Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (41 page)

The woman was young, slightly built, wearing a smart suit that made her look older than she probably was. Her long, dark, glossy hair must have taken a lot of effort to straighten every morning. Flora could never see the point of all that stuff.

She was led into a small, artificially lit room with a table and two chairs, a metal filing cabinet upon which sat a pile of dog-eared magazines, a box of tissues, and a plant that was so green it had to be made of plastic.

“Have a seat,” the woman said.

Flora sat. The woman pulled the chair out from the desk and sat in the open space beside the table.

“My name is Detective Chief Inspector Louisa Smith. I’m leading the investigation into Polly Leuchars’s murder and I understand you wanted to see me?”

“You’re in charge?” Flora asked, surprised. She had a momentary vision of the brash, intimidating Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton and wondered how he could possibly be subordinate to this smiling, softly spoken woman.

“Yes, I am. How can I help?”

“Well, it’s about my father,” Flora began. This was the moment, she thought. After this, her choices would diminish. She hesitated, feeling panic and confusion and, in all of that, still this terrible aching in her heart because of Polly. And she was tired now, so tired. Despite the emotions, all she wanted to do was lie down on the floor of the room and sleep. And how could any of this possibly make sense?

“Your father—Nigel Maitland?”

Flora swallowed. She didn’t want to cry in front of this woman but it looked like it might happen anyway. “I’m so scared,” she said, her voice a whisper.

“Why are you scared, Flora?”

There was a long moment, a long, painful moment when she debated with herself about what to say next. And then, in a small voice, she said, “I’m scared of getting things wrong.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. If you have information for us, it’s up to us to make sure we know what it means. So you see, you can’t get things wrong, Flora.”

Flora took a deep breath in. “He’s been acting strangely since Polly’s death. I think something happened that night, but I don’t know what. I just know he’s been odd. And he was having an—an affair with her. I supposed that’s what it is.”

“With whom? With Polly?”

“Yes. He said it ended months ago, but I don’t know if that was true.”

“In what way was he behaving strangely?”

Flora thought about this, and the confusion and the doubt seemed to lift a little. She couldn’t tell them about the phone, or about Polly’s voice-mail message, because to do so would be to admit to the boxes and their contents. She had hidden them under the kitchen sink at the studio, which wasn’t the best hiding place, but at least they were out of sight. How could she tell them what she knew? How to start something like this? And, once started, how to stop?

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.