He must have passed out last night. He knew this because she brought him round from it. He heard her talking to him, saying things like, “Open your eyes. Andy, look at me . . .” and the funniest thing of all was that he thought he was in hospital. She had that tone of voice that said “nurse” even more than the uniform did. He had opened his eyes and the room was still dark, but he could see her leaning over him. She did not look concerned.
She did not need to, after all: she was a nurse. She knew he was fine. Of course he could trust her—he was in the safest hands possible, wasn’t he?
Half awake, he became aware of sounds. He moved, stretched, felt the soreness on his back. He opened his eyes to see her lithe, brown legs as she came back into the room. A steaming mug of coffee was placed on the bedside table beside him. He raised his head, his eyes traveling up her body, taking in the ironed uniform, the blond hair shiny and blow-dried, the makeup.
He reached out a hand toward her but she did not come closer. She sat on the chair in the corner of the room, facing him, crossed her legs elegantly. “How are you feeling?”
He thought carefully about his response. “Tired,” he said.
She smiled. “That’s to be expected.”
Hard to know what to say that didn’t sound idiotic. In the end, he settled on: “I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Yes, I could tell. But you liked it.”
This time his response was instant. “Yes. I did.”
Her smile changed from benevolent to faintly lascivious. “What we did was quite tame. There are plenty of other new experiences to try, if that’s what you would like to do.”
Andy grinned at her. “Will you teach me?”
Suzanne, for that was her name, stopped smiling then and said, “You’d better get up. You’re going to be late, Inspector.”
09:30
The briefing had the fewest number of officers in attendance since the investigation had begun. On the face of it, this wasn’t surprising: many of the major crime specialists who had been temporarily deployed to the investigation worked regular office hours, leaving the weekends for the core team. If anything came up which required additional resources, Lou could bid for more bodies.
It felt like things were slowing down, as far as Polly’s murder was concerned. Practically everyone who had the vaguest connection with the case had been interviewed at least once; the most promising of leads had already been followed up, paperwork was now churning through the Incident Room like a constantly flowing stream.
No Jason today. It was going to be a long slog of a day, even if she didn’t spend all of it here. Looking on the bright side, it should be a hell of a lot easier to concentrate.
Altogether there were seven people in the room. Lou, near the front, legs neatly crossed at the knee, daybook and pen poised; Les Finnegan and Ron Mitchell; Sam, even though Lou was fairly sure she should have been off today; Barry Holloway was in, too—when was he due for a rest day? Lou scribbled a hasty note to remind herself to check. Paul Harper, the senior CSI, was there; and finally, late, Andy Hamilton had entered and sat at the back.
His hair was still damp as though he had only just fallen out of the shower, and out of the corner of her eye she observed that he looked even more disheveled than usual, but she kept her attention on Barry.
“The key focus for the investigation remains the Fletcher-Normans,” he said. “Forensic evidence links Barbara Fletcher-Norman to the scene. We know she had a suicide attempt in September, and the medical disclosure indicates that she was still on medication. We now have further intel that Barbara was having a relationship with a man believed to be her tennis coach, which seemed to have ended on the day of Polly’s murder. We should get more on that once the witness has been interviewed fully, but the indications are that on the night of Wednesday thirty-first, Barbara was extremely upset and had been drinking heavily.”
A few murmurs. Lou glanced at Hamilton. He was scribbling notes, head down. She sighed, wishing, not for the first time, that Rob Jefferson’s back had not chosen this particular time to fail him.
Lou caught Barry’s eye and interrupted. “Ron and Sam are going to Norfolk today to interview Lorna Newman. We should be able to take all the letters that Barbara sent to her for the inquest.”
Barry nodded.
“Paul?” Lou said. “Can you give us an update on forensics?”
Paul Harper cleared his throat. “So we now have three scenes that are being worked on.” He indicated Jason’s map, taped up to the whiteboard. “Yonder Cottage, Hayselden Barn, and the quarry. We are working at the quarry again today, trying to establish if the shot put that was found yesterday was thrown from the top of the quarry before the car went over, or if it fell out of the car as it went down.”
Les Finnegan raised a hand.
Paul nodded to him.
“Are we definite on the shot put being the weapon yet?”
“No, but it’s looking the most likely bet at the moment. Any other questions before we carry on?”
Silence in the room. There was a faint odor of stale beer, and Lou hoped it wasn’t coming from the big man at the back.
“Okay,” Paul continued. “So that’s the quarry. We’ve finished at Yonder Cottage for now, awaiting results of blood tests and a few other things there. Hayselden Barn is still being worked on.”
“Any results?”
“Bits and pieces. Yesterday Brian gave his key to his daughter and asked her to make a phone call from his mobile phone. So we’ve had some unexpected complications. We’ve managed to retrieve blood from the kitchen sink—likelihood is that it’s Polly’s. Should get that back today.”
“Thanks, Paul. You’ll let us know when you have any more?”
Paul Harper nodded. He looked relieved to be done.
Lou went on: “Sam spoke to Mrs. Lewis yesterday. Can you give us the update, Sam? I think some people might have missed it.”
