Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (18 page)

“Who?”

“Taryn Lewis. Brian Fletcher-Norman’s daughter. She rang to speak to Sam.”

“And?”

“She didn’t want to leave a message. Just that I recognized the voice, is all. She was with Flora this afternoon when I met her in the coffee shop. Didn’t tell me who she was.”

“What’s she like?”

Hamilton hesitated and she knew that he was thinking about how she looked rather than what sort of a personality she had. “She was all right, I thought” is what he said. Eventually. “Anyway, Flora is staying at her house so she’s all tucked up safe and sound, and we can pull her in first thing tomorrow. I told Sam to call her back, anyway.”

His eyes looked tired, and Lou wondered how he was sleeping. He’d once told her that he never slept a full night, needed tablets to catch up on sleep during the day when he was on nights.

“Just like old times, huh?” he said, raising his glass and only just stopping short of giving her a wink.

She pulled a face at him. “Yeah.”

Across the bar, she saw Jason coming out of the gents’ and making his way through the bodies back toward the table. He met her eyes and gave her a smile.

Andy had edged closer, having followed her gaze across the pub. “We should go to the Palace of India,” he said. “I fancy a curry. Don’t you? Fancy a curry?”

A year ago they were in the Palace of India celebrating the end of the case. The drug dealer they’d been targeting for months had been arrested; the search teams had seized eight kilos of heroin and nearly a quarter of a million pounds in cash. The interview teams, led by Lou, had managed to get not only a confession of sorts, but evidence links to other organized-crime gangs across the county and the whole team had headed into town, drinking from one place to another, Andy flirting with her as he had done through the case, both of them not letting it get any further because they were both too busy, too focused, to let something get in the way. Now that was gone.

In the Palace of India Andy sat next to her, his thigh pressed against hers, the smell of his aftershave, faint after a long day, driving her mad. While everyone was too drunk, too loud to notice, he slipped his hand under the table and between her knees, sliding her skirt up her thighs, stroking her skin. Lamely she pushed him away, once. Then everyone was going, heading off to a club or something. He’d hung back, the others hurrying ahead to get in the queue. He pulled her into a doorway, pressed her tight against the glass door, his body pressed against hers. She pushed her hands inside his jacket, feeling the warmth of him, while his mouth invaded hers. She felt the pressure of him through the fabric of his jeans, his hand up her skirt at the back, on the verge of pulling aside her underwear until she noticed over his shoulder that they were about to fuck in full view of a restaurant full of people.

Instead of turning left toward the nightclub, they turned right to the taxi rank, took a cab back to her house. He left at half past three, when she was just falling asleep. Kissed her goodbye so tenderly she barely felt it, only the smile that went with it.

“No thanks,” she said now. “You guys go ahead. I’ve gone right off curry.”

Finishing the last of her drink, she gave him a cool smile. “Night everyone. Thanks for the drink, Ali. See you tomorrow.” As a parting shot she palmed Ali forty quid to get a round or two in, then went out into the cold to find her car.

The wind was tugging at the corners of her coat while she fished in her bag for her keys. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her until a second before she wheeled round, and there he was, right behind her. He grabbed her arm to steady her.

“Jesus, Andy. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He leaned forward a little, pinning her against the car. “Don’t go,” he said, his face close to hers. “I wanted to spend a bit of time with you. Like the old days.”

“Andy,” she said sharply. “We’re in the bloody station car park. Right under the CCTV. Get off me.”

His hand was around her waist, strong and firm. He fitted against her exactly, his whole body warm and solid and safe. She felt her heart give, just a little bit. Then she felt the unmistakable hardness of his erection and the feeling passed in a sudden, nauseating rush.

“Inspector, get the fuck off me.
Now.
”

He moved quickly, almost stumbling back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

Lou looked at him, his face shadowed in the half-light from the arc lights by the exit.

“I’m telling you,” she said, her voice soft, carried away on the wind, “it’s not going to happen. If you pull a stunt like that again I’ll put in a complaint.”

His expression changed, grew cold. “You wouldn’t do that to me, Lou. Would you?”

