As a result of this rumor, O’TOOLE was subject to a disciplinary meeting on 29 October, with the manager at the club, Mr. Andrew HART. Despite his claims that nothing was going on other than harassment toward him, O’TOOLE felt he was not believed and therefore decided to resign and leave the club immediately.
On 31 October a lesson had been scheduled with Mrs. Fletcher-Norman, after which O’TOOLE told her he had handed in his resignation and he was planning to leave the area. O’TOOLE stated she became very upset and even offered him money not to go, which he states he declined.
O’TOOLE claims he left the club at approximately 1500hrs on 31 October and traveled directly to his sister’s house in Dublin, Republic of Ireland, arriving there in the late evening. On Monday 5 November O’TOOLE accessed his personal emails for the first time since arriving in Ireland, and he received an email from Gary STEVENS, a former colleague who works as a fitness instructor at the Morden Golf and Country Club. STEVENS informed O’TOOLE that the police had been looking for him in relation to the death of Mrs. Fletcher-Norman, hence the reason for his call.
A Whitmore
* * *
16:07
There was no sign of Hamilton. Lou knew he’d wanted to go home early today, but a job like this one was unpredictable, they all knew that. When something major broke, one needed to be there. She’d called his mobile, sent texts, even, as a last resort, phoned his home number just in case something had happened to his phone. There was no reply there, either. At that point, Lou was really pissed off.
“Does anyone know where the DI was going?” she shouted across the briefing room. They were late starting, and the atmosphere which had already been buzzing was rising to excited anticipation at the prospect of an arrest.
“Ma’am, I think he went home to get changed,” Ali said. “John Langton said he was soaked.”
“Well, I think we’re going to have to start without him. Someone can update him later.”
She was only half listening as Jason began to run through the phone work he’d done, the cellsite analysis showing that it was likely that Brian Fletcher-Norman had provided a completely fabricated list of events for the night of Polly’s death.
They would have to prove that he’d been using the phone that night. But, realistically, who else would have been using it? He’d not reported it lost or stolen. He’d told Taryn Lewis where to find the phone in his home office, and she had handed it over to the search team who had turned up at the Barn. Was that going to be enough? Of course not. But Brian didn’t need to know that, not yet anyway.
At least there had been some good news. Ali Whitmore had called in: he had been back to the Lemon Tree, and while waiting for his pint of cola had noticed that the clock on the wall was an hour out. When Ivan brought him his change, he’d asked him about it. They hadn’t got around to putting the clock back, he’d said. It was a good two weeks since the end of British Summer Time—but, more to the point, when Ali asked him to confirm whether he could now be sure of the time Polly had left the pub on the night of the thirty-first, he became confused. Something about knowing what time to call last orders, and it had been “not too long” before that. But the crucial thing was that he wasn’t sure. Which meant that the woman arguing with the man in the car could have been Polly after all.
“So, priorities,” Barry Holloway was saying. “We’re still waiting for a subscriber check for the number identified by Jason as attributed to Suzanne. With a bit of luck, it won’t be too long. The computer problems at the service provider are fixed and they’re now working their way through a backlog, apparently. In the meantime, we’re looking at the Voters register for Briarstone, concentrating on the areas around the cellsite locations. We need to go back and ask all of Brian’s associates who she might be, starting with his place of work. We need to find her,” Barry said. “And as soon as Brian’s discharged, we’re going to nick him and take him to Briarstone custody suite, assuming they’ve got space. We need to make sure he doesn’t get a chance to speak to his lady friend first.”
16:25
“I thought you’d be at work” was the first, inane, thing he’d thought to say.
“I’m catching up on paperwork,” she said. “And I am actually busy, so unless there’s a good reason for you being here, I’d rather you called another time.”
She was speaking to him as though Saturday night had never happened. As though he were here to try and sell her double glazing, or persuade her to change her gas supplier.
“I need to ask you some questions,” he said.
“In an official capacity?” She had an amused smile on her face, unconcerned about his unexpected arrival. She took him into the living room and motioned for him to sit, then sat on the other end of the white leather sofa, tucking her feet underneath her.
“Not at this stage. Although I probably should . . . Shit, I don’t know.”
“Not a good sign, is it?”
He looked at her longingly, her presence affecting him. And it was pathetic, rotten that he felt so lost, so scared, in her company, as though she could hurt him, as though she could control him somehow, despite the fact that he was six foot three and seventeen stone of muscle and flab and he could probably have lifted her with one arm.
“You want to ask me about Brian, don’t you?”
She looked so relaxed it was disarming.
“Yes. I want to ask you about Brian.”
“How did you know about us?”
Well, you just told me, he wanted to say. But of course he couldn’t. “Brian told us. In a roundabout kind of way.”
She scoffed at this. “I doubt that very much, Inspector Hamilton. Brian knows better than that. It was probably that daughter of his, wasn’t it?”
