“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?”
“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 co
tton 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.