Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (27 page)

He shrugged, looked at her defiantly. “That’s just my regular routine.”

“So you went up to bed and you assumed she’d shut the front door and come up to bed herself?”

He nodded, seeming to relax again. “I didn’t hear anything else. If she hadn’t gone to bed she was probably passed out on the sofa. I was thinking I’d see her again the next morning, and she’d be right as rain.”

“You sleep in separate rooms?”

“Yes. Have done for years.”

“So when you woke up, you didn’t notice anything unusual?”

He shook his head again. “I’d just got up when there was a knock at the door. I was already feeling a bit unwell. My chest hurt—I thought it was from where she’d pushed me. Then when the police officers came in—you,” he said, smiling at Yvonne, “and the other chap—it was suddenly excruciating.”

A pause. “Go on,” she said.

“That’s all I remember,” he said with finality, sitting back in the chair and, to all intents and purposes, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

Yvonne continued writing. Lou paused, to give Yvonne time to catch up and to give herself a moment to think. This version was a completely different story to the one he’d told immediately after the incident, before he’d had the heart attack. However poorly he was feeling, surely his memory wasn’t affected at that point. And in hospital, just a few days ago, acting like the whole thing was a blur. Surely you’d remember such a dramatic confrontation with your wife?

She looked up at last. “Thank you, Brian. I know this must have been very difficult for you. I appreciate your efforts.”

He gave her a wan smile, showing that he was prepared to battle through any adversity to make her happy. It just wasn’t right, though. Bits of it probably were. There were undoubtedly bits missing. And other bits that were complete fabrication.

For a start, the amnesia thing. Lou had had dealings with amnesia when she’d worked a stint in Traffic Division; amnesia was an occasional side effect of head trauma. Retrograde amnesia, usually caused by injury or disease, resulted in a chunk of memory being lost. Usually this would return after a period of time as the injury healed, but the process would be gradual, with bits of memory reemerging as fragments until they could be placed in context, eventually forming a complete picture once again. Sudden, wholesale return of memory like the one Brian seemed to have experienced was, as far as Lou was aware, rare. Of course, he’d not actually had a head injury, although there had been a period of unconsciousness, which could also be a factor.

“It’s great that your memory has come back,” Lou said, with a bright smile designed to deflect any suspicion. “It’s really helpful to us. Gives us a better picture of events.”

Brian did not seem to be at all suspicious. “Do you think she did it? Killed Polly?”

“It’s a bit too early to be coming to conclusions, Brian. But let’s just say I think what you’ve told me today has moved things forward a great deal.”

Lou gave the nod to Yvonne, who was flipping through the pages of her notebook. Lou made a display of gathering her jacket, distracting him. “Brian, does the name Lorna Newman mean anything to you?”

His face registered surprise, and Lou was about as certain as she could be that it was genuine. “Of course. She’s a friend of Barbara’s. A very old friend. They came to us in the summer—August, I think. Why do you ask?”

“She called the Incident Room. Saw the news about Barbara on the television, I believe. Just wanted to check with you that she is who she says she is.”

Brian nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, she’s a game old bird, Lorna. No nonsense. Always liked that in a woman.”

So. His memory hadn’t been jogged by any contact with Lorna. And he didn’t view her contact with the police as any sort of threat. Did that mean he’d been telling the truth about that night, after all? Lou was confused. It wasn’t that the whole story was wrong—more that there were some parts that were muddled, out of place.

Of course the usual way that stories like this were untangled was through repeated interviewing, going over the same questions, the same story again and again until things changed, or until things started to make sense. Or until new information came to light that changed the perspective on the investigation. It didn’t mean he was somehow implicated in Polly’s death. It didn’t necessarily mean that he was lying.

At some point, of course, she would have to confront him about the affair with Polly. For the moment, though, she believed that he would just deny it further and accuse Taryn of lying to make him out to be a bad person. They needed some corroborative evidence, or at least firm proof that he’d lied about something else.

