Under a Silent Moon

  “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.

  Sorry, delayed at work. On way now. x

  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.

  “Hello,” she said to them.

  “Wotcher,” said the boy, eyeing her suspiciously. “All right?”

  “Is Connor in?” Worth the risk, she thought. Even though she was now convinced she was right, because the family resemblance was a remarkable one.

  “Dunno.”

  They carried on past her. It was the confirmation she needed. She knocked on the frosted-glass panel of the front door, which rattled in its frame, no doubt loosened by the repeated slamming. The dog barking continued, and then she saw a figure approach. The door was opened by a woman wearing a vest top and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

  “Is Connor in?” Flora said again.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Flora Maitland,” she said. “It’s urgent.”

  The door shut in her face. She heard the woman shout: “Connor! Someone at the door for you.”

  Flora waited, glancing at the road behind her, expecting at any moment to see her father’s car pulling up.

  The door opened abruptly and there he was, in all his ferrety glory. “What you want?” He clearly hadn’t forgiven her for pushing him into the manure pile.

  “Dad sent me,” she said, dropping her voice to an urgent whisper. “He’s been arrested. He told me to come and get the stuff he gave you to look after.”

  It was the moment of greatest risk. She half-expected him to ask her what the fuck she was talking about; after all, would her father really have trusted this halfwit with the contents of the safe? But there had been such little time to dispose of it all, and there had been the moment in the space above the office when Nigel had told Connor to go home, reminded him that he had been given something to do.

  It was nothing more than an educated guess. And her suspicions were confirmed when the expression on Connor’s face changed from a scowl to a gawp. He was buying it. “You’re joking,” he said. “Fuck!”

  “Yeah,” Flora said. “He wants me to move it again, he thinks they might get a warrant to search your”—she broke off, trying to find the suitable word, settled on—“house.”

  “Wait,” Connor said. “I should ring him, to check—”

  “You can’t do that,” she said quickly. “The police have got his phone.”

  “Right, right. Course. Fuck! Wait. How do I know he sent you?”

  “For crying out loud. He told me your address, right? How would I find you otherwise?”

  He seemed reassured by this, then he frowned again. “Fuck. Nigel’s been nicked, I can’t believe it! What are we gonna do?”

  “Look, they could be here in a minute. We need to get the stuff into my car.”

  “Where are you going to take it?”

  “Safer for you if I don’t say.”

  He hesitated. Flora could almost see the cogs whirring inside his skull as he tried to work out what else he should be doing. Then he seemed to reach a decision. “Wait here, yeah?”

  The door slammed shut.

  Flora breathed out. So far, so good. But she was in deep shit now. Nigel might phone Connor at any moment.

  A few moments later, the door opened again, and Connor pushed a cardboard box toward her with his trainer. “You take that one. I’ve got the other one.”

  She picked up the box. It was heavy, the top flaps interleaved shut. Without hesitation she made her way back down the driveway. Back at the car, she put the box down on the pavement and unlocked the boot. Connor was behind her, looking up and down the road anxiously as though the police might appear at any moment. In Kensington Avenue they probably often did.

  “Glad to be rid of it, to be honest,” he said, sniffing. “Not the sort of stuff I like having under me bed. You know what’s in there, right?”

  “I don’t want to know,” Flora said, “so don’t tell me. I’m just bloody doing as I’m told.”

  “Yeah. When’s he gonna be out, do you know?”

  “No idea. He said he’d contact you as soon as he can. He seems to think it’s going to be okay as long as I can take care of this stuff.”

  He nodded excitedly. “Yeah, yeah. They ain’t got nothing on him, other than what’s in there. You bloody take care of it, right?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, taking the second box from him. This one was much lighter. She slammed the boot lid down and went to get in the driver’s door.

  “Wait a sec,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Did he say anything about the phone?”

  Shit. What does he mean? “The phone?” She had one hand on the open door, looked back over her shoulder at the road as a pair of headlights suddenly illuminated them both. She pulled the door in closer as the car passed.

  “Does he want me to drop it, or what?”

  For a moment Flora’s mind was a terrifying blank. Then: “He didn’t say anything, but then he only had a second, and I guess this was his priority. Did you have an agreement, then? To do something with the phone if he was arrested?”

