Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (16 page)

She put one hand on his chest, sliding under the fabric of his suit jacket and over his cotton shirt, her fingers pressing into the skin underneath. Her other hand joined in and she pushed the jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the kitchen table.

She brought her face close to his, so that he could feel her breath on his cheek. He was about to take a step back, ask what the fuck she thought she was doing, when he felt her hand run down the front of his trousers, curving around the hardness of his erection. Her grip on him was strong, and deliberate. Jesus!

He stumbled back, knocking into the table, staring at her in shock.

“Next time, I expect more from you than this,” she said.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” He had no idea why he was apologizing. What she’d done was pretty much sexual assault—even if he had been about to kiss her.

She laughed at his expression, turned at the kitchen door, and gave him an amused little smile. “Shut the door behind you on your way out, Inspector.”

For a moment he stood there, dazed, wondering what the hell just happened. Then he retrieved his jacket from the table and did as he was told.

19:14

Flora was lying on Taryn’s spare bed, scrunched up into a tight ball. Downstairs, Sky Sports was on and Chris was sitting in front of it. Tabby was at the hospital, still. Maybe if Flora was asleep by the time she got home, they wouldn’t have to talk about it.

If only she could stop thinking, just for a moment, she might be able to sleep. Still, every thought led back to Polly.

That morning in August, the sun already hot although it was barely nine, the air smelling of ripe wheat from the field opposite, the sound of the tractor trundling up the lane. There was no car parked on the drive of Yonder Cottage. Sometimes there had been a car parked there; different cars. If there had been a car, Flora would have turned around quietly and driven away.

There was no car.

Just the sunlight, and the morning. By now Polly would have seen to the horses, would be back for a shower and breakfast. If Flora was lucky she would catch her in her bathrobe, hair damp from the shower, skin glowing, the bed still unmade . . .

The back door was unlocked the way it always was.

Flora didn’t call out. She wanted to surprise her.

Only when she was halfway up the stairs did she hear it—laughter, gentle, light—Polly’s voice. And another voice, low, one that made Flora’s heart pound and the bile rise in her throat.

She couldn’t stop herself then, although she already knew what she was going to see. She could hear the voices properly now, at the top of the stairs.

“. . . you’re silly. You always were.”

“Polly. Come here. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I’m staying—right—here . . .”

Flora pushed the door to the bedroom just enough to see her father lying splayed on Polly’s bed, the single white sheet covering a leg, an ankle, and Polly completely naked, the masses of blond hair falling like a golden river over Nigel Maitland’s lap. Polly was too occupied with the task in hand to see Flora turn, slowly, and go back the way she had come. But Nigel had met his daughter’s eyes, briefly, before she had turned away.

She had gone back to the flat she rented in town, avoided the farm where she had been every single day. Polly had called, and sent texts. Flora had not responded. Her father had called, several times, and then turned up at the studio. She had not opened the door. Felicity was by far the most persistent. Flora returned her mother’s calls and texts with brief, conciliatory responses. Nothing was wrong. She was busy working. It was all fine; she was just busy. Eventually her mother had sent her one of those ultimatum texts she was so good at, and Flora had reluctantly come back.

“What on earth’s the matter with you?” Felicity had said, sitting in the garden with a cup of tea because the kitchen was too damned hot with the Aga on.

Flora had lost weight; all her clothes were hanging off her already thin frame. “Nothing, Mum. I’ve been busy working.”

Felicity snorted. She’d never considered Flora’s art as real work, even when the exhibition she’d had last year had netted several thousand pounds in sales.

“Is it a boy?”

“What?”

“Are you having problems with a boy?”

Flora stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “No, nothing like that. Where’s . . . ?” Flora hesitated over the word, tried again: “Where’s my father?”

“Daddy? In his office, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Flora considered. It was time. “Perhaps I’ll drop in and say hello.”

He wasn’t in his office, he was behind the main barn, talking on his mobile phone the way he did when he didn’t want to risk anyone in the house overhearing.

