‘Right,’ Lou said, more to herself than to PC Forster, ‘let’s get started.’
Her phone was ringing. The cavalry was on the way.
Email
To:
DCI 10023 Louisa SMITH
From:
DSupt 9143 Gordon BUCHANAN
Date:
Thursday 1 November 2012
Subject:
Op Nettle – Polly Leuchars
Louisa,
Hope the MIR is coming together. Ops Planning have given us the name Op Nettle for the murder of Polly Leuchars. Let me know if you need any further help.
Gordon
Email
To:
Central Analytical Team
From:
DCI 10023 Louisa SMITH
Date:
Thursday 1 November 2012
Subject:
Op Nettle – analytical requirement
Could someone please contact me asap about providing an analyst for the Major Incident Room of Op Nettle. I have a full MIR team with the exception of an analyst and I have failed to reach anyone by phone.
DCI Louisa Smith
Major Crime
11:29
Julia Dobson, fifty-eight years old and current Ladies’ Golf Champion at the Morden Country Club, pulled the heavy velvet curtain slightly to one side and peered out. From where she stood in the bay window of Lentonbury Manor – which was not actually a manor house, in much the same way as Seaview Cottage, a few yards further towards the village, did not actually have a sea view – she could see some distance up Cemetery Lane towards the entrance to Hermitage Farm on the left, and Hayselden Barn on the right.
‘That makes three,’ she mused. ‘Good lord, what on earth is going on?’
Ralph, her husband, murmured in reply from behind his copy of the Financial Times, delivered by the newsagent’s van an hour ago. They didn’t have a paperboy any more. The last one had nearly been run over by a tractor, and his mother had insisted he went and got a Saturday job at the greengrocer’s instead.
‘Ralph, you’re not listening,’ she said peevishly.
‘Three, you said,’ and then a moment later he shook his paper and looked up: ‘Three what?’
‘Police cars, Ralph. Three police cars in the lane. The first one had the siren going. You must have heard it! I wonder what’s going on?’
He put the paper down and joined her at the window, mug of coffee in one hand, in time to observe an ambulance driving at speed down the lane. It turned into the driveway of Hayselden Barn, which was just within sight before the road bent sharply to the left. A police car rounded the bend from the opposite direction, and followed the ambulance into the driveway.
‘Barbara must have had one of her turns,’ Julia murmured.
‘“Turns”?’ he snorted. ‘That’s a new word for it.’
Julia set her lips into a thin line. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’ Without further ado she retrieved the phone handset and dialled the number for Hermitage Farm.
12:45
Taryn stared at her screen, trying to catch the reflection of the activity that was going on in her boss’s office, behind her and to her left.
‘They’re talking,’ Ellen said. She was sitting at the desk opposite and had a commanding view.
‘Have they all sat down?’ Taryn asked.
‘No. Reg is sitting behind his desk, but the two police are just standing there. Oh, hold on, here we go … ’
Taryn heard the office door open and couldn’t help turning round to look. Reg was heading in her direction. The two police officers were still in the office. One was a woman, which indicated that whoever they were here to see was about to receive some bad news.
‘Taryn, would you step into my office, please?’ Reg said, giving her a look that should have been empathetic but was somehow the wrong side of slimy.
Please, let it not be about Chris, she thought. Prayed. Reg scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen. Maybe they’d told him to go and make a cup of tea – first time for everything, Taryn thought.
She entered the office and shut the door firmly behind her.
‘Mrs Lewis? I’m PC Ian Richardson from Briarstone police station, and this is PC Yvonne Sanders. Would you like to take a seat?’
They sat too and she wanted to say: Tell me now, tell me straight away. But the words wouldn’t come.
‘I’m here about your parents, Mrs Lewis. I’m afraid it’s bad news.’
‘My parents?’ That was a word she hadn’t heard used with any degree of accuracy since she was eleven years old.
‘Mr and Mrs Fletcher-Norman—’
‘Barbara Fletcher-Norman isn’t my mother.’
This obviously was news to the young police officer and he seemed to momentarily lose his thread.
‘I’m sorry,’ Taryn said, ‘please go on.’
‘I – er – your father, Mr Brian Fletcher-Norman, is in hospital and I’m afraid he’s seriously ill. Your stepmother, Mrs Barbara Fletcher-Norman, was found dead earlier today. I’m very sorry.’
Taryn looked at her hands. ‘Oh. I see. Thank you.’
Now it was the female officer’s turn. ‘Is there anyone we can contact to be with you? I understand this must be difficult for you.’
‘No. Thank you.’
They seemed to be waiting for her to say something more, so she looked at them in turn and said, ‘Can I get back to work now?’
The officers exchanged glances.
Taryn felt sorry for them. ‘I don’t get on with my father,’ she said patiently. ‘I haven’t seen him for … a long time. Thank you for your kindness, but really, I’m fine.’
She stood and the officers got to their feet in unison. At the door she stopped and turned. ‘Do you need me to do anything?’
The policewoman shook her head. ‘Not at the moment, Mrs Lewis. But if you did decide to go and visit your father, he is in intensive care at Briarstone General.’
‘Thank you.’
