Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (9 page)

Approximately two years ago I had a relationship with Polly Leuchars. She had joined the company I worked for at the time, SVA Consultants Ltd, as a receptionist. A few weeks later I asked her out and she accepted. I thought she was a fantastic girl and I enjoyed being with her a lot.

A few months into our relationship she told me about someone else she was seeing. She said it very casually, as if it was no big thing, but I was upset. She was surprised at my reaction and explained that she was not into monogamy and I could not expect her to be faithful.

I was very upset by the whole business, although I was in love with her and could not end the relationship. I asked her about the other person she was seeing and she admitted that she was seeing more than one person, and that one of them was a woman. I asked her to stop seeing them and she told me she could not, and that it was better if we ended our relationship.

I tried to win her back but she was adamant, and the next day she handed in her resignation. I never saw Polly after that, although I have often thought about her. She was a hugely charismatic person and was very attractive. I am sorry Polly is dead, and I have no idea who killed her, although I do feel her lifestyle was unusual and may have contributed somehow to her death.

Section 4—Signatures

10:04

The worst thing was the smell. That was how he knew he was in hospital. His throat was sore from the tubes that were down it, his skin felt dirty, clammy, and he could smell himself. He couldn’t speak because of the tubes, but his eyes were open now. And there was that bloody nurse, the loud one. He remembered her voice from somewhere. Somewhere he’d been that was dark.

“Brian? Are you all right there, Brian? Are you in any pain?”

Irish, of course. They all were. That, or Malay. And the doctors would all be Indian. All the good British nurses were earning a fortune in the Middle East. Where the hell was Barbara? Off playing bloody tennis or something. Never there when you needed her.

Why did they bloody keep asking him questions? How the hell did they expect him to answer when he had a mouthful of plastic tubing?

He raised a hand feebly to his mouth and the nurse slapped it down.

“Ah, no, Brian. Mustn’t touch. We’ll see about getting those taken out later, if you’re up to it. Doctor will be around shortly.”

It was easier with his eyes closed, after all. The light was too bright, too loud. But in the darkness bad things waited for him. Something had happened—he couldn’t quite grasp it—an accident? Had he been in an accident? He could see Barbara, and . . . was that blood? He felt sick, the same way he’d felt when he’d hit his head on that bloody door frame at the golf club. He must have had a head injury, or something.

And her? Of course, she would have no idea that he was in hospital. A tear slid unbidden and silent from the corner of Brian’s eye.
I wish I could tell her
, he thought.
I wish she were here.

11:50

Andy Hamilton considered himself to be easygoing and positive, but today was trying his patience almost to the breaking point.

First off, Leah had chucked up all over his last remaining clean, ironed shirt, and Karen had laughed when he’d asked if she had any idea where his clean shirts were. He’d had to drag one out of the washing basket and iron it while Karen got Ben’s breakfast. And then he’d had to watch both of the kids while Karen had a shower.

Consequently he was nearly late for the briefing and wasn’t giving it his full attention until he realized Lou had started picking on him.

He felt like he was being deliberately shown up in front of the others. Of course, the sensible way to handle it would have been to agree and then have it out with her later on. But he wasn’t sensible, was he? He was an idiot, clearly, because he enjoyed picking verbal fights with people, especially women he fancied. He’d sorted it out anyway, told Ali he’d take on Flora to keep the boss sweet. Ali had looked disappointed, but he had said nothing.

Waiting at the lights on Forsyth Road, he closed his eyes slowly and pressed the flat of his palms onto the edge of the steering wheel.

Still fancied her, despite all the shit she’d given him last year. Maybe that made it worse, in fact, and in that moment he knew it to be true. He was more turned on by her anger than he’d ever been by her flirtation. What sort of a man did that make him?

Fourteen Waterside Gardens turned out to be a smart Victorian villa in the nicer end of Briarstone. Steps led up to two front doors, side by side, each with a neat sign indicating flat one and flat two. The doorbell to flat one had a small typed label that read
MARTIN
. Flat two had nothing to indicate who might live there.

