Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (37 page)

“Of course not!”

“You only need to give them an idea, a hint, and they will fucking have me over.
You
know that,
they
know that. They will pin you down and fucking question you until you give them what they’re looking for.”

“I won’t tell them anything!”

“You’d better fucking not!” He took a step back, ran his hand across his forehead and through his hair, and Flora took that opportunity to get out of his way.

She stood up, pushed past him, and ran out of the office. Behind her, she heard him shouting: “Get back here!”

Out in the fresh air, her heart racing, she ran back to her car, fumbled with the key, turned it in the ignition, and sped away, the tires kicking up a spray of gravel and skidding alarmingly until they found their grip. She braked, briefly, at the bottom of the driveway, praying he wasn’t running after her and risking a quick glance in her rearview mirror to check. It was getting dark, but even so she could see the side of the barn and no sign of him. A car was coming up Cemetery Lane from her right and she waited for it to pass.

“Come on, come on!”

It dawdled past and in the moment that the road became clear there was a bang on the car’s roof and, as she screamed in fright, the dark shape at the driver’s-side window moved and the car door opened, letting in a sudden gust of cold air. She had time to hear him shout “Flora!” through the door before hitting the accelerator hard and lurching forward into the road. The car door swung outward as she turned, then slammed shut again as the car straightened.

She was whimpering, looking back in the rearview mirror, into the darkness. He would get the Land Rover. He would follow her.

Moments later she had to brake as she caught up with the dawdling car that she’d had to wait for. There was no room to overtake. Her heart still thudding, she realized that there was no car behind her. He would be there by now, if he was going to follow her.

Then her phone buzzed in her pocket with a text message. She pulled it out and glanced at the display. It was from him:

Okay, then. He was leaving her to think about things; this was good. She had some time. But not to think. She had thought enough, no matter what his opinion was. It was time for action. And she knew exactly what it was she needed to do.

17:42

She got up as soon as she was finished, leaving Hamilton lying there, splayed across the bed like a starfish, arms and legs numb and his head full of her, her scent, her taste, the sound of her voice.

He was exhausted, and at the same time more alive than he’d ever felt in his life before. The decision made, the moment for action passed, there was nothing else to do but allow his flesh to melt, to give in to it, to forget about the fear and simply accept that what was done was done, it was too late to go back. Too late to undo what had taken place. There was no point even thinking about it anymore.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he said to the empty room.

He heard the noise of the shower in the bathroom, for a brief moment thought about getting up and joining her in there, but he doubted he had the strength to lift his head, let alone attempt a Round Two.

He lay still, dozing, until he heard the sound of his mobile phone bleeping from his trouser pocket. Where had he taken them off? He couldn’t remember.

A few minutes later she was back, wearing a robe, silky. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped it off her shoulders, lifting her hands to tease her hair back into some sort of a style. Her back was tanned, smooth, muscles beneath the skin. She kept herself very fit, that much was clear. How old was she? He had no clue, only that she must surely be older than him. Forty-five? Fifty? Suddenly he was dying to know, but even he knew such a question was unspeakably rude. He stretched out a hand and touched her back, his fingertips trailing across from her right shoulder to her left hip.

She half-turned, treating him to an indulgent smile.

“You need to go,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“Your phone hasn’t stopped bleeping. They’re probably thinking you’ve had an accident, or been kidnapped, or something.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly six.”

He sat up, then, in a hurry. “You’re kidding me!”

“Not at all. As I said, you need to go.”

The thought of having to explain to Karen why he was late to take them to the fireworks was enough to get him upright. His clothes were scattered everywhere, his trousers in the bathroom, his jacket hanging over the chair, shirt and socks in the living room.

There was just one text from Lou:

He sighed deeply, looking at it. Whatever she had done to him, this woman, it was complete. He knew he should have called Lou straight back, damn it, he knew he should have responded when he’d heard the phone bleeping. He took his job seriously. He loved being a police officer, for all the shitty hours and the lack of resources and the being sworn at and assaulted. He loved every second of it. Of making a difference. And in the space of two hours he’d gone from being a proud upholder of Her Majesty’s Peace to being deeply ashamed of himself.