“You seem to be having trouble getting the message. I’m telling you again, it’s not going to happen. Can we just call an end to it now—please?”

He attempted a smile. “Sure. I’m sorry. I just—well. You’re beautiful, and I won’t stop wanting you. That’s all.”

“You’re
married
,” she said, with an air of finality, opened the car door and got in. He stood there for a few moments, then he turned away.

Lou exhaled, rested her head against the window, trying with long deep breaths to stay focused. As she felt herself calming, the car parked two spaces away from her beeped and flashed its indicators. She watched as a familiar figure crossed the car park in front of her and she took a sharp breath in.

He stopped when he saw her sitting there. He even chanced a smile and a wave but then he hesitated, changed direction, and walked instead over to her car.

Shit. Not now, not right this minute.

He was right by her window. She looked straight ahead, thought too late about rooting in her bag and bringing out her phone so she could pretend she was taking an urgent call.

What the hell, there was no point pretending, was there? Not when all she wanted to do was go somewhere Hamilton wasn’t, get drunk, and spend the night with someone who was not, just for a change, married to someone else.

By the time she glanced up at her window he’d gone, and at that precise moment the passenger door of her car opened and Jason Mercer climbed in beside her.

21:55

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

She laughed at this, and even to her own ears it sounded forced. “Nothing, everything’s fine.”

And then his hand was on her shoulder and he was pulling her across into his arms and holding her tightly. The warmth of his body, through the thin cotton of his shirt, against her hot cheek; the smell of him, his masculine warmth, so good that she realized she was taking deep breaths on purpose.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

And for a moment it was all right, and then it was completely not all right and she pulled away from him.

“Oh God. I’m sorry. What am I thinking?”

For a moment she couldn’t look at him, and then she did and she was lost in the way he was looking back at her.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to make these stupid mistakes all over again.

He broke off the eye contact and looked straight ahead, out of the windscreen at the cars and the darkness and the rain spitting on the windscreen. He cleared his throat.

“So, I’m going to go get in my car,” he said. “You’re welcome to follow me, if you like. I’ll cook you dinner and we can get drunk together and you can tell me all about what’s happened to you and why you’re unhappy.”

She made a sound as if to say something—thanks, but no—you’re kind—I’m your SIO, it’s not appropriate—I can’t—

But he wasn’t quite finished.

“Or you can drive home on your own and I won’t mention it again. Does that sound okay?”

She nodded dumbly. Christ, what on earth was she doing? He was giving her the option to walk away from this horribly embarrassing encounter and yet she already knew what she was going to do.

He opened the door.

“Jason,” she said.

He looked back at her.

“Are you sure about this?”

He smiled as if that was a reply and shut the door. She started the engine immediately, thinking that she was going to drive away now, right now, before he even got back to his car and she would have to exit through the barriers behind him, thinking that if she did it quick enough he would have got the message properly and there would be no more flirting, no more lingering looks, no more intense silences.

And then he was reversing out of the parking space and her chance for that particular dramatic gesture had gone.

She waited for a moment and then turned on the lights and the windscreen wipers and eased the car out. His car went through the barrier and waited at the junction while she swiped her pass. Then he indicated left.

After just the briefest hesitation, she followed him.

22:12

Jason parked on the driveway of a house about two miles across town, and Lou pulled up to the curb outside. He was waiting for her in the doorway. He took her hand to lead her inside, and then didn’t let go of it. She stood in the darkness of his hall, the door still open behind her, looking at him. He pushed the door closed, slowly, purposefully, with one hand, without taking his eyes off her.

His hand threaded through her hair and pulled her close to him and then he kissed her. Oh, it felt good. Like a huge sense of release.

She kicked off her shoes and that felt good too, even though she didn’t quite make it up to his shoulder without her heels. He took her through to his living room, turned on a table lamp next to the sofa, kissed her again.

There was a pile of laundry folded on the sofa, newspapers and a cereal bowl and a mug on the coffee table.

“Sorry,” he said, “wasn’t expecting . . . this.”

