Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (8 page)

“You should have known Ali Whitmore would have wanted to take that side of it. He did the last job on Maitland when he was in intel.”

“I’m not bloody psychic!”

“Well, it all worked out for the best, then, didn’t it?”

“I don’t want you playing games like that again. I don’t do pissing contests.”

In spite of her fury, Andy smirked. Damn the man! How was it possible to hate him so much and still find him attractive?

His shoulders had relaxed and he leaned forward slightly. “It wasn’t that long ago that we were proper friends, Lou . . .”

She didn’t need reminding of it. “Is that what you call it? Felt more like betrayal than friendship.”

“I didn’t mean that. I just meant—sometimes I forget you’re in charge. And I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter what rank I am, what rank you are,” Lou said. “We’re here to do a job, aren’t we?”

“Sure.”

She waited for more, half-expecting him to bring up the one big subject that they were both ignoring, but he remained silent.

“I think we should leave it there. Now are you doing the press briefing with me, or are you too busy?” She smiled, to soften the sarcasm, and to her relief he took a deep breath and smiled back.

Opening the door of her office, the silence in the main room despite the number of people crowded into it made her realize that they’d probably all been watching through the glass, straining to hear.

She took five minutes in the ladies’ to apply some lipstick and run a brush through her hair. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes staring back at her, challenging her to admit to the crushing weight of self-doubt that she was feeling. Why this case? Why not something nice and straightforward, like every other Major Crime job that had turned up in the last few months?

You asked for it
, her reflection suggested insolently.

The main conference room at Police Headquarters was full: lots of cameras being set up at the back, press of varying types chatting happily together as if they were all best friends.

Lou had had media training as part of the three-week Senior Investigating Officer’s program. They’d staged a press conference at which various police staff pretended to be members of the press, asking the most awful questions they could, with some sort of internal competition to see who could be the one to “break” the poor trainee. They’d got the police photographer in with his big camera to flash away while they were talking. Part of the test was to see if you could remember to set the ground rules for the press conference before it started—no flash photography until the end, all mobile phones turned off, no questions until the end of the briefing. If you failed to do this, you’d have mobile phones going off left, right, and center; flashing in your eyes the whole time; questions fired at you from the back of the room with no warning. You’d lose control of the room, lose your thread, lose your marbles.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Lou said in a voice that sounded more confident than she felt. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Louisa Smith and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Before we begin, can I ask you please to turn all your mobile phones off? Thank you. There will be time for photographs at the end of the press conference, so I would ask you to refrain from flash photography until then. I would like to introduce my colleague Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton—I will run through a brief summary of the pertinent points of the investigation, and then DI Hamilton and I will be happy to take your questions. We will also be issuing you with a press pack at the end of the briefing which contains photographs that can be used in your reports, together with a written statement. There are also telephone numbers for the Incident Room, which I would be grateful if you could make public for the benefit of those people who may have information for us so they can contact us directly. Thank you.”

She moved to the chart stand on one side of the table where she and Andy were sitting and flipped over the top sheet to reveal a photograph of Polly Leuchars, happy, smiling, blond hair blowing away from her tanned face. How fortunate it was for the investigation that the murder of good-looking people always received more press attention than the murder of the unlovely. Lou had worked on the killing of a middle-aged prostitute and drug addict, back in the days when she was a new DC at the Met. They’d held a series of press conferences, and after the first one almost nobody came. None of their readers would be likely to know anything that would help anyway, one arrogant old hack had told her, as though they moved in certain circles and remained untainted by the detritus of life that floated past.

“We are currently investigating the brutal murder of a young woman,” Lou began, turning to face her audience and standing in front of the table behind which Andy sat. She knew it was much harder to be intimidated by your surroundings when you were standing up with no barrier between you and your audience.

“Polly Leuchars was twenty-seven years old, and was working as a groom at Hermitage Farm in Morden to earn some money to go traveling. In the early hours of Thursday, the first of November, Polly was violently assaulted in the hallway of her home, Yonder Cottage, which is part of the Hermitage Farm estate on Cemetery Lane. We are anxious to get a clearer picture of the events of Wednesday, thirty-first October, particularly in the evening, and we would like to appeal to anyone who has any information concerning where Polly might have been, and who she may have spoken to, on the day before she died. If anyone saw Polly’s vehicle, which is a blue Nissan Micra, I would ask them please to come forward and speak to a member of the investigation team as soon as possible.”

There was silence as Lou scanned the journalists, some watching her intently, some busy scribbling notes.

“I would like to emphasize that we are dealing with the murder of a popular young woman who had her whole life ahead of her. Her family and friends are needlessly dealing with her loss, and our feelings and thoughts are with all of them at this tragic time. If anyone has any information that might help us find out who was responsible for this crime, I would ask them to come forward and contact us as soon as they can.”

Lou paused. Then, “Thank you for your attention. Are there any questions?” While she waited for them to decide which was their most pressing question, she took her seat next to Andy. They’d agreed to take it in turns answering, and the media officer was in charge now.

“Yes—lady in the pink top.”

Hers wasn’t the first hand to go up, but Lou knew that this particular journalist had been promised the first question because of a recent favorable article she’d written regarding the Force’s response to antisocial behavior.

“Alison Hargreaves,
Eden Evening Standard
. DCI Smith, can you tell us anything about the death of Mrs. Barbara Fletcher-Norman? Are the two deaths connected?”

Lou felt her cheeks flush.

“Thank you,” she said, “we are not connecting the two incidents at this time. Next question.”

There was a sudden buzz as all the other journalists started wondering who the hell Mrs. Barbara Fletcher-Norman was.

“Do you have any suspects at this stage?” This was from the local BBC Radio reporter.

