else she was seeing if I had asked, but I did not want to know.

  Our relationship came to an end around the end of August when I realized I wanted our relationship to be exclusive, and Polly was not prepared to continue on this basis. We did not argue but I moved back to my flat in Briarstone, partly because I wanted to be on my own for a while. Polly tried to contact me by phone a few times but after a while this stopped.