Andy didn’t answer. If she told him something important it would be completely inadmissible. He should never have come back. The moment he realized she might be involved, he should have gone straight to Lou and told her everything and bloody hoped for the best. The longer he stayed, the more he put everything at risk. Not only his marriage or his role on this inquiry—he was risking the investigation, he was risking his whole career, he was risking the reputation of the force.
“Are you all right, Inspector?” she asked, her tone kind. “You’ve gone pale.”
“I should go,” he said.
“Are you worried about all this? You needn’t be. Everything we say to each other, everything we do here, it’s between us. You know that, don’t you? We trust each other.”
“We’ve only just met,” he said weakly.
“Even so, you don’t need to have any concern over my discretion. I expect the same thing from you. Whatever happens with your inquiry, our time here is between us alone.”
He rested his head in both his hands, elbows supported on his knees, needing to get this right, needing to decide. He never bloody trusted anyone; it wasn’t worth it. Rely on hard work and evidence.
“And, besides,” she added, leaning forward and resting her hand lightly on his thigh, “I can help you.”
“Help me? What do you mean?”
“I can steer you in the right direction. In terms of gathering evidence.”
“Please don’t say anything that means I’ve got to arrest you. If you’re involved somehow, I don’t want to know. Right?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not involved. But I can put you straight on a few things. I can be your—what do you call it?—grass. Your informant.”
He raised his head then, feeling the beginnings of a sense of relief. She had given him a way out of the mess, an excuse. If anyone asked, she’d had information for him relating to the inquiry. And he had to protect his source at all costs, meaning he didn’t have to tell anyone. There were procedures in place for dealing with things like this, of course. There was a whole unit dedicated to managing sources and protecting them. But this, a one-off information exchange in relation to a specific inquiry—he could manage it himself.
“I c
an’t pay you,” he said.
Suzanne laughed, threw back her head, exposing her throat. “I don’t want payment! Is that what you thought?”
That was what sources were usually after, is what he’d wanted to say. “What do you want?”
Her answer, when it came, was simple. He hadn’t understood what she meant but hadn’t asked her to clarify. She clearly had her own agenda, and he would go along with it because now he had no choice. There was no other option for him but to agree.
“Compliance,” she said.
16:52
It was dark outside. Felicity had sent a text to Nigel to tell him that she was going to the cinema with Elsa and Marjorie, and he could find himself some dinner.
He’d smiled at this as though it was funny. “Looks like we got let off the ordeal of your mother’s cooking, Flora-Dora.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
He was still smiling, which infuriated her even more. “So,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
For a moment she couldn’t think of a suitable excuse for being in his private office.
“And, perhaps more importantly, what happened at the police station?”
“How did you know about that?”
He chose to reply to her question with another: “So what happened?”
“Nothing. They asked me lots of questions, I answered them, they let me go.”
“What were they asking about?”
Flora looked away. “Polly, of course. I think they were looking for her phone. They kept asking me where it was.”
“Did they arrest you?”
“No.”
Nigel let out an audible breath. “Well, that’s something.”
Flora asked, “Who was that man with you?”
“Nobody you need to worry about, Flora. Unless you’re suddenly going to start taking an interest in my business affairs, that is.”
Then she thought of something else: “What happened on Wednesday night?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That man that was here. He was talking about something that happened on Wednesday night. Was he talking about Polly?”
There was a momentary hesitation, as though he was carefully formulating his response. “This has nothing to do with Polly, I can assure you.”
She didn’t believe him. “Why did you tell me you were out until midnight when you actually came back at eight? Mum said you came home and went down to the cottage to see Polly. She said Polly made you cheese on toast.”
He laughed then, a proper belly laugh. “She said that? How bloody typical of her.”
“Are you saying she got it wrong?”
“Not at all. I had cheese on toast at the cottage. Then I came home. Your mother went to bed. I went out. I came back at midnight, as I said to you. Now, Flora, what’s all this about?”
She didn’t answer, her mind working over everything he’d said. Infuriatingly, he was right: the two differing stories she and her mother had been told did not actually contradict each other.
“You think I had something to do with Polly’s death?”
“Did you?”
His face reddened, and the smile that had been playing on his lips disappeared in a moment. “Of course I didn’t. How dare you even ask me that!”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said quietly. She wanted to remain angry with him but her fury lost some of its energy in the face of his anger.
“You don’t think, Flora, that’s the problem. You get these ideas in your head and you don’t think them through properly. Did you say anything about me to the police?” He stood up, suddenly, and towered over her and she pulled back in her seat, alarmed.
“Of course not!”
“You only need to give them an idea, a hint, and they will fucking have me over. You know that, they know that. They will pin you down and fucking question you until you give them what they’re looking for.”
“I won’t tell them anything!”