And there was no turning back. Not this time.

18:02

“Gotcha,” said Barry Holloway. “Ma’am!”

Lou looked up.

“You want the good news or the bad news?” Barry asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Bad news?”

“The subscriber check on the number called by the landline—it’s a pay-as-you-go, no subscriber registered.”

“Well, that’s no great shock. What’s the good news?”

“It’s that ‘Manchester office’ number.”

And there it was in black and white—subscriber shown as Ms. Suzanne Martin, Flat 1, 14 Waterside Gardens. Jason was already opening the mapping software, looking for an aerial image of Waterside Gardens and plotting its location in comparison to the other scenes, overlaying the cellsite data from Brian’s phone billing.

“That’s weird,” he said.

“What is?”

“I thought the address was familiar. It’s where Flora lives.”

“Flora lives with this woman?”

There was a pause. “No, Flora has flat two. This is flat one. But bizarre, don’t you think?”

“Can’t be a coincidence,” Barry muttered. “At least it explains that cellsite. It must have been this Suzanne that Polly was visiting that night, not Flora.”

The plan for an arrest phase was well under way. Sam Hollands had been put in charge of preparing the arrest package for Brian, in hopeful anticipation of having enough evidence to take before a magistrate and get a warrant. Jason had been busy summarizing, printing off charts, timelines, and spreadsheets in support of the package.

What they had so far wasn’t enough, though, and Lou knew it.

“Trouble is,” Lou said to Sam, “we don’t dare risk Brian’s health. And we definitely don’t have enough evidence to arrest Suzanne with what we’ve got. If we arrest Brian, there’s a risk that Suzanne will do a runner.”

And Hamilton was missing. He still hadn’t returned Lou’s calls, and this time when she’d dialed his home number, a woman answered. She sounded pissed off, even more so when Lou told her who she was and what she wanted.

“No, he bloody isn’t here! He should be, though, and it’s bloody typical of him to be late again. If you find him first let me know!”

Two things hit Lou with a sudden, dramatic force, when she disconnected the call to Karen Hamilton. The first was that this was the woman that Lou had unwittingly wronged. When she had found out that Andy was married, the pain she felt had been as much for the woman she’d never met, didn’t know, as for herself and the end of the relationship before it had even really begun. Lou didn’t know anything about her, didn’t want to know because she felt bad enough as it was, and yet she had still formed a mental picture of this woman, the strength of her, bringing up Andy’s children while he was away working ridiculous shifts and putting himself in danger in the line of duty. She would be strong and yet resilient. Long-suffering. Patient. The Karen on the phone sounded less patient, more livid.

The second thing, with as much certainty as it was possible to have, was that something bad had happened to Hamilton and that, wherever he was, he was in deep shit.

“Barry,” she said. “We need to put a trace on the DI’s phone. I think he’s in trouble. Do it now.”

18:07

Back in his car, dressed, trying to calm down enough to decide what to do, Andy Hamilton stared at his phone and then looked up through the windscreen to the gravel driveway and the front door of flat one, 14 Waterside Gardens.

To start with, he sent a text to Karen’s mobile, preferring that approach to calling her directly. Firstly, she wouldn’t stop shouting at him, and he had other things to do. Secondly, he was afraid to.

Message sent, he dialed Lou’s mobile number. It connected almost immediately.

“Andy? Where the hell are you?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, with a note of forced cheerfulness. “Been in traffic, no mobile signal. What’s up?”

In the background he heard her shouting something to Barry Holloway, and then she was back with him.

“You had no signal? It’s been
hours
. Where were you?”

He was thinking on his feet, which at first was scary but then pretty quickly it became exhilarating. Maybe this was why the offenders spent so much of their time lying, often when they didn’t even have to. It was almost fun. A rush.

“I was out near the quarry, took a wrong turn and came up against a tractor that had broke down. Been bloody directing traffic for the last God knows how long. Sorry. What have I missed?”