“Her father—Brian, that is—told her that he was no longer sleeping with Polly because she had introduced him to another woman. Brian asked Taryn to go and use his mobile to ring her, to let her know where he was. Mrs. Lewis kindly handed the phone over to us and it’s being downloaded. Should be done later today. We’re still waiting for the billings and the cellsite data on it, though. The service provider is still having computer problems, so we can’t get the subscriber check done on that number Polly was calling the night she died.”
“What about that other number, the one called by the landline in Yonder Cottage?” Lou asked.
“Unfortunately it’s the same SP. We’ll have to wait for that one, too.”
Lou smiled at Barry again. “Nearly there. Just a few intel requirements remaining. We still need more on what happened at the Lemon Tree on the last day. Statement’s gone out about that today.”
Barry Holloway nodded his assent to this and added, “We’ve not had anything more about the car that was seen—that guy from Crimestoppers. We appealed for him to come forward again, but nothing so far.”
“Shame,” Lou said.
“If we’re working on the theory that Barbara Fletcher-Norman was the killer, we need more information about that last night. Was she drinking at home? Did anyone else speak to her on the phone—we should get that from the landline billing, at least. And we need to locate this man she was supposed to be seeing, Liam O’Toole. See if he can corroborate the story put forward by Mrs. Newman in her first statement. That’s about it for now. Just awaiting the results of the key interviews from today, really.”
“Thanks, Barry. Right, then. We need to crack on today, folks,” she said, standing and straightening her skirt. “Ron and Sam—you’re going to see Mrs. Newman today. Try and get back as soon as you can, and give us a call if there’s anything we can action straightaway. Les, we also need a check on CCTV. Keep you out of the cold wind today, eh? We’ve got another press conference booked for Monday, unless anything earth-shattering turns up over the weekend.
Anyone got anything else they’d like to say?”
Quiet in the room, although chairs were squeaking and shuffling as everyone made ready to get out and get on with it. Barry was cleaning off the whiteboard.
Hamilton cleared his throat. “You got anything specific for me?”
Lou looked at him, mentally checking off her list of urgent tasks and wondering which of them she could bear to devolve to someone who looked like he’d had a particularly spectacular night on the town.
“You can find out what’s happened to Brian’s computer. How about that?”
“It’s Sunday,” he said.
“And?”
He didn’t answer, just maintained the eye contact. They were on shaky ground again, Lou thought. “I know it won’t take you very long. So maybe you could find out some more about Liam O’Toole. All right with that?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Right, let’s get on with it. Ron, Sam, can I see you both please—my office? Thanks everyone.”
The room emptied quicker than water out of a drain.
For: DC Jane Phelps c/o DCI Smith Op Nettle
From: Brian FLETCHER-NORMAN
Tel: hosp
Message: Please call back. Has remembered further.
09:45
Lou picked up the message from her crowded desk as she went in, pocketed it. Ron Mitchell was waiting for Sam by the door, his coat already on. Sam was shutting down her workstation. Neither of them looked happy.
“I don’t know why you two are looking so bloody grumpy,” she said. “The sun’s shining, it’s a lovely day. Just right for a nice drive.”
“A nice long drive,” Ron said sadly.
“You never know,” Lou said, “this might uncover something crucial. You two could be heroes.”
“Yes, boss,” Sam said. “It’ll be great.”
“And you might even finish early and then you can relax. Okay?” Lou regarded them both for a moment, knowing that sending her sergeant off to conduct an interview was not generally considered to be the best use of resources. But Sam had a knack with witnesses and suspects; she listened, and was intuitive, picking up on things that other interviewers missed. If she couldn’t go up to Norfolk and meet Lorna Newman for herself, sending Sam was the next best thing. “You got a car sorted out?”
“Yes, we’ve got one of the Volvos booked.”
“Okay. Call me later?”
“Yes, boss,” Sam said, and they left.
When they had gone, Lou looked at the message again and dialed the number for Briarstone General Hospital, and asked for the Stuart Ward.
10:15
Flora was thinking about going back to the studio. Something about the sunshine had made her want to go back and look at that canvas, the one of Polly, even if she wasn’t going to be able to complete it. She was just pulling on her leather jacket when there was a knock at the door.
Fearing it was Hamilton, she froze at the top of the stairwell, not making a sound.
A few moments later, another knock and an imperious voice suddenly through the letter box. “Flora? Let me in, for Christ’s sake.” It was her mother.
“Mum,” said Flora, going down and opening the door.
“Where’s your car?”
“I left it at Taryn’s.”
She could tell straightaway that Felicity was upset, given the outfit she was wearing: blue jeans, pink trainers, and her waxed jacket over the top of it, accessorized with a ridiculously large white designer handbag. Normally her mother took more care with her outfit, if she was planning to leave the farm.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?”
“Sorry,” Flora said, and stood aside as her mother marched on up the stairs. “I was just on my way out, actually.”
Felicity ignored this and took a seat on one of the kitchen chairs, looking flustered.
“Are you all right, Mum?” Flora asked, laying a hand on Felicity’s shoulder. For a moment she had a passing thought that her mother had come to confront her about her sexuality, a scene she had often imagined and long dreaded.