  “Yeah,” Connor said. “He told me that if he got nicked I was to drop the phone and get another one.”

  Flora felt relief wash through her. “Yes, that’s probably a good idea. Drop your phone. He’ll come and find you when he’s out. Just keep your head down for a bit.”

  “You won’t want me over at the stables, then?”

  “No. Don’t worry about the stables. I’ll sort that out.”

  “Fucking excellent!”

  She got in the car and started it, tried to pull away smoothly, but the tension caused by her own mad behavior was making her jumpy. When she got to the end of Kensington Avenue and turned left, back toward the main road, she started to laugh. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel as though it were about to fly off. What have I done? What the hell am I doing?

  19:25

  “Your phone’s been ringing,” Chris said when Taryn came back down the stairs, bathrobe on over her pajamas, hair in a towel.

  “Well, you could’ve answered it,” she replied, rooting through her bag for the phone. She had had several glasses of wine in the bath, trying to relax, worrying about Flora. Her first thought was that something had happened, that Flora had been arrested again, but the missed calls—three of them—were all from an unknown mobile number.

  There were no voice-mail messages. Irritated, she redialed. It was answered straightaway—and the voice on the other end, imperious, impatient, was a familiar one.

  “Taryn,” said her father. “They’re going to discharge me tomorrow. Can you come first thing? I don’t want to have to wait for those awful patient-transport volunteer people.”

  Her father must have borrowed a mobile phone from someone. She considered it for a moment, thinking about where Brian was planning to go. Would the police just let him back into the Barn? She didn’t even have his key. Surely he wasn’t imagining that he could come and stay with them? And she had to be at work by half past eight.

  “Does it have to be first thing?” she asked. “I might be able to take an extended lunch break.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Chris, on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, was watching her face, mouthing Don’t let him give you any shit. Brian didn’t do compromise. It felt likely that he was working himself up into a rage and she contemplated what Reg might say if she phoned in to ask for the morning off, just as the answer came. “That would be really kind of you, Taryn. Thank you.”

  Well, that was unexpected. She raised her eyebrows for Chris’s benefit. “Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll give you a call in the morning, shall I?”

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  She couldn’t resist the little dig. “Isn’t your lovely lady friend available to come and pick you up?”

  Another pause. “She has . . . other pr
iorities,” he said.

  “Is she married?” Taryn asked.

  “No, she’s not married. That’s not what I meant. It’s—it’s just not possible to ask her.”

  The wine she’d drunk was igniting her curiosity and giving voice to it: “Are you going to marry her, Dad? Now that Barbara’s out of the picture?”

  “No,” he said after a moment, and there was an audible sigh. “No, I rather think not.” His voice sounded so strange, so unlike his normal brusque tone that Taryn had to sit on the arm of the sofa.

  “Have you had a falling-out?”

  He chuckled slightly. “No, not that. I don’t think I should get married again, you know. Wives are more trouble than they’re worth. Don’t you think so?”

  “I’ll have to ask Chris about that,” she said, and winked at her husband who had glanced up on hearing his name mentioned.

  “I think . . . I rather think Barbara was very unkind to you, Taryn,” Brian said.

  Taryn didn’t reply, shocked to hear him say this.

  “And I think I was, too. I’m very sorry for it.”

  “Dad—?”

  “It takes something like this to make you realize, you know.”

  “Nearly dying, you mean?” she said and then instantly thought how tactless that sounded.

  “Oh, I’ve nearly died before,” he said, his tone light. “It’s not as bad as you’d imagine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A dicky ticker,” he said. “And a woman that likes to kill people. Makes you put everything into perspective.”

  The wine she’d drunk was making the turn the conversation was taking seem more than surreal. She was about to ask him what he meant, but before she had the chance, he brought things to an abrupt end.

  “Anyway, if you can get here tomorrow I’d really appreciate it. Very kind of you. You know my number now, in any case. See you tomorrow, I hope.”

  “All right, Dad. I’ll ring you first thing.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  Taryn sat for a moment, staring at the handset before reaching across to replace it.

  “What was that all about?” Chris asked.