“Tell him I won’t have it. It’s the whole deal or nothing.” Nigel Maitland saw his daughter approaching and tried to end the call as quickly as he could. “I don’t give a fuck.
You
sort it out. It’s what I’m paying you for.”

He snapped the phone closed and stood a little straighter. “Flora.”

“Dad.”

They stood for a moment regarding each other. It was cool here, in the shade, no sound but the occasional neigh or snort from the horses in the field behind them.

“I remembered,” Flora said at last.

For a moment Nigel hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. “What?”

“Seeing you with Polly. It brought something back to me. Of course, when you’re just eight you don’t always understand things that you see. It’s only afterward when you realize.”

A glimmer of realization was starting to creep across his rugged features. “Oh. And what was it that you saw? When you were eight?”

“We were on holiday in Spain with Polly and her mum and lots of other people. I’d completely forgotten. I remembered you playing in the pool with Polly.”

There was a pause while Flora remembered, and Nigel tried to remember the moment.

“You were . . . you were tickling her, and she was laughing. She must have only been fourteen. There was nobody else there. I was watching from the window.
And you were tickling her.
”

There was a long moment. Nigel looked at the floor. “But you know what she’s like. She was like that even then. It wasn’t about sex, not then. She was just so bright, so vivacious. She was—addictive.”

Flora felt tears, fought them back. “Have you been sleeping with her all these years?”

Nigel gave a short laugh. “No! God, no.” He took a step toward Flora, who took a step back. “Flora! There was nothing between Polly and me until about a month ago. I promise you.”

She couldn’t stop it now. A sob, a gasp—and he stepped forward as if to embrace her. At the same moment she took a step back, shaking her head. Something had broken.

He was staring at her, unmoving, his jaw clenching. “I won’t see her again,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” she sobbed. “You do whatever you like. I don’t care!”

And the tears fell, then and now, in the privacy of Tabby’s spare room. And what she had been unable to say to him then: the true hurt, the ultimate betrayal lay not in the fact that the woman she loved was unfaithful, she already knew that; nor that her father had been intimate with Polly for longer than she herself had, probably—despite his denials—long before it was right or appropriate for him to do so, even putting aside the fact that he was a married man. No, the pain that tore her apart came from that secret, terrible knowledge in her own heart that, as an eight-year-old girl, she had seen the secret moment between her father and Polly and had been burned raw with the acid of jealousy. She had been envious of them! How stupid, how foolish she had been.

Later, walking back past the barn at the top of the drive, she had seen Polly getting out of her car at Yonder Cottage. Always at a rough angle, wheels turned, as though she’d just tossed the car to one side instead of actually parking it. Polly had seen her and waved.

Flora had continued walking. Then she heard Polly call out, and when she looked round again she was running up toward her.

“Flora! Flora, wait for me!”

She stopped and waited, heart thudding, pounding in her chest. She didn’t feel ready for this, so soon after her father. Polly was wearing tight jeans, a clinging T-shirt, her hair tied back in a messy bun. She was breathless when she reached Flora.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

Flora tried out several possible responses in her head, eventually settling on: “At the flat.”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Have you been avoiding me?”

How could she not know? “You—and him. My father.”

“Oh, that!”

She said it cheerfully, dismissively, as if it was such a trivial thing. “But, Flora, you know I see lots of people. You’ve always known. I’ve never kept it a secret from you. And I thought you were okay with it!”

“Not him. Not with my dad.”

“Oh, Flora. My lovely girl . . .” She had put out a hand toward her, and Flora shrank back.

She was already walking away when Polly said, “I’m not seeing him anymore, Flora. I’ve stopped all that now. There’s someone else, someone important . . .”

“I don’t want to know,” Flora said, over her shoulder. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

“Don’t be like that, please, Flora!”

Flora got to the car, stopped and waited, took a deep breath. “Why are you doing this?” she asked quietly, not even sure if she was talking to Polly or to herself.

Polly had caught up with her, her eyes bright. “Everything’s changed. My whole life has changed.”

“What are you talking about?” Flora turned to look at her, moved round to the driver’s door, keeping the car between her and Polly as if she needed it for protection.

