Under a Silent Moon

by Elizabeth Haynes

  There was a knock at the door behind Flora. She looked round as Lou Smith looked up. A man wearing a police uniform opened the door. “Ma’am. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “What is it, Noel?”

  “Need a quick word, sorry.”

  Lou stood up. “Excuse me for one moment,” she said and left the room.

  Flora felt cold, chilled, and after all the panic, all the nervous tension, strangely calm.

  Then the door opened and Lou came back in and sat down. “I think what we should do, Flora, is talk about this properly in an interview suite. I don’t want you to worry; you’re quite safe here with us. We just need to do things in a particular way to make sure we don’t miss anything. Would you mind waiting for a while, until we can sort out a proper interview room?”

  Flora shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Can I get a cup of tea or coffee sorted out for you?”

  “Coffee would be good. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, and then the door shut behind her and Flora was on her own again. She put her head onto her folded arms.

  09:14

  Bloody typical, to be called away right at that moment. Outside the interview room, she took PC Noel Brewster to one side. “Can you make sure Flora Maitland doesn’t leave before I’ve had a chance to speak to her again? If she starts to look like she wants to go, will you come and find me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Noel replied.

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And can you get her a coffee? Thanks.”

  Lou ran up the stairs to the office at the back of Briarstone Police Station that the team had been allocated while the interview was in progress. The MIR at Headquarters was only fifteen minutes’ drive away, but even so, having everybody together, here, able to view the interview as it happened, by video link, was essential.

  Only Jason had been left behind, to complete as many charts and reports as he could in the time they had left to interview Brian.

  “Sam and Ron are in already, ma’am,” Les said. “The solicitor didn’t take long.”

  “Who is it?” Lou asked.

  “Simon McGrath.”

  Could be worse, Lou thought. He wasn’t a complete pain in the arse, but the chances were he was still going to have advised his client to answer “No comment” to every question put to him.

  They all grouped as best they could around the monitor that provided a direct link to the interview room. They could see Brian sitting at a desk, a middle-aged man in a dark suit sitting next to him, the ceiling lights reflecting off the top of his bald head. A smaller, pop-up window in the bottom of the screen was feeding the image from the camera in the opposite corner of the room—Sam and Ron, getting themselves settled.

  Sam went through the initial proceedings of the interview, setting up the recording, introducing everyone present, reminding Brian that he had been arrested and cautioned, and asking him if he understood everything.

  The first few questions were straightforward, going over subjects that he had already quite happily discussed with them on previous occasions in the hospital.

  “Can you tell us when you first met Polly Leuchars?”

  To his credit, Simon McGrath was allowing Brian some freedom to answer the questions he felt comfortable with. The story was trotted out again: golf with Nigel Maitland, riding lessons.

  The questions gradually moved around to Barbara. The answers, again, nothing they had not already heard. She was a jealous woman, prone to drinking too much and being aggressive.

  And then, out of the blue: “She was having an affair with her tennis coach. His name was Liam O’Toole.”

  Neither Sam nor Ron showed any surprise at this, which was excellent. They had prepared well, they knew exactly what he had told them previously and this was the moment when they were venturing onto new territory.

  “How did you know about this?” Sam asked.

  “She told me,” Brian said. His voice was low, sorrowful, as though the memory was painful, although his body language looked relaxed enough. “I’d had my suspicions, of course. She was spending a fortune on tennis lessons, and where she had been so bloody miserable before, she seemed to have perked up in the last few months.”

  “When did she tell you, Brian?”

  “That last night. It was one of the vicious things she threw at me before she buggered off out.”

  Sam took her time, writing some notes. “Can you take us through the events of that evening again, Brian? Let’s start with you getting home from work.”

  “I got home from work, and she started a row with me—”

  “What time was it?”

  “Between eight and nine.”

  He was sticking to the events as he had outlined them to Lou before, in the hospital. Sam knew this too. Lou found herself listening to the repeated story and tuning out; she kept thinking about Flora, in the interview room downstairs. She had looked exhausted and yet fidgety, as though she was on the verge of losing the plot. As soon as she had the opportunity, Lou was going to go down and check up on her, make sure she was all right.

  Once Brian had told the story all the way up to the police knocking on his door the next morning, Sam tried a change of subject.

  “Are you a keen cyclist, Brian?”

  “I cycle occasionally to keep fit. I prefer golf.”

  “Where do you keep your bike?”

  “Usually in the garage at home.”

  “And when did you last go for a cycle ride?”

  “I don’t know. Weeks ago. The weather has been bad.”

  “Is this your bike, Brian?”

  The video screen showed Ron passing something across the table. Both Brian and Simon McGrath studied it closely.

  “Looks like it. Hard to say.”

  “Why is it hard to say? It’s quite a distinctive bike, isn’t it?” Sam said. “An expensive one, too. Have another look.”

  There was a long pause, which included glances and a few private words being exchanged between Brian and his solicitor.

  “I can’t be sure,” he said at last.