He tried flat two first and couldn’t hear any sound from within to indicate whether the bell actually worked. There was no reply.

The upstairs flat was in darkness—no sign of the red Fiesta on the graveled area passing for a front garden, only a sleek black Mercedes.

Giving up on flat two, he tried the bell for flat one. This one he heard ringing from somewhere within. Through the frosted glass door he saw lights on toward the back of the house and after a long while a middle-aged woman wearing a navy-blue nurse’s uniform answered the door. She was holding a coat and a bag, as though she was on her way out. He saw the uniform first, the fob watch above the curve of her breast, the way the dark cotton fitted close around her body, and then he raised his eyes to take in her attractive face, the short, ash-blond hair, the ice-blue eyes. He produced his best smile.

“Sorry to trouble you,” he said, holding out his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton, Eden Police. I’m looking for Flora Maitland, from the flat upstairs. Any idea where she might be?”

“None at all,” the woman said in a voice that would freeze vodka. She’d taken Andy’s wallet so that she could get a better look at the photo; when she’d examined it to her satisfaction she handed it back.

Andy watched as she pulled on her coat. Red gloves were pulled briskly onto her slender hands. As she shut the front door behind her he had a sudden mental picture of her snapping on a pair of surgical gloves and smiled to himself.

“Is she in some sort of trouble?” the woman asked.

“No. Just need to ask her something. If she comes back, could you ask her to call me, please?” He pressed his business card into her gloved hand.

“Of course,” she said, looking at him curiously. “Although I’m unlikely to see her. She comes and goes at odd times, as do I.” She pressed her key fob and the central locking system of the Merc clunked invitingly.

He turned to go, wondering how she could afford it on a nurse’s salary, but her voice, low, called him back: “Inspector Hamilton?”

She waited until he was standing in front of her again, so he had plenty of time to appraise her. As well as the appeal of the uniform, she was very attractive; her eyes, although they were cold and an unnerving pale blue, were bright and focused on him. He felt the hairs stand up on his arms.

“She has a studio. I’m not sure of the address, but she’s probably there.”

“A studio?”

“She’s an artist. A very talented one.”

“Thank you, Mrs. . . . ?”

But she was already heading for the car, her back to him. He had been dismissed. Charming, he thought. Bet she was a winner with the patients.

He went back to his own car, spent some moments jabbing with his massive fingertips at the screen of his nonwork-issue iPhone, trying to persuade it to Google “Flora Maitland Artist.”

Proves my point exactly, he was thinking. That woman had been cold to the point of rudeness and now all he could think about was what she might be like in bed. He’d always had a bit of a thing for nurses.

The signal here was crap, and the phone wasn’t going to cooperate. Quicker to go back to Hermitage Farm and ask the Maitlands. Flora was probably there, anyway.

MG11 WITNESS STATEMENT

Section 1—Witness Details

NAME:
Anthony MORTIMER

DOB
(if under 18; if over 18 state “Over 18”)    Over 18

ADDRESS:
    
Newbury House
                      Bedlam Lane
                      Baysbury
                      Briarstone

OCCUPATION:
Corporate Lawyer

Section 2—Investigating Officer

DATE:
Friday 2 November

OIC:
DC 13512 Jane PHELPS

Section 3—Text of Statement

Polly Leuchars was my girlfriend before she moved to Morden. She had been living with me at my home in Baysbury, Newbury House, from January 2010 until December 2011. We met through mutual friends at a New Year’s dinner party in Briarstone. Polly was living in a bedsit in the city at the time. I fell in love with her almost immediately. She was honest with me from the start and explained that she wanted an open relationship. This suited me because I have had partners in the past who have been very possessive; I thought Polly would be different, and she was.

Polly and I became involved with the swinging scene in London and we attended a couple of parties together where we both had sex with other people. We also met up with another couple a few times and had sex. Polly was very liberated and incredibly attractive. Because of this I felt I had met my life partner and I asked her to marry me in November last year.