Felicity slipped the waxed jacket off her shoulders and Flora took it to hang up in the cupboard in the hallway. “It’s your father,” she said. “I’m worried about him.”
“Worried?” Flora said, coming back into the room. “Why?”
“This business over Polly. He’s been—different—ever since. Oh, I don’t know. I can’t understand it. You know the police were round? Searched the whole place. They had a warrant. Heaven alone knows what they were looking for.”
“Some sort of evidence, I expect,” Flora said.
“Oh, Flora, don’t be flippant! Daddy was beside himself.”
Flora doubted that. He would have descended into that level of Zenlike calm that was somehow even more terrifying than anger. “Did they find anything?”
“I don’t think so. Daddy thinks they were on a fishing trip, whatever that means.”
Flora was never quite sure if it was possible for Felicity to be that naïve, or whether an act she had carried on for so many years had become her natural state.
“He was always very close to Polly, even when she was a little girl,” Felicity said, in a small voice. “I did wonder . . .”
“What?”
She shook her head. “No. No, you’ll think I’m foolish.”
“Go on, Mum. What did you wonder?”
Tears formed in the brown eyes and rolled down the cheeks. “I did wonder whether Polly—whether maybe Nigel had had an affair with Cass, years ago.”
“With Polly’s mum?” For a moment Flora didn’t understand, then a wave of cold fear gripped her from the inside and held her tightly.
Silence. Felicity fished a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and wiped under her eyes.
“You—you think Polly might have been Dad’s . . .” Flora’s voice trailed off. She couldn’t manage to say it.
“Oh, it’s too silly. He’d never be unfaithful. But I couldn’t see why he would be so different all of a sudden, and then I just got thinking—you know how it is. I had thought it before, to be honest. We used to see Cass and Polly quite often—you were very tiny—and Polly used to pull your hair when she thought nobody was looking. Daddy always seemed so pleased to see them. I thought that was so peculiar, he was never normally pleased to see anyone, you know how he is.”
“Mum,” Flora said, her voice barely under control.
“Of course, I always wondered where she got her coloring from. Cass had such dark hair, and there was Polly, blond, with those lovely blue eyes—”
“Mum!”
“Cass always seemed to have some man or other in tow, never the same one from one week to the next. I suppose that’s where Polly got it from—you heard that she was having an affair with Brian Fletcher-Norman, didn’t you? Julia told me. Whatever next? I ask myself. He’s twice her age. Maybe that’s what brought his heart attack on. You never know . . .”
“Mum!”
“Hmm?” Felicity paused.
“I’m sure that’s not right,” Flora said, with more conviction than she felt. “I’m sure Dad wouldn’t . . . I mean, he would have told you, surely?”
Felicity had grown older in the last week, the lines on her face standing out more, her hair grayer at the roots, as though the horror of finding Polly’s body had drained the color and the life out of her. “I don’t know, Flora. I’ve been thinking it over for days.”
“And Cass never said anything about Polly’s father?”
“Never. Well, she led me to believe she’d been to a sperm bank. She said the time was right for her to have a baby, and all of a sudden she turned up one weekend and announced she was pregnant.”
“Was Dad there, then?”
Felicity frowned. “No, he was away on one of his business trips and Cass and I had a girlie weekend, got quite drunk. Well, I did. Cass did manage to cut down a little.”
“Dad would know, though. Wouldn’t he? If—if he was? Surely
Polly’s mum would have told him?”
“Oh, I don’t know, darling. She could be funny, Cass. One minute she was your best friend and then she’d take off and you’d not hear from her for months. I never knew what she was up to. And she loved having secrets.”
Flora took a deep breath, laid her hand over Felicity’s and gave it a squeeze. “Mum, I’m sure you’re imagining it. Dad would never be able to keep something like that private. Have you asked him?”
“Of course not, don’t be so utterly ridiculous! How do you recommend I bring that topic up? ‘By the way, darling, is there a chance that the corpse in the cottage might be your love child?’ But if it’s not that, then what is it?” Felicity wailed plaintively.
“What is what? What do you mean?”
“If it’s not something to do with Polly, then why is he acting so strangely?” Felicity looked at her daughter and stuck out her chin, demanding some sort of answer.
For a moment Flora was lost in thought, pondering why it was that, at so many points in her life, her mother would come up with a passing comment which devastated her so utterly—whether it was a mere mention of her school grades, or how she was expected to remain at the farm and work instead of wasting time on art, or how one or other of her cronies had remarked that Flora would never get on in life if she insisted on dressing like a hobo and never combing her hair.
Flora shrugged. “Maybe he’s just worried about the business, or worried that the police will ask him too many questions about Polly’s death.”
Felicity’s gaze became suddenly more penetrating. “Suspect him of the killing, you mean?”
“Maybe. You know how much the police love Dad.”
Felicity shook her head impatiently. “Why haven’t they been round to interview him, then? He’s just as likely to be guilty as any of the rest of us. I mean, he had plenty of opportunity.”
“I thought he went out. Somewhere in town with his friends?”