  Sam looked as though she was going to ask again, but then Simon McGrath spoke: “My client has answered the question. I’d appreciate it if we could move on, and I’d like to remind you that we need to take regular breaks. Mr. Fletcher-Norman is still recovering from a serious illness.”

  They were clearly reaching the periphery of Brian’s comfort zone. He was happy with his original story, that much was clear; now, every question they asked him would be thought about, discussed, and then quite possibly not answered. And they hadn’t even mentioned his phone yet. It was going to be a long day.

  09:25

  “How are you feeling, Brian?” Sam asked, after she had reminded Brian of the caution and, for the benefit of the recording, identified everyone present.

  “Tired,” he had replied.

  “We will try and keep things to the point, then, shall we?” said Ron.

  “Let’s talk about your phone, Brian,” Sam began. “Can you take me through the calls you made on the night of thirty-first October?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “Can you confirm that this is your phone?”

  Ron passed the evidence bag across the desk toward Brian and Simon McGrath.

  Simon McGrath leaned across to his client and made some comment.

  “It’s a common type of phone,” Brian said.

  “Very well,” said Sam. “It was given to us by your daughter, Mrs. Taryn Lewis. She said she found this phone in your office at Hayselden Barn, your home address. It has your fingerprints on it. The numbers saved in the address book generally have been identified as people known to be your associates, including a number saved as ‘Office,’ which, according to your company’s website, is the main switchboard number for your workplace. There’s also a number saved as ‘B MOB,’ which, according to a subscriber check, is registered to your
wife, Barbara. Do I need to go on?”

  Simon McGrath looked annoyed. “Was that an actual question, Sergeant Hollands?”

  “All right,” Brian said. “It’s my phone.”

  Sam retained her calm, interested expression. “Very well. Can you confirm that you had this phone in your possession on the night of thirty-first October?”

  Another consultation between Brian and his solicitor, this one longer. There seemed to be a disagreement between them. Sam was watching them closely.

  “I don’t remember,” Brian answered at last.

  “Your daughter said it was in your office. Is that where you left it?”

  “Yes, it must have been.”

  “Did you make any calls on the night of the thirty-first?”

  “I don’t remember,” Brian said again.

  “Well, then, let me remind you. This phone made several calls during the evening, specifically to a number which is saved in the contacts as ‘Manchester office.’ Do you remember making those calls?”

  “My client has already said he doesn’t recall making the calls,” McGrath said.

  “I am just trying to help him out,” Sam said. “Do you remember making any of those calls, Brian?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Can you tell me who ‘Manchester office’ is?” Sam asked.

  “It’s a work number. A client. I don’t really know. I don’t know why I rang them. I was feeling unwell.”

  “We’ve identified this number as belonging to a woman called Suzanne Martin, who lives in Briarstone. Does that help? Maybe you remember speaking to her on Wednesday night?”

  Brian’s face was coloring and he was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Look, I’ve already said I don’t remember.”

  Sam leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s move on. We have evidence from the phone’s service provider about the calls made by this phone on the night of the thirty-first, Brian. It’s called cellsite data and it tells us where this phone handset was when it was in use. Do you understand what that means?”

  Brian nodded.

  “Could you answer yes or no, please,” Ron said. “For the tape.”

  “Yes,” Brian said. His voice was raised an octave. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I understand.”

  “The phone that you have identified as yours, and in your possession on the night of the thirty-first October to first November, made several calls to the number registered to Suzanne Martin. One of those calls, made at”—Sam checked her notes—“made at . . . half-past two in the morning, was in the vicinity of Ambleside Quarry. Can you confirm that you made that call, Brian?”

  Brian’s voice had gone.

  “Could you speak up, please?” said Ron.

  “I don’t—I don’t know.”

  “I suggest that my client needs a break, Sergeant,” said McGrath.

  “We’ve only just had a break, I’m sure he can manage another few minutes. Can’t you, Brian?”

  “I’d rather get this over with,” he said.

  “It would be very easy to wrap this all up if you could think carefully and remember what you were really up to that night, Brian. After the call made at the quarry, there’s another call made to the same number at three in the morning. A long call, nineteen minutes and twenty-three seconds in duration. That call was made from Morden again. What about that one? Nearly twenty minutes, Brian. Do you remember making that call?”

  There was a pause. Brian was staring at Sam across the desk. As she watched, a tear fell from his eye onto his sweater, absorbing into the navy cotton and spreading into a neat, dark circle.

  “Brian? What was it you were discussing with Suzanne Martin?”

  Still no response.

  Sam, calm as ever, tried a different tactic. “I’d like to point out, Brian, that this morning you’ve claimed that you don’t remember anything about the phone calls made that night, but I believe you’re not telling the truth. You told us when you were interviewed before that your memory of the night had come back, that you remembered having an argument with your wife and then you went to have a bath and went to bed. And now you’re claiming that you don’t remember making phone calls in the early hours of the morning all around the county. That’s going to look very bad. Do you understand?”