Andy answered. “At this key early stage of the investigation, we are keeping an open mind about who the perpetrator of the crime was.”

“Roger Phillips,
Daily Mail
. Any idea of a motive at this stage?”

Good question, thought Lou, and Andy was going to deal with this one too.

“Again, we are keeping an open mind. We cannot rule out the possibility that the victim woke in the night to find a burglary in progress.”

“Were there signs of a break-in?” Roger Phillips again.

“Next question,” Lou put in. She was only being fair—there were several other people with their hands up and she didn’t want the inquiry to be pushed in one direction, especially not at this early stage.

“What about forensics? Have you got any fingerprints, stuff like that?” This one was from Lucy Arbuthnot, from the local ITV news network.

“Several sets of fingerprints have been identified at Polly’s home address. We are in the process of eliminating them as we speak. If anyone visited Polly in the days before her death, we would be grateful if they would come forward so we can eliminate them from our investigations.” Lou was ready for something made of chocolate. It felt like the longest day of her life, and she was only a tiny bit of the way through it.

“This is a question for Ms. Smith. Can I ask about your personal qualifications to lead a murder inquiry?” It was Roger Phillips, revenge for her failing to answer the break-in question.

Both Andy and Ellie, the media officer, looked like they were going to try and fight in her corner, but she silenced them with a look.

“Thank you for that question,” she said with a wide smile that made it look as if she meant it. “I have been a police officer for fifteen years, the last eight of them spent working on major crime investigations. Although this is the first time I have led a murder inquiry, I have worked on several murder investigations, both with Eden Police and the Metropolitan Police. I am proud to be running this case with a highly professional, highly trained team behind me and I am confident that we will bring Polly Leuchars’s killer to justice very soon.”

Ellie stepped in, despite more hands being raised. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time. I have the press packs here . . .”

Andy and Lou posed behind the desk for a couple of photographs and did a couple of TV and radio interviews outside the front of the main building, saying the same things over and over again for the benefit of viewers and listeners on the BBC, Sky News, Five Live, Eden County FM, and ITV local news. They would be lucky if they would get one or two lines out on air, so better make them good ones.

As soon as it was all over, Lou whispered to Andy, “I really need a drink.”

“Coffee, or something stronger?”

“Ideally coffee, followed by something stronger, but I guess I’ll have to settle for coffee.”

As they walked to the rear of the building to get access to the staff canteen, Andy said, “I thought you did really well.”

“Thank you,” she said, still wary of him. “So did you. Thank you for being there.”

Lou paid for three coffees and a Kit Kat for herself, a bacon sandwich for Andy, and then they walked back down to the MIR.

“One thing’s for sure,” she said as she pushed open the heavy fire door, balancing her paper coffee cup on the back of her Kit Kat, “we need to get to the bottom of the whole Fletcher-Norman thing before they do.”

If Andy thought he was going to accompany her into her office for more cozy chat, he was mistaken. “Jason,” Lou said, passing his desk, “can I borrow you for a sec?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Sure.”

Andy called after her, “I’m going to go and catch up with Flora Maitland, Boss. Okay? I’ll be on the mobile if you want me.”

Thank God for that.

“I got you a coffee,” Lou said as Jason shut the door.

“Thanks,” he said.

“How’s the timeline?”

“It’s okay. There’s more coming in all the time, should be a lot more by the end of today, thanks to the press conference. I’ll make sure it’s up to date before I go tonight. Do you want me in tomorrow?”

“No,” she said. “You deserve a weekend and I need to hang on to my overtime budget.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Have you got nice things planned?”

Oh, subtle, she thought to herself, feeling her cheeks warming. What the hell was she doing? Wasn’t it awkward enough with Andy Hamilton?

“Nope. I’d rather be in here getting on with it.”

Well, that was honest—give him credit for that.

“Really?”

“Sure. There’s a ton of stuff to do—I don’t really want to spend the whole of Monday catching up. I can take it as hours instead of overtime, anyway.”

“Well, thanks. See how you get on today and I’ll leave it up to you, Jason. You know I’m really grateful for your help.” Lou slipped the lid off her coffee and emptied a sachet of sugar into it.

“Are you having briefings over the weekend?”

“Depends on what comes in. We’ll have one this evening when the shift changes, then maybe an informal catch-up when we need one, until Monday.”

“Well, if you need my input you know where I am.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem. Been a while since I worked a major incident.”

“What do you make of the whole Fletcher-Norman connection?”

“I’m trying not to get stuck on it. You realize that Polly is turning into quite something, don’t you?”

“In what way?”

“Well, if any of the gossip is to be believed, she was having or had an affair with just about everyone in the village, male
and
female.”

“Really? God, the press are going to love this. Do you think it’s simply gossip? Jealous wives, that sort of thing?”

“Might be, if there weren’t such a lot of it. We’ve heard from a couple of her ex-boyfriends—there are intelligence reports and two statements already—and both of them were unceremoniously dumped after she refused to stop sleeping with other people.”

Lou sighed, taking a swig of coffee. “This makes the whole motive question rather interesting, at least,” she said. “I almost wish it were a simple burglary.”

“Nothing’s ever that simple,” he answered softly. “You know that.”

MG11 WITNESS STATEMENT

Section 1—Witness Details

NAME:
Simon Andrew DODDS

DOB
(if under 18; if over 18 state “Over 18”)    Over 18

ADDRESS:
    
18 Oak Rise
                      Brownhills
                      Lewisham
                      LONDON SE15

OCCUPATION:
Sales Manager

Section 2—Investigating Officer

DATE:
Friday 2 November

OIC:
DC 13512 Jane PHELPS

Section 3—Text of Statement

My name is Simon Dodds and I live and work in London. I heard from a friend who lives in Briarstone that Polly Leuchars had been murdered.