“Can I ask you to read through my notes,” Yvonne said, “and sign each page to say you agree with what I’ve written? I’ll type things up back at the office . . .”

Once he’d read through the notes and signed them, Lou held out her hand and found his handshake was now surprisingly warm, his grip firm. Overall, he had the appearance of a man for whom a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“I’ll be in touch if anything else comes to light, of course.”

“Certainly. Thank you, Inspector.”

As much as she dearly wanted to correct him, part of Lou held back. It might disrupt the balance of their relationship if he suddenly saw her as a senior rank, even if that was the case. And this despite the fact that she’d given him her business card, which clearly stated her rank. If he wanted to persist in addressing her as “Inspector,” then there were other ways of tackling it.

“Call me Lou,” she said. “After all, I’ve been rather cheekily calling you Brian.”

“Lou,” he said, testing the word, still holding the handshake, maintaining eye contact in a way that, in another place and time, might have been flirtatious.

She let him hold it until he relaxed his grip, and gave him another of her bright, slightly vacuous smiles. “Take care of yourself, Brian. Hope they let you home soon.”

“Goodbye.”

Lou juggled her bag and her coat, and together with Yvonne Sanders made her way back along the endless corridor to the front entrance, where they parted company.

“Thanks,” Lou said. “Really appreciate your help.”

“Anytime,” Yvonne said, shaking Lou’s hand. “I’ll send the statement through as soon as it’s done. If there’s anything else you need, please give me a shout.”

Lou drew in deep lungfuls of cold, clear air. The sun was about as high in the sky as it was likely to get, and still not a cloud to be seen. She hadn’t realized until she was out in the grand space of the car park, cars circling slowly, competing for the next vacant space, just how stifled she’d felt in the dayroom of Stuart Ward.

12:16

Brian watched Lou’s arse appraisingly as she walked to the door of the dayroom. Nice girl, he thought. Brighter than she pretended to be, just as he was brighter than she gave him credit for. She knew he hadn’t told her the full story, and yet he felt like she’d believed him, which had been the key to it. Of course he remembered every single detail of what had happened that night, had gone over it a million times, lying here in the hospital.

From the pocket of his bathrobe he pulled out the mobile phone that Suzanne had slipped him when she’d visited. He turned it on, waited, then hit the speed dial that she’d programmed in.

“It’s me. Yes, they’ve just been. A female inspector and another one who just took notes.” He listened to her voice, relishing how she sounded, just a voice, a long way away, but next to him in the room.

“It all went well, I think. She didn’t ask me anything I couldn’t handle. No, nothing. Well, she asked if I noticed any blood. I said no, it was dark. It’s all right,” he said, trying for reassurance. “I’ll be home soon, and then we can . . .”

He listened to her telling him what he had to do. Finally, he chanced his luck and asked: “When will you come in?”

Then, a pause. “I love you. Goodbye, my darling. See you soon.”

12:19

Ron’s phone rang when they were still some way away from Lorna Newman’s house. He put his hand over the phone and mouthed “It’s the boss” at Sam before pulling his notebook out of his inside jacket pocket, biting the top off a pen, and scribbling something down. “Right. Gotcha. Uh-huh.”

He shut the phone with a snap. “Apparently Brian’s memory has come back. Quite a lot, by all accounts.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Seems he remembers Barbara coming back into the house all hysterical, late that night. Then she disappeared off again and he went to bed.”

“That’s a bit odd.”

He nodded. “Boss thinks he’s not lying exactly, but not telling the full story either. She’s going to have another go, maybe when he gets out of the hospital.”

“She’s not treating him as a suspect, then?”

“Nah. More likely it’s her, isn’t it?”

“You mean Barbara?”

He gave her a look which said of course fucking Barbara, but simply nodded. “You can’t tell me she went and topped herself covered in Polly’s blood because she was a bit depressed. She went over there to confront her husband’s bit on the side, got the red mist on because she was half cut, and then took herself off over the quarry because of what she’d done.”

Case closed, Sam thought to herself. He had a way of simplifying things that was by turns deadly accurate and horribly misplaced.

