WITNESS: (R Harrison)
OIC: (A Whitmore)
* * *
20:39
It was heading toward nine, and Lou was reaching the point where nothing more could be usefully done until the morning. She would grab a takeaway on the way home—her stomach was growling and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything since the Kit Kat she’d had in the morning.
“I thought you said the witness saw the car go over the cliff?” she asked Ron when the statement came back.
“Sorry, ma’am, it was third-hand info by the time I got it. We know it definitely happened overnight, though. The countryside warden says it wasn’t there at six the night before. PM on the body should tell us more.”
“Do we have any idea when that’s going to be?”
“I’ve asked for it to be prioritized and linked it to Op Nettle. Might have it by the morning if we’re lucky. They recovered the body and the car.”
Back in her office, she braced herself to phone Andy Hamilton’s mobile. Went through the motions of looking it up on the Force Directory, even though she knew it off by heart.
“Andy, it’s me,” she said when he answered.
“Yeah,” he said.
Of course. He knew her number as well as she knew his. God, this was so awkward; she was glad she’d managed to push him aside to the other body. With a bit of luck, the two cases would be completely unrelated and she could get another DI in.
Could she ever be that lucky? Of course not.
“Area are desperate to get rid of this one, Boss. They’ve been on to Mr. Buchanan, claiming it’s definitely linked to Hermitage Farm. I think we’re going to have to take it.”
Shit! Shit! She’d completely forgotten to phone the superintendent back. She would have to do it the minute she got off the phone.
“Have they got any actual evidence linking it?”
“Witness statements to say that Brian Fletcher-Norman was having an affair with Polly Leuchars. Witness statements going on about how unstable Barbara—that’s our body in the quarry—was, how she was jealous, an alcoholic.”
“Evidence, Andy? Rather than village gossip?”
“Nothing yet. I reckon Barbara went over to confront Polly about her affair with Brian, got riled up enough to kill her, then went back to the Barn. Washed her hands, was overcome with remorse, drove drunk to the quarry, and went over. Accidentally on purpose.”
“Thanks for that, Sherlock.”
“You’re welcome.”
“If you know anything more by tomorrow morning, come to the briefing?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Every little thing felt like flirting where Hamilton was concerned. Did he do it to everyone, or just to Lou? And how did you stamp your authority on the working relationship when there was this sort of history between you? Two months ago she’d been a DI, and his ranking equal. When it had happened, she’d been his sergeant. Her swift rise to DCI was all to do with her grim determination to get her head down and concentrate on work rather than let herself be distracted by men, or one man in particular—Andy Hamilton.
Sooner or later she was going to have to have a chat with him. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but it had to be better than this.
She dialed the number for Mr. Buchanan’s secretary. No answer, of course, not at this time of night. She tried the mobile, and got the answering service.
“Sir, Lou Smith. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. I’m guessing you were calling about the second case in Morden. I’ve sent Andy Hamilton over to establish links, if there are any. Hope this is okay. If you need me, the mobile’s on, otherwise I’ll brief you tomorrow first thing. Thanks. Bye.”
With luck, Buchanan wouldn’t phone back tonight.
The next person on the list was Jane Phelps, who had finally made it back to the office. Lou had worked with Jane before, had confidence in her.
“How’s the house-to-house?”
Jane waved a small pile of papers. “All done for now. Area had covered most of it before we got there. Lots of people seem to be away on holiday—it’s that sort of place, weekenders and well-off families. And I tell you what, some of these women who sit at home all day planning lunch parties—it feels like all they want to do is gossip about their neighbors. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve come up with.”
“I think I know what you’re going to say, but carry on, I like a good goss.”
“Well . . .” Jane rifled through the pages, handwritten at this stage. “Mrs. Newbury at Willow Cottage, she seems to think Polly was having an affair with Nigel Maitland. Apparently he’s the reason she came here to work.”
Lou raised her eyebrows.
“Marjorie Baker from Esperance Villa—honestly, I’m not making it up—seems to think it was Brian Fletcher-Norman that Polly was seeing. Saw Brian coming out of Yonder Cottage once late at night when she went round there to deliver a Christian Aid leaflet or something.”
Just as Hamilton had said: Polly Leuchars and the man from the Barn across the road. But Nigel Maitland as well?
“Have we got anything we can actually use?”
“The next house along, toward the pub, is Rowe House. Occupant’s a Mr. Wright, a weekender from London. He’s staying for the week with his two children because of it being half term. Says he was woken up at two fifteen by the noise of a car driving along the lane at speed. Didn’t look out of his window, went back to sleep.”
“Okay. Let’s get a proper statement from him. Remind me, where does that lane end up if you follow it in that direction?”
“Takes you to the crossroads, then straight over would be toward Briarstone. The other way would be out toward Baysbury.”
“Any ANPR cameras on that road?”
“Afraid not.”
“Too much to hope for, I guess.”
“It’s really quiet, that area. I’ve been looking at the crime data—hardly anything goes on down there. Most of the traffic seems to be related to the farm.”
“I need to get a nice map,” Lou said absently, wondering whether the analyst had gone home already.
