Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (17 page)

“Barbara found out?”

“She was suspicious, but she could never prove anything.”

“She might have followed you, or something.”

He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter anymore. “I didn’t see her for long.”

“So why did you stop?”

Taryn wondered if it was her own curiosity leading her to ask these questions, or whether Sam Hollands had put the idea into her head.

“She introduced me to Suzanne.”

“The woman you want me to phone? She was a friend of Polly’s?”

Brian nodded.

“Like I said,” Taryn said, her voice cool, “I’ve got a visitor. I don’t know if I’ll get back to the house again this week. If I get a chance, I’ll find your phone and let Suzanne know.”

Brian’s eyes closed, and his breathing deepened. That was her cue to leave. She had had enough, anyway.

20:12

Les Finnegan took the call on his mobile and by the expression on his face and his frantic hand signals to those that were left in the office, everyone stopped what they were doing and waited in silence for him to finish. Lou got up from her desk and stood in the doorway.

“Right. Thanks. Yeah, I’ll wait for the details, thanks. Bye.”

He looked around, a big grin spreading on his face. “Blood results back. The DNA on Barbara Fletcher-Norman’s clothes is definitely Polly’s.”

Some of them cheered. Jason was smiling and suddenly everyone was talking at once.

Lou went back into the office to ring Buchanan, and when she came out again they all had their coats on and were waiting for her.

“King Bill, is it?” she asked, somewhat redundantly. “I’ll catch up with you.”

She spent another half an hour working her way through emails, writing a brief report for Buchanan that he could take into the chief officers’ briefing tomorrow morning.

She tried Sam’s mobile, but it went to voice mail. Sam had called to say Boris had put up a bit of a struggle and then caved in, possibly due to the fact that she was having a dinner party that evening and was making a soufflé.

Flora Maitland or Barbara Fletcher-Norman . . . The stronger evidence pointed to Barbara, who was dead and could not therefore be arrested and interviewed. But whatever the reason that Polly’s phone had been used in the immediate vicinity of her former lover’s home address just before she had been murdered, it wouldn’t hurt to ask her about it. And have a good old rummage through the farm while they were about it.

Sam arrived a few minutes later and looked crestfallen when she came into the MIR and found only Lou in attendance.

“Oh, let me guess,” she said. “King Bill?”

“Sam, I’ve just had a thought—did you specify all the outbuildings on the warrant?”

Sam grinned and waved the piece of paper. “All properties on the land pertaining to Hermitage Farm, Morden,” she said with triumph.

Definitely cause for celebration. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll bring her in.”

“Do we know where she is?”

“Mr. Hamilton’s in charge of keeping tabs on her. Shall we go and have a little drink, Sam?”

She logged out of the system and told Sam to go on ahead while she took a copy of her report upstairs to the management corridor and slotted it into Mr. Buchanan’s pigeonhole. After that, she went to the ladies’ and stared at her reflection, criticizing her hair and her tired face and the state of the makeup she’d applied in the morning. If it hadn’t been for Sam, she might not have bothered going to the pub after all, but it wouldn’t hurt to show her face across the road. If they were to get a quick result, it warranted a drink or two. And if this
was
a blind alley, then it would serve as a consolation.

20:14

Andy was tired. He’d called in to the MIR to report back to Lou and found they’d all buggered off. A note in Les Finnegan’s handwriting on his desk read “King Bill.”

One of the phones was ringing. It was an outside line and he wanted to ignore it, wanted desperately to pretend he wasn’t here so that he could fuck off to the pub with the rest of them, start the weekend, even if it was going to be a working one.

In the end, his conscience got the better of him and he answered it.

“Incident Room, Andy Hamilton speaking.”

“Can I speak to Detective Sergeant Sam Hollands, please?”

The voice on the other end was familiar. Andy searched through the catalogue of people it could be—someone he’d met recently, someone he’d liked.

“DS Hollands has left, I’m afraid. Can I help? Take a message?”

There was a long pause. “No, I’ll ring tomorrow.”

“Who’s speaking, please?”

“My name is Taryn Lewis.”