“As long as you’re all right. I was getting worried.”

“Were you?” he was surprised at the note of concern that had replaced the fury. “Really?”

She ignored his question. “So where are you now?”

“Outside the town center. Not far. Do I need to come in? Only I’m late taking the kids out to the fireworks.”

“Your call, Andy. I don’t think there’s much you can do here, to be honest. We’re putting an arrest package together for Brian Fletcher-Norman. Jason got the cellsite back and it looks like Brian was flitting back and forth between Briarstone and Morden on the night Polly was killed. In between long conversations with a woman who might have been the one Polly met up with at the shopping center.”

“You’ve ID’d her, then?” he said, his heart sinking.

“Subscriber check goes down to Suzanne Martin. And get this: she lives in the flat downstairs from Flora.”

Shit! Shit on a brick.

“Andy?”

“Yeah,” he said, finding his voice. “So—where are you up to on the arrest packages?”

“We’ve got about enough to bring Brian in, assuming the hospital will let us. They’re looking at discharging him tomorrow morning, so we’re leaving him where he is tonight and we’ll pick him up first thing. Sam’s going to get the warrant. With a bit of luck he’ll give us enough to arrest Suzanne. Anyway, you’ve got a rest day tomorrow, so I’ll see you on Wednesday. Enjoy the fireworks, okay?”

He was being let off—he couldn’t believe it!

“Thanks, Lou.”

“Besides,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice all the way across the slightly dodgy mobile line, “by the sounds of it you’ve probably had quite enough of farms for one day . . .”

5X5X5 INTELLIGENCE REPORT

Date:
Sunday 4 November 2012

Officer:
PSE Kelly FRANKS, Financial Investigation Officer, Fraud Unit

Re:
Op NETTLE—Liam O’TOOLE and Barbara FLETCHER-NORMAN

ECHR Grading: B / 1 / 1

Barbara FLETCHER-NORMAN, DOB 15/11/1953

Several bank accounts, including ISAs and stocks. One bank account of note is with the Eden Building Society and is in subject’s maiden name of Barbara CROFT. This account received payments of various amounts, once or twice a month from the account opening in August 2009 until Wednesday 31 October when the account contained £22,941. At 11 on 31 October Mrs. FLETCHER-NORMAN attended the Briarstone branch of the Eden Building Society and withdrew £20,000 in cash. She required the manager’s authorization to do so and as this is a large amount an SAR was raised (this needs to be followed up).

Liam O’TOOLE, DOB 27/11/1981

One current account into which regular wages payments from Morden Country Club Leisure Ltd were made. Overdraft facility of £800, which was used regularly. Occasional payments in of £100 and £200 over the course of the past 12 months.

No further accounts on record, although it should be considered that this subject is of Irish nationality and further authorization will be required for further inquiries into overseas bank accounts.

18:22

Flora had thought it might be difficult to find the house, but in the end it was so easy it was almost funny. She drove through the town center and into Tithe Wood, once Briarstone’s largest social housing estate, the houses now mostly privately owned. From the light of the orange streetlights overhead Flora could see the confusing juxtaposition of front gardens containing neat lawns and borders, potted bay trees, and brick-paved driveways, alongside knee-high weeds, cars on bricks, and ancient sofas rotting in the rain.

A few moments after turning into Kensington Avenue, she saw it. Parked at an angle, two wheels on the mud that might once have been a grass verge, was the Mitsubishi L200 pickup that Connor Petrie was using.

Flora pulled in to the curb behind it. She got out of the car and looked at the houses. It wasn’t hard to guess which one might be the Petrie residence. Various cars were parked haphazardly along the curb in front of the Mitsubishi, and the long, overgrown driveway was populated with a selection of other vehicles in various states of repair. On the scrubby patch of grass and mud in front of the house was a child’s swing set that looked lethal, an empty pram on its side, a set of goalposts with no net, and a mattress.

A boy and a girl, teenagers, were coming out of the house as she approached. The door slammed behind them and a dog started barking.