21:04
Drifting in and out of consciousness was at times a delicious and a devastating thing, Brian thought. You saw faces, not knowing if they were real or imagined, a thought came and then it was gone, voices came and went . . .
“Have we located any next of kin?”
“Police found a daughter, we are waiting for more from them.”
Music . . . light and dark . . . pain . . .
Taryn. Where was Taryn? Suzanne . . . Polly . . . ?
And darkness.
21:05
Andy Hamilton pulled out of the hospital car park and headed through the rain toward home, wondering if there was any chance Karen would have cooked something for him, or if he should stop and get a kebab. He could have phoned her, of course, but that would risk waking Leah, who might, with a bit of luck, have gone off to sleep. He’d sent a text an hour ago, letting Karen know that he was going to be a bit late. No reply had been forthcoming.
In the end his car seemed to pull in of its own accord to the parade of shops where the Attila Kebab House and Pizzeria’s bright lights beckoned, and a few minutes later he was back in the car, a steaming polystyrene carton warming his thighs. He picked at bits of grilled chicken, wiping them in the chili sauce that dribbled out of the edges of the pita, thinking about Detective Chief Inspector Louisa Smith.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her since it happened, but it was the first time they’d worked together. Was it awkward? Not for him. She was looking even better these days, or was it this new brisk air of authority about her that made her even more of an exciting challenge?
I’d go there again, he thought.
Outside the off-license a little crowd of the usual halfwits had gathered, and he kept a contemplative eye on them while he crammed the pita in. They were here all the time. Patrols got bored with coming out here night after n
ight, sending them on their way, getting all the verbal abuse that went with it, only to be called out again by the shopkeeper an hour later because they were back, throwing stones and beer cans around and shouting obscenities. It was putting off her regular customers, Mrs. Kumar complained. It was bad for business.
Neighborhood was supposed to be putting together a dispersal zone. In the meantime, the local arseholes sat on Mrs. Kumar’s storage unit, spat great gobs of phlegm at the pavement, and shouted incomprehensible twaddle at each other and at passersby.
If they did something really bad, he’d have to get out of the car, kebab or no kebab.
He watched one of them, a skinny lad with a shaved head, wearing a vest—a vest, for crying out loud, it was November—push one of the girls on the shoulder, hard enough to knock her off her perch on the metal barrier. She kept to her feet but immediately turned to square up to him, her fist brought back behind her ear.
“Oh, no,” Andy groaned, “don’t be a muppet.”
The skinhead in the vest, one of the Petrie family, judging by the extensive monobrow and weaselly chin, was laughing at the girl, pointing. Her mate, squeezed into too-tight white jeans with some appropriate word sequinned across the arse, shouted back at him, wobbled her head and waved her hands, ghetto style, and for some reason, that seemed to be more of a legitimate challenge because the halfwit backed off then, hands up in mock surrender.
Two minutes later the skinhead was snogging the face off the girl who’d nearly punched him and Andy had finished his kebab.
21:53
There was no one in the Intel Unit. The late-shift officers were all out on a job, and Lou went back to her desk and sent an email to the Source Handling Unit to try and hurry up the latest on Nigel Maitland, copying her email to Ali Whitmore.
It would be a bonus, Lou thought, if she could be the one to nail Maitland, the smarmy bastard. She had met him once, and charming and handsome as he was—hair graying at the temples, light-blue eyes with plenty going on behind them, a warm smile—she’d been wary of him. And it might have been a whopping great coincidence that this young woman, who may or may not have been having sex with her employer and “family friend” who was not quite twice her age, ended up with her skull smashed to pieces on Nigel Maitland’s property: or it might just be the mistake that would finally see him brought down.
The MIR was still active, but there weren’t many people left. Behind some screens and a long table supporting fax machine, scanner, color printer, and black-and-white printer, Jason Mercer was still hard at work. There was something about him that was making her feel . . . odd. Yet he wasn’t especially good-looking, although he was tall and probably had a good body underneath his meticulously ironed shirt. He held himself with an easy confidence, as though he were here for fun, yet at the same time he was clearly very focused on what he was doing. And he had agreed to work on her team even when he obviously hadn’t wanted to.
“Hello,” said Lou, smiling as he started. “Sorry—didn’t mean to make you jump.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. “I hadn’t noticed it getting dark.” He checked his watch. “My God!”
“What time did you get to work this morning?” Lou found herself perched on the edge of the desk opposite, tugging at her skirt.
“Half past seven. Oh, well.” He gave her a smile. “I daresay your day has been at least as long and twice as stressful. Are you going home?”
Lou nodded. “The mortuary first, to see if there’s any update or if they need anything from us. After that, home. I need sleep, otherwise I won’t be able to function at all tomorrow. How are you getting on?”
“Fine so far,” Jason said. “Do you want me to brief you now, or can you wait for the morning?”
“Tomorrow will be fine. I will have to find some way to contain my excitement until then. By the way, what happened to your eye?”