She was upset by this and turned me down. I tried to explain that I was happy with our lifestyle but she didn’t want to listen. We had a long discussion about it and we were both rather upset. In the morning she was gone. She left a note to say she had gone to stay with some friends and that our relationship was over.

I saw her about a week later when she returned to the house to collect her possessions. I tried once again to ask her to stay, but she refused. She seemed very happy and relaxed, I presumed by this she had met someone else, although she didn’t say she had.

I saw Polly again in Briarstone a few times this year, but on neither occasion did I speak to her. The last time I saw her was in May or June. She was walking through the precinct near where I work with another girl.

I am now involved in another relationship.

I was very upset to read about Polly’s death in the newspaper and I do not know who may have killed her.

Section 4—Signatures

12:40

Miranda Gregson answered the door to the farmhouse.

“Are they up to seeing me?” Andy asked. “Don’t suppose Flora’s put in an appearance?”

“She was here earlier. Left about half an hour ago.”

“Bloody typical, that is. Just my luck.”

Felicity Maitland was having coffee in the kitchen with two other women. They were huddled around a cafetière and three bone china mugs, looking to Andy’s eyes rather like Macbeth’s three witches, no doubt discussing the case and solving it all by themselves.

“Mrs. Maitland, sorry to trouble you again.”

“Oh! It’s you, Inspector Hamilton. No trouble at all. Would you like some coffee?” Felicity Maitland had taken a shine to him, not something he was unused to. Under normal circumstances he would have declined the offer, but he felt that this conversation might be valuable. “I’d love a coffee, thank you.”

Sitting down, he was aware of the subtle changes in the body language and posture of the three ladies: stomachs pulled in a little, sitting up a little straighter, turning oh so slightly so that all three of them were facing him.

“Have you met Marjorie and Elsa, Inspector?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure . . .” He knew how to turn on the charm and he enjoyed all the attention, even if there was part of this flirting that slightly turned his stomach.

“Marjorie Baker, my bridge partner, and Elsa Lewington-Davies, ladies’ captain of the Seniors Tennis.”

They cooed up at him. Wasn’t Marjorie the old trout who had suggested Brian Fletcher-Norman was having an affair with Polly?

“It must be a very difficult life for you, Inspector. Do you get much time off?”

“Please, call me Andy. Yes, one sugar, thank you.” He was wondering how quickly he could steer the conversation around to a point where he might learn something useful. “It’s not so bad. There are quiet periods as well as busy ones. But of course you get to meet some lovely people.” Smiling round at present company.

“And some nasty ones too, no doubt,” Marjorie Baker added. She was pushing seventy but still looked after herself: unnaturally blond hair that was being allowed to meld gently with the gray; a complexion that had seen the benefit of many expensive treatments over the years. Makeup that was subtle and did justice to her age as well as her fading beauty.

“Have you made much progress? We all think it’s a simply dreadful thing to happen, and in Morden of all places! Shocking, really.” This last from Elsa. She was younger, dressed more casually, looking like she was fighting to stay in touch with the next generation.

“We’re still working on several lines of inquiry,” he said noncommittally, but allowing a lingering look to pass between him and all three of his companions.

“And, may I ask,” Marjorie said with a slight cough, “would the Fletcher-Normans be one of those lines?”

Andy smiled at her, as though in deference to her sharp mind. “I really shouldn’t,” he said conspiratorially, “but, yes, we have been investigating recent events at the Barn in case they might be linked to the murder.”

“I knew it!” Marjorie said triumphantly. “He’s a dreadful man, that Brian Fletcher-Norman, I’ve always thought so.”

“Rubbish,” interjected Elsa. “You used to fancy the pants off him.”

“Nevertheless,” Marjorie continued, “I saw him coming out of Yonder Cottage late that night. And when I knocked at the door, there was poor Polly in her bathrobe. He took advantage of an impressionable young girl, there’s no doubt about it. He probably killed her when she started to see sense.”