“It’s a nice room,” she said, to make him feel better.

He put the laundry on the other chair and pulled her down onto the sofa with him. There was no debate about it, no hesitation. It was a this-needs-to-happen-now moment; his arms pulled her close against him, one of his hands at the small of her back, one in her hair.

As they kissed, his hands moved over her body, exploring her. Lou thought distractedly how it was good precisely because he didn’t just get his hands straight up her skirt or into her blouse—he was getting to know her body, all of it, even the parts most men tended to miss: the back of her neck, her throat, the insides of her elbows, the small of her back. She pressed her fingertips into the muscles on his chest, feeling the beating of his heart as he breathed into her hair, ran her fingers down the back of his head, feeling his short hair.

Her phone bleeped loudly to signify an incoming message. She ignored it but a second later he pulled his head back and said, “You need to get that?”

“No,” she said. And then her stomach gurgled loudly and they both laughed.

He extricated himself and sat up. His shirt had become untucked at the back and she pushed her fingers up inside, over his warm skin.

“I should get us some food,” he said, looking down at her.

“I’m not hungry, really,” she said.

“You should still eat. I haven’t seen you eat anything except Kit Kats.”

“I think it counts as one of my five a day, or at least the orange ones do.”

He went to the kitchen that was separated from the living room by a breakfast bar, turned on the lights. The text was from Hamilton. Just a single word:
Sorry
.

She watched him moving around his kitchen, cutting slices of whole wheat bread that looked homemade, then bringing out lettuce, radishes, olives, and cucumber from the fridge and chopping and mixing.

“Tell me how come you’re in the U.K.,” she asked again.

He stopped for a moment, looked at her. That blue-eyed gaze again, so intense. “It’s a long story,” he said.

“I’m interested.”

He got a plastic container out of the fridge, and, when he pulled the lid off the tub, a waft of garlic and lime and chile came out of it.

“So I was working in Toronto and I got talking to a girl in the U.K. online,” he said. “I came over here and kinda stayed put.”

Lou waited for him to continue, expecting there to be more. He took chicken out of its marinade and added it to a wok that started up an immediate fragrant sizzle.

“I thought you said it was a long story,” she said.

“Felt like it at the time.”

“What happened to her?”

If she’d stopped to think about it she would probably have changed the subject, because he was looking increasingly uncomfortable. But that was the trouble with being a police officer. You started off with the little things and sooner or later there was a nugget of information that was too interesting to ignore, and you dug and dug at it until what you eventually found was the great big mine of information that lay buried beneath. It was addictive—and easy to lose sight of the fine line between professional curiosity and tactless intrusiveness.

“She wasn’t serious about it.” He was looking at her again, his hands spread on the breakfast bar, facing her.

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter now. I’m over it, a long time ago.”

He turned back to the stove, flipping the pieces of chicken with a pair of tongs, then adding them to the two plates that already had salad on them. The smell was wonderful. He got two forks out of a drawer, a bottle of red wine from a rack under the breakfast bar, two glasses from the cupboard. He opened the wine and poured it. The discussion about his love life was clearly at an end.

“Let’s eat, hey?”

5X5X5 INTELLIGENCE REPORT

From:
Crimestoppers

To:
DCI Louisa SMITH

Subject:
OP NETTLE—Polly LEUCHARS

Date:
02/11/12

Grading E/5/1

Call from MOP [Member of the Public] to Crimestoppers at 2153hrs on 03/11/12 regarding Op Nettle.

Caller reports seeing Polly LEUCHARS on the night of 31/10/12 in a small dark blue car. The car was parked halfway into the driveway of one of the houses on Cemetery Lane with the rear end of the car sticking out into the road. Caller had to swerve to avoid it.

Caller states he parked up in the lay-by just ahead of the driveway and walked back to the car to remonstrate with the driver. Driver described as young woman, aged late twenties, long blond hair. Woman was in a distressed state and was arguing with a man who was in the passenger seat of the vehicle. Caller states he decided to leave it and went back to his own car and drove home.