“You’d better fucking not!” He took a step back, ran his hand across his forehead and through his hair, and Flora took that opportunity to get out of his way.
She stood up, pushed past him, and ran out of the office. Behind her, she heard him shouting: “Get back here!”
Out in the fresh air, her heart racing, she ran back to her car, fumbled with the key, turned it in the ignition, and sped away, the tires kicking up a spray of gravel and skidding alarmingly until they found their grip. She braked, briefly, at the bottom of the driveway, praying he wasn’t running after her and risking a quick glance in her rearview mirror to check. It was getting dark, but even so she could see the side of the barn and no sign of him. A car was coming up Cemetery Lane from her right and she waited for it to pass.
“Come on, come on!”
It dawdled past and in the moment that the road became clear there was a bang on the car’s roof and, as she screamed in fright, the dark shape at the driver’s-side window moved and the car door opened, letting in a sudden gust of cold air. She had time to hear him shout “Flora!” through the door before hitting the accelerator hard and lurching forward into the road. The car door swung outward as she turned, then slammed shut again as the car straightened.
She was whimpering, looking back in the rearview mirror, into the darkness. He would get the Land Rover. He would follow her.
Moments later she had to brake as she caught up with the dawdling car that she’d had to wait for. There was no room to overtake. Her heart still thudding, she realized that there was no car behind her. He would be there by now, if he was going to follow her.
Then her phone buzzed in her pocket with a text message. She pulled it out and glanced at the display. It was from him:
We will discuss this tomorrow. Think about what I said.
Okay, then. He was leaving her to think about things; this was good. She had some time. But not to think. She had thought enough, no matter what his opinion was. It was time for action. And she knew exactly what it was she needed to do.
17:42
She got up as soon as she was finished, leaving Hamilton lying there, splayed across the bed like a starfish, arms and legs numb and his head full of her, her scent, her taste, the sound of her voice.
He was exhausted, and at the same time more alive than he’d ever felt in his life before. The decision made, the moment for action passed, there was nothing else to do but allow his flesh to melt, to give in to it, to forget about the fear and simply accept that what was done was done, it was too late to go back. Too late to undo what had taken place. There was no point even thinking about it anymore.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” he said to the empty room.
He heard the noise of the shower in the bathroom, for a brief moment thought about getting up and joining her in there, but he doubted he had the strength to lift his head, let alone attempt a Round Two.
He lay still, dozing, until he heard the sound of his mobile phone bleeping from his trouser pocket. Where had he taken them off? He couldn’t remember.
A few minutes later she was back, wearing a robe, silky. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped it off her shoulders, lifting her hands to tease her hair back into some sort of a style. Her back was tanned, smooth, muscles beneath the skin. She kept herself very fit, that much was clear. How old was she? He had no clue, only that she must surely be older than him. Forty-five? Fifty? Suddenly he was dying to know, but even he knew such a question was unspeakably rude. He stretched out a hand and touched her back, his fingertips trailing across from her right shoulder to her left hip.
She half-turned, treating him to an indulgent smile.
“You need to go,” she said.
“Not yet.”
“Your phone hasn’t stopped bleeping. They’re probably thinking you’ve had an accident, or been kidnapped, or something.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly six.”
He sat u
p, then, in a hurry. “You’re kidding me!”
“Not at all. As I said, you need to go.”
The thought of having to explain to Karen why he was late to take them to the fireworks was enough to get him upright. His clothes were scattered everywhere, his trousers in the bathroom, his jacket hanging over the chair, shirt and socks in the living room.
There was just one text from Lou:
Where r u? Call in. Urgent.
He sighed deeply, looking at it. Whatever she had done to him, this woman, it was complete. He knew he should have called Lou straight back, damn it, he knew he should have responded when he’d heard the phone bleeping. He took his job seriously. He loved being a police officer, for all the shitty hours and the lack of resources and the being sworn at and assaulted. He loved every second of it. Of making a difference. And in the space of two hours he’d gone from being a proud upholder of Her Majesty’s Peace to being deeply ashamed of himself.
And there was no turning back. Not this time.
18:02
“Gotcha,” said Barry Holloway. “Ma’am!”
Lou looked up.
“You want the good news or the bad news?” Barry asked, his eyes twinkling.
“Bad news?”
“The subscriber check on the number called by the landline—it’s a pay-as-you-go, no subscriber registered.”
“Well, that’s no great shock. What’s the good news?”
“It’s that ‘Manchester office’ number.”
And there it was in black and white—subscriber shown as Ms. Suzanne Martin, Flat 1, 14 Waterside Gardens. Jason was already opening the mapping software, looking for an aerial image of Waterside Gardens and plotting its location in comparison to the other scenes, overlaying the cellsite data from Brian’s phone billing.
“That’s weird,” he said.
“What is?”