  At last he cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. “All right,” he said, “all right.”

  Simon McGrath started to speak but Brian raised his hand to wave him away. “There’s no point, is there? It’s all going to come out sooner or later, isn’t it?”

  Brian looked up again, right into Sam’s eyes. She was struck with how afraid he appeared, his eyes desperate for help.

  “I can’t help you, Brian,” she said, quietly, “unless you tell me the truth. Let’s start from the beginning again, shall we?”

  “I killed her,” he said.

  Sam’s heart skipped a beat. She took a slow, deep breath in, not allowing the mask of calm to slip. “Who?”

  “Barbara. My wife. I pushed her over the edge of the quarry. So what is it you want me to tell you?”

  10:27

  This was all taking too long. It wasn’t just the traffic. Flora felt as though time itself had slowed and she was fighting against it. Fighting against everything, now.

  Going to the police station had been a mistake. What did she expect them to do? What could she prove? Nothing. They wanted evidence. And what evidence could she give them? All the stuff in the boxes, there was no point in giving them that. Apart from the voice-mail message she had left on that phone, none of it had anything to do with Polly. And the message, by itself, proved nothing. They would take it and keep it on file and nothing would happen.

  They were all scared of Nigel and Joe Lorenzo, the police. He was too difficult for them to touch. It made them reluctant to do anything, and as a result he kept getting away with it. He had been getting away with it for years.

  Flora took a detour past the studio, to check that everything was as she had left it. Her intention had been only to check the car park, to look for the Land Rover or the Mitsubishi pickup, but once she was there and saw the car park was completely empty, she pulled in and turned off the engine.

  Upstairs, the air was freezing cold. She glanced around the main studio, but nothing had been disturbed. The kitchen, too, was as she had left it this morning: her blanket in a pile on the floor, unwashed mugs in the sink, the radio on the counter. She pulled open the cupboard door, and inside were the two boxes.

  She could take it with her.

  She had thought this before. In fact, over the past few hours the thought had been there, persistently at the front of her mind, nagging, pestering. She could take the gun, threaten him with it. See if that did the trick.

  A few minutes later, back out in the car, Flora was heading toward Morden again.

  10:45

  When Taryn had arrived at the police station she had been tense and tearful. Sam Hollands had phoned her at home, and when she heard the words “I’m calling about your father,” her immediate thought had been that he’d suffered another heart attack and died. She barely registered what Sam said next, because her reaction to the thought of him dying had taken her completely by surprise. Despite how she’d felt, especially recently, being forced into being nice and kind and all the things she thought she was anyway, she had never thought for one moment she would feel this dramatic wrench of sorrow.

  And then Taryn realized that Sam wasn’t calling to tell her he was dead, after all, and she had to ask Sam to repeat what she had said.

  Arrested.

  Immediately she had so many questions: Where? When? What do I need to do? And all she could think was how Barbara had somehow engineered this, must have somehow set him up to take the blame. She had come directly, phoning Flora on the way, fretting and panicking and working herself up into a state because Flora wasn’t answering, and everything was made worse because she couldn’t
find a parking space.

  “Mrs. Lewis?”

  Taryn looked to her right and saw a smartly dressed young woman holding open the door that led back toward the front counter.

  “My name is Detective Chief Inspector Lou Smith,” said the woman, offering her hand. Taryn shook it, confused. “Can I call you Taryn? I wonder if we could have a quick word? Let’s go in here, shall we?”

  They were in a small interview room, nothing in it but a desk and two chairs either side of it.

  “Have a seat. I was hoping to talk to your friend Flora. She was here earlier but she left. I don’t suppose you know where she is?”

  Taryn reached into her bag for her phone, checked it. No missed calls, no texts. “I didn’t know she was here. I tried to ring her, but she didn’t answer. Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. I have to say I’m quite concerned about her.”

  “Are you?” Taryn said.

  “Before you arrived, she asked to see me. She seemed quite agitated. And yet when we had a few minutes to talk, she seemed uncertain and confused.”

  “I don’t think she’s been sleeping. She’s been so upset, you know. About Polly.”

  “Understandable,” Lou said. “I believe she and Polly were in a relationship for a time.”

  “Yes. She was devastated by what happened. I’m worried she’s not coping.”

  “Taryn, I have some news about your father. We’ve just charged him with murder.”

  Taryn didn’t answer for a moment. Unlike Flora, unlike her father, she had never felt any distrust of the police. In fact, she had rather liked that tall, chunky one who had met up with them in the café. Sam Hollands had been so kind to her, and now this woman, who seemed so genuine too. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “He’ll be taken before the magistrate in the morning. We’ll continue to interview him until then, but we will make sure he gets plenty of rest and the custody nurse will be keeping a close eye on him, so you don’t need to worry.”

  Taryn cleared her throat. “Can I see him?”

  “Maybe a bit later. It’s all a bit hectic right now. I’ll make sure we keep you updated.”