“I’m sorry,” Polly said, at last. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

They stared at each other. Flora couldn’t think of anything to say. Polly was looking radiant, beautiful, even more than normal. And she was smiling, a wistful smile that could have been genuine, sorrowful for how things had turned out, or maybe it was just pity. Eventually, wanting a way to bring this to an end, Flora said, “Thank you.”

Then she opened the car door and got in, shutting the door and, at last, breathing out in a long, gasping breath.

20:11

The hospital car park was a lot quieter than it had been earlier. Taryn found a space near the entrance and didn’t get a pay-and-display ticket, despite the sign saying that charges applied twenty-four hours. Bollocks to that, she thought. If she got a ticket, that meant she was really here. And she couldn’t see that there would be any security staff looking for ticket flouts at this time of night. They were all tucked up in their cabin, watching
EastEnders
and drinking tea.

The ICU was quiet, too, although a few of the beds had visitors. Not many of the patients were conscious. At first Taryn thought her father was asleep, too, but when she approached the bed he opened his eyes and turned to look at her, a halfhearted smile on his lips. The machines beside him beeped quietly. They had been turned down so people could sleep—those that weren’t unconscious, at any rate.

“Taryn,” he said, with a cough. “I didn’t think you’d be back tonight.”

“I can’t come tomorrow,” she said. “I have a visitor. Maybe not the day after. So I thought I’d bring this stuff.”

“Thank you.”

She stared at him for a few moments, then dropped the leather holdall by the bed. There was nothing on the cabinet next to him, no flowers or cards. Taryn wondered vaguely if any of his friends knew he was in here. Did he have friends?

“Is the house okay?”

Taryn gave a tiny shrug. “Looked fine to me. I locked the door.”

His eyes closed slowly. Taryn thought his breathing sounded a bit funny. She wondered if he was asleep and turned to leave, but he raised his hand as if to touch her. She was too far away from the bed, though.

“Taryn,” he said, whispered. She had to come closer to hear him.

I don’t want to hear this, she thought. Whatever it is, I know this isn’t going to be something I am going to want to hear.

“I need you to do something for me.” He coughed again, a low rumble from inside his chest.

“What?”

“I need you to phone someone. Just to tell her what’s happened, and where I am.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Suzanne. I don’t know her number offhand; it’s in my mobile. The number is listed as ‘Manchester office’ in the address book.”

Taryn raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Who is she, this Suzanne?”

“Will you do it? Will you phone her? My mobile should be in my briefcase, it will be in the office at home.”

“Who is she?”

Brian gave a deep sigh, turned away for a moment. Taryn thought there might be a tear in the corner of his eye.

“Don’t tell me you were cheating on Barbara, Dad? Wasn’t she good enough for you in the end?” This confrontation felt good, and yet bad at the same time. What was this? Was she starting to feel sympathy for him, this tired old man, lying here all alone with no one to care for him? Nobody left? Where were all his golfing friends? Bridge partners? Mistresses galore, going back through the years like a line of Tiller Girls, all legs and tits and sarcasm?

“She was going to leave me,” Brian said, with a small voice. “She was having an affair with her tennis coach. She was planning to go to Ireland with him.”

“So you thought you’d beat her to it?”

“Suzanne is different. It’s not what you think. She—she’s special. Will you phone her?”

“What about Polly, Dad?”

“What about her?”

“Did you have an affair with her, too?”

Brian managed to raise a smile at this. “Of course. Didn’t everyone?”

Her heart grew colder toward him again. The poor girl was dead. She might have broken hearts everywhere she went, but someone had taken her life from her in a brutal way. And taken Polly away from Flora, who deserved better.

“What happened with Polly, Dad?”

“Tabby, please. I am so tired. Will you call Suzanne for me?”

“Tell me about Polly.”

Brian sighed. “If I tell you, will you call Suzanne?”

“Yes.”

He looked away for a moment, remembering. “Polly came on to me at one of Felicity’s dinner parties. Not long after she moved into the cottage. I’d taken Barbara home—she’d had a few drinks too many—and as soon as I came back, Polly sat next to me and, well, she flirted. Made me feel good. That was the start of it.”