The link clicked into place between the voice and the curvy blond who’d been at the café earlier in the day. Taryn—Tabby. Bugger.

“Mrs. Lewis. You didn’t explain who you were when we met earlier.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can help with?”

“Tell Sam Hollands to call me as soon as possible, would you?”

It could wait. It could all wait. Apart from one thing: “Mrs. Lewis, there was something else I needed to ask Flora. She’s not answering her phone and she doesn’t seem to be at home. You don’t happen to know where she is?”

“She’s staying at my house. I didn’t think she should be alone at the moment, until she’s had a bit of time . . . you know.”

Bingo. “I understand. She’s going through an incredibly difficult thing.”

“Exactly. And she can’t go to the farm, of course.”

“She’s lucky to have such a good friend,” Andy said. I should be on some therapy talk show, he thought. He could spout bollocks when the situation demanded it.

“Thank you,” Taryn said. “Do you want me to ask her to call you?”

“It’s fine. I’ll catch up with her tomorrow. As long as she’s okay,” he said. As long as she’s not planning to leave the country or disappear, is what he meant.

When she rang off, Andy sighed with relief. The day was ending favorably, and he had earned the right to finish off with a pint or two with the lads. With a bit of luck, Louisa might be in there too. With a lot of luck, she might be ever so slightly pissed already and therefore less immune to his charms.

20:19

Brian’s eyes closed. Talking to Taryn about Suzanne and Polly had brought back all the memories of how tangled his romantic life had become. He’d had many affairs over the years, had lost count somewhere along the line of all the one-night stands he’d had, the expensive prostitutes paid for by clients overseas, the women he’d met in bars, hotels, the women he’d met socially and seen regularly: Emma, a sports therapist at the gym; Andrea, the wife of one of his colleagues, hungry for some danger; Sheila Newton, Barbara’s friend who’d wanted to set Barbara up with her corpulent stockbroker husband, Derek, and try and engineer a foursome—that had brought that particular liaison to an abrupt end as Brian couldn’t imagine anything less sensual or appealing. And then there was Christine, Barbara’s bridge partner. He’d had her on more than one occasion.

The first time he’d cheated on Jean, Taryn’s mother, it had been difficult and shameful, and he swore he would never do it again. But the second time it was easier. The third time, it was with Barbara, and she hooked him good and proper. When he married Barbara, he promised briefly that he would mend his ways. That lasted three months, until one of the stewardesses on a transatlantic flight slipped him her New York phone number.

Infidelity was only an issue if you let it be. He was happy to come home to Barbara, happy to share his life with her, happy to have an attractive woman on his arm at parties, even if she did fail to behave herself after her third gin.

And then, just when everything was simple, there was Polly to complicate things.

She had curled up beside him on the sofa in Felicity’s conservatory at one of those interminable drinks parties, put her hand on his knee and laughed, throwing her head back and baring her throat. She told him she liked sex, a lot, couldn’t get enough of it. She liked people. And she was so young, so
alive
.

Later, walking back to the Barn, the silent moon lighting the way, he had heard a low whistle behind him. Polly had followed him out. She was running across the pavement with no shoes on, her short sequinned dress swishing against her naked thighs. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, giggling softly.

He brought her into the garden and, in full view of the house, he pulled her dress above her head. Underneath, she was naked, her skin silver in the moonlight. Aside from the noises they made themselves, everything was silence. She pulled at his trousers to get at what she wanted, and from then on it was a mad tangle of limbs—the smell of the grass, the thought of the grass stains on his clothes; even if he took them off now it would be too late . . . She climbed on top of him, her hair around her like a cloud. He looked up into the night sky, at the moon watching them without comment, and laughed, not believing the madness of it. He knew Barbara would be asleep, snoring off the effects of several too many, but still, the dare of it, the challenge of fucking this beautiful girl, twentysomething, full of life and energy and the bold confidence of her own sensuality, overwhelmed him completely. Who cared if anyone saw? He would never live like this again, never.

He wasn’t naïve.