It must have been a corker when it was still swollen but now it was a purplish smudge under his right eye with a tiny cut on the bridge of his nose. She’d been dying to ask ever since she’d first laid eyes on him at the briefing.
“I play hockey,” he said. And then added, as he must have had to do every single time someone asked, which was probably several times a day: “Ice hockey.”
“Ah,” Lou replied, as if that explained everything.
“Did you find out about the phones?” he asked.
Shit. “Sorry. I saw Jane briefly but we were talking about the house-to-house. Have you checked the coms folder on the computer?”
“Still empty.”
“I’ll give her a call, hold on.” Lou headed back to her office to grab the mobile but he called her back.
“Don’t worry, it can wait till morning. I don’t especially want to start on it at this time of night, anyway.”
He stood up and stretched, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair.
22:12
The reception desk at Briarstone General Hospital was empty, the flower kiosk shut, the only activity was around the vending machines but Lou knew where she was going. The public mortuary.
She rang the bell on the door that was tucked away, its only identification the simple word MORTUARY. After an age, an assistant appeared. She recognized Lou but still checked her warrant card before letting her in.
“Dr. Francis has just finished. You’re lucky to catch her.”
Adele Francis was in the staff room, changing out of her scrubs and wellies into a smart skirt and high heels.
“Hi, Adele,” Lou said. “Sorry, I don’t want to keep you. I know it’s been a long day. I wanted to check if you’ve got everything you need.”
Adele did look tired, but she managed a smile. “Yes, thanks. You can walk me to the car park if you like and we can talk on the way. I’ve got a date with a bottle of wine and I’m late already.”
They went out a door marked FIRE EXIT ONLY which was a shortcut out to the fresh air.
“Not bad going, two bodies already. How’s your first MIR?”
“Okay so far, I think. And the second body isn’t officially mine yet.”
“Well, I’m not convinced the two are linked by anything more than location. You’re going to have to wait for the blood results to confirm it.”
“Anything you can tell me that might help? I’ve got the press conference tomorrow morning.”
“Polly Leuchars died of head injuries, multiple trauma with a blunt instrument, plenty of force needed, very aggressive. Someone had had a go at strangling her first. Bruises around the neck, possibly enough to render her unconscious. She was still alive when the head injuries occurred.”
“Time of death?”
“I’d say between midnight and two, no later. There was some evidence of older injuries which may be worth considering in your investigation.”
Lou stopped. “Older injuries?”
“Healing bruises, mainly. Some around the wrists, barely visible unless you’ve got the best sort of light.”
“So she’d been restrained?”
“Possibly. Not recently, but within the last week or two. She was a horsewoman, wasn’t she?”
“She worked as a groom, yes.”
Adele considered this. “I saw similar bruises around the wrists and lower arms of a child once. She’d been thrown at a gymkhana. Had wound the reins around her wrists. So don’t go jumping to any premature conclusions, Chief Inspector.”
“I’ll try not to,” Lou said, then added: “What about Mrs. Fletcher-Norman?”
“Yes, that one was interesting. I only got her late this afternoon. Do you happen to know if she was wearing her seat belt when she was found?”
“I’ll ask. We’re waiting on the CSI photographs.”
“I did phone earlier; someone was going to call me back. Never mind. I’ll do the PM tomorrow and let you have the report as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
They had stopped beside a silver BMW, parked in a
designated bay in the staff zone, the one reserved for consultants and senior management.
“Enjoy your wine—I think I might pick some up myself.”
Lou paused at the main entrance, then on a whim walked all the way back to the Intensive Care Unit. She showed her warrant card, said she was here to check on Mr. Fletcher-Norman’s progress. She waited for twenty minutes while they found someone who was prepared to commit to an update, even a vague one.
Still unconscious. Nothing further.
That’s it, she thought. I’m going home.
23:14
After work, Taryn had phoned the hospital to check if her father was still alive. They’d suggested she should come in, that he was still in a critical state but might respond to her voice. Fat chance of that, she thought, but after speaking to her husband, Chris, she had gone in anyway.
She was surprised at how old he looked without his glasses on, his eyes closed, and tubes and monitors everywhere. He was wearing one of those hospital gowns and his skin was pink, the hair on his head was white and tufty, not neatly groomed. He looked frail and vulnerable, not like him at all. From this position she could see there were marks like yellowing bruises on the top of his right arm. Maybe he got them when they were trying to keep his heart going—wasn’t it supposed to be really brutal? Or maybe Barbara had been beating him up; Taryn wouldn’t have put it past her.
The last time she’d seen him had been at the Barn. He had been complaining about the bike she’d bought him last Christmas. It wasn’t right for his needs, apparently, even though it had been the one he had chosen from some enthusiasts’ magazine, and she had gone round to look at it.
Barbara had opened the door to her.
“Oh. It’s you. Well, you’d better come in.”
Her father was in his armchair, reading the Telegraph, paisley-patterned feet up on the footstool.
“Good heavens,” he’d said, peering at her. “What the hell is that thing you’re wearing?”
“It’s a poncho, Dad. I’ve come about the bike.”
“It makes your legs look enormous,” he said. “You’d be better off with a long coat.”