“What about if Brian did it—killed Polly—and Barbara saw him?”

“What—and then she topped herself?”

“No, he pushed her over the cliff. Might explain the heart attack. That level of stress.”

He shook his head. “The woman was depressed, suicidal. You’ve got to stick with the evidence, Sarge, don’t go off half-cocked with complicated theories. It’s usually the most obvious explanation. Sometimes people just act funny, don’t they?”

You got that right, Sam thought, putting her full concentration back to the road.

12:41

Lou parked in the station car park, pulled out her job phone and checked for messages—nothing—and then, on a whim, found her personal phone. It was turned off, as it often was, since nobody ever used it to phone her. She turned it on and sent a text to Jason’s number.

Almost immediately a reply bleeped.

Lunch—what a great idea. And it gave her another idea. She sent a reply:

5X5X5 INTELLIGENCE REPORT

Date:
Sunday 4 November 2012

Officer:
PC 9921 EVANS

Re:
Op NETTLE

ECHR Grading: B / 1 / 1

Phone call received from Mr. Dean LONGFORD, DOB 27/01/87, address 15 Castle View, Briarstone.

Caller states he was the person who phoned Crimestoppers last week having seen two people arguing in a vehicle in Cemetery Lane on the night of the 31/10.

States he has seen the police appeal for him to come forward with further information, although he hasn’t got anything further to add. Is willing to make a statement but is going on holiday next week.

In case the statement doesn’t get taken, he gave the following details:

Small car, dark in color, like a Peugeot or a Fiesta size.

Parked in a lay-by or driveway entrance in Cemetery Lane, right before a sharp bend.

There was a lorry sticking out of a driveway on the opposite side so the inft had to slow down to pass—hence noticing the car.

Female with long fair hair in the driver’s seat

Male figure (larger) in the passenger seat, no description

Couple appeared to be arguing, lots of finger-pointing etc.

Interior light was on but headlights off

Definitely Halloween night as Tuesday night is when the inft works in town

No idea what the time was exactly but inft left work at 2315hrs and arrived home around 2345hrs.

13:24

Number 11 Downsview Road was a smart bungalow, set back from a quiet road by a long, open driveway. The front lawn, along with all the others on the road, was neatly trimmed.

It was the sort of silence that indicated an elderly population, cars put away in garages reserved for that purpose, smells of dinner cooking from somewhere.

Ron and Sam parked against the curb opposite the house and got out. Sam resisted the urge to have a good stretch. It had been a long drive, the last part especially tedious.

The door was opened almost immediately.

“Mrs. Newman?” Ron asked of the woman who answered the door. Her dark hair was cut neatly in a bob, and gray eyes examined his warrant card closely.

“I’m Detective Constable Ron Mitchell. This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Sam Hollands.”

“Come in,” she said. Her voice was clear and steady. “I’ve got the kettle on.”

She showed them into a large front room which was rather more modern than either of them had been expecting. Two huge leather sofas dominated the room, matching the cream which covered three of the walls. The fourth wall, mainly an archway into the dining room, was painted a color that might have been purple.

On one wall a handsome gas fire played pretty flames over realistic-looking bricks of coal. A low hiss from the gas flame could be heard above the noise of the kettle rattling into a boil from the kitchen.

Sam perched on the edge of one sofa. Ron sat next to her and sprawled backward into the leather, knees apart, displaying hairy white calves above the diamond-patterned gray socks and pale brown loafers.

Sam looked elsewhere.

Lorna Newman brought a tray through from the kitchen. A cheerful brown teapot, large enough for them all to have at least two cups, with three small mugs—Denby, Sam thought—a milk jug, and a sugar bowl. Matching.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Newman. I’m sure you must be busy.”

“Oh, not really. Andrew’s playing golf. My husband, that is. I do all of my chores in the mornings. Usually by now I would be either visiting friends or at the shop.”

“The shop?”

“I volunteer at a charity shop in the town. Closed on Sundays, though.”