He knew Polly’s type, although he’d never met anyone really like her. She was what they used to call a nymphomaniac, needy for sex in the same way that many women were needy for emotion. She had sex as often as possible. She got depressed if she went without it for more than a few days. She cared about the people she slept with, some of them at least. But that was as far as it went—Polly could no more be faithful to someone than she could fly to the moon.

He also knew, because she told him, proudly and excitedly, that she had been involved with the swinging scene when she had lived in London; that she still met up with some of the people she had played with from time to time. He remembered lying in Polly’s bed, upstairs at Yonder Cottage while Barbara was drinking tea at Hermitage Farm with Felicity. He loved the whole danger of Polly. She was dangerous and intriguing. She was lying next to him, her hands idly playing with him, teasing. She was telling him about this woman who was nearly as insatiable as she was.

“Her name is Suzanne,” Polly said, and a wistful look came over her face that Brian had never seen before. “I met her when I was traveling, but she’s here, living in Briarstone now. She is so amazing! One of these powerful women, you know? All about power.”

“What sort of power?”

“Control. I didn’t think it was my thing, but there’s something about the way she does it. She makes me feel scared, and safe, all at the same time.”

“Can’t be good, feeling scared, surely?” he murmured.

Polly laughed. “It gives me the most incredible high the way she does it. I’ve never had orgasms like that, Brian. You wouldn’t believe how it feels—it’s like flying. She’s my idol. My goddess.” Her eyes went back to his face. “Want to meet her?”

“Yes,” said Brian, before he had time to think about it.

“Did you ever do a threesome, Brian? Fancy it with me and Suzanne?”

He had done a threesome, years ago. Well, of a sort. In a hotel room in Bangkok. One of his clients had paid for a show—two girls licking and fingering each other enthusiastically. Once he’d given up watching and joined in, they’d left each other alone and concentrated on pleasuring him. They weren’t really into it—it was all just acting—but enjoyable for that, mind you, if not exactly real.

A few weeks later, Barbara away visiting her friend in Norfolk, he had gone with Polly to a flat in town to meet Suzanne.

To say the woman was charismatic was an understatement. She was animated, confident like Polly, but witty and intelligent, even intellectual. And completely insatiable. They had dinner, wine, and then fucked the night away, all three of them. He flagged long before Polly and Suzanne did. Polly had been right, there was something dangerous and yet addictive about relinquishing control to another person. And when the other two finally fell asleep, he knew that something had changed. He wanted to see Suzanne again. More than that. He had never thought for one minute a woman would come along who would be sensational enough to make him want to leave Barbara, with all the hassle and financial costs that would incur. But as he slipped in and out of consciousness, his thoughts strayed to how on earth he would persuade Barbara to leave him without it costing him an arm and a leg.

And now, as Brian felt himself drifting toward sleep, he smiled. He’d done it. He belonged to Suzanne, now, in every sense. And Barbara was gone.

20:22

The pub was noisy and warm, the windows steamed up from the beery breath of a hundred or so patrons, fifty percent of them job from one department or other. When they’d shut the subsidized bar at the station two years ago, the landlord of the King William had suddenly found his takings up by nearly a hundred percent. He’d lost a few of his old regulars, the ones who didn’t fancy sharing their pint with the likes of the local CID and who had used the nickname “Old Bill” for the pub, rather than the King Bill—but the huge leap in profits more than compensated for it.

You couldn’t miss Andy Hamilton in a crowd, Lou thought. He was a head taller than anyone else, propping up the bar with Les Finnegan and some of the others. She almost ducked back out of the door when she realized Jason wasn’t there, but by that time Hamilton had beckoned her over. “Here she is, look,” she heard him saying to someone else.

“What are you having?” Ali Whitmore was at the bar, most of a round of drinks lined up in front of him.

“Just a Coke, please, Ali.”

Hamilton made her a space on the bar stool next to his, gave her a warm smile. The others were all laughing and joking, the tensions of the case forgotten. She realized she had forgiven him, because suddenly the anger she’d felt this afternoon wasn’t there anymore.

“You look great,” he said, quietly, leaning toward her so the rest of them didn’t hear.

She smiled. “I feel like shit.”

He laughed. “In that case, I’d like to see you on a good day. Guess who I just spoke to?”