Taryn slid back into her seat just as Reg slopped a coffee onto her desk. I don’t drink coffee, she thought, but Reg had never offered to make her a drink before so how would he know? She was trying to think when she had last been at the barn. Maybe April? It had been the argument about the bike, and instead of making the effort to put things right she had left it, and left it. It was the longest they’d gone without speaking.
‘Well?’ Ellen said, eyes eager. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Oh. My father’s in hospital, that’s all.’
‘That’s all? Goodness, are you all right? Shouldn’t you take the rest of the day off?’
‘No.’ She took a swig of the coffee despite herself, because it was there, and because her throat was horribly dry. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. We don’t get along. So really, I’m fine. And I’m sure he will be too.’
Ellen had no reply to this, so she left it, although she did continue giving Taryn the occasional odd look over the top of her screen.
Despite her desire to get on with things, it was quite hard to concentrate, after that. Only half an hour later did she remember what they’d said about Barbara. Had they really said she was dead?
13:02
Louisa sat on the edge of a table, her mobile pressed to her ear. All around her was chaos and next to her a telecoms engineer plugged in a phone, which rang immediately. One of the DCs picked it up.
‘Incident room. She’s on the phone, I’m afraid. Can I help? Who? OK, what’s your number there? Hold on; let me find a piece of paper. Right. OK, I’ll get her to call you.’
It was amazing how quickly the room was coming together.
The first desk set up had been the Reader-Receiver’s. Barry Holloway was there, monitoring everything coming into the room. Initial witness statements, intelligence reports, transcripts of calls from the public; nothing came in without first going through Barry. He checked everything, gave it an audit log number, decided how urgent it was and
who should get it next.
Who should get it next was still up in the air. Desks were being pushed together, people arriving minutes after being assigned to the operation.
On a whiteboard behind her, Louisa had written a notice in foot-high black letters:
OP NETTLE
BRIEFING 1600hrs.
She checked her watch, wondering if it was out of order to task one of the DCs with going to the canteen to get her a double espresso, when finally the phone was answered.
‘Senior analysts.’
‘Ah, so there is someone alive in there?’
‘Yes, there is.’ The man’s voice was decidedly chilly, and with an unexpected accent. American or Canadian? ‘Can I help you?’
‘This is DCI Lou Smith. I’m waiting in the MIR for Op Nettle in the hope that we might get an analyst.’
There was a pause.
‘I’m sorry. Bear with me.’
He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pissed off. There was a longer pause.
‘Les?’ Lou said, putting a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Can you save my life and go and get me a double espresso? And a KitKat. Cheers.’
Then, in her ear: ‘I’m afraid there’s no one available today – they’re all out.’
What the fuck? Lou took a deep breath. ‘This is a murder investigation. What do you mean, there’s no one available? There must be sixty bloody analysts and I only want one!’
‘Actually, since the reorganisation there are in fact only thirty-two analysts and they are all assigned to other duties. I’m the only senior here, and—’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jason Mercer.’
‘Jason, please, find me someone in time for the briefing at four, and someone else who’s prepared to do the late turn.’
A heavy sigh. ‘For sure.’
Definitely Canadian, Lou decided.
13:15
After.
Flora had spoken to her father and at the time she’d been calm, almost serene. She’d asked the right questions: When? How? And then she had put down the brush that was still in her hand, stared at the canvas that she knew already she would now never complete, and left.
When she drove past Yonder Cottage there were police cars blocking the drive, an ambulance on the gravel outside the house. The PC who was standing beside the fluttering tape in his fluorescent jacket regarded her closely.
She went on to the next turning, the main entrance to the farm. She drove up the driveway, which, at the top, curved round through the yard and back down towards the cottage. She parked outside the farmhouse.
Flora’s mother, Felicity Maitland, was sliding into comfortable oblivion. Nigel Maitland had poured her a tumbler of brandy in the hope of calming her down before she made it into a full-on panic attack.
Following her call to the police, Felicity had been looked after by the ambulance crew and the police had taken an initial statement from her at the cottage. Then she’d been walked back to the farmhouse by someone in a uniform.
Now, hours later, Felicity was still in a state, vacillating between shuddering sobs and unnatural, staring stillness.
‘It was so utterly horrible,’ she said now. ‘Blood all over the walls, everywhere! The whole place will have to be redecorated, and we only did it last summer.’
There were times Flora wanted to slap her mother, hard. She went to make toast for everyone, not least to soak up the brandy. The plain-clothes police officer who’d been assigned to them was leaning against the breakfast bar, fiddling with her mobile phone.
‘Would you like me to do that?’ she asked, when Flora came in. ‘No, it’s fine, thanks. Do you want some tea?’
And at that moment Felicity’s voice rose again in a wail: ‘Oh God! Who’s going to do the horses?’
‘I’ll do them,’ said Nigel.
‘Oh God! I’ll have to put an advert in the paper, then it will be interviews! I can’t bear it, I can’t!’
‘What about Connor, Dad?’ Flora shouted. ‘I thought he was supposed to be a groom?’
Nigel didn’t reply. Other than the phone call, he had not spoken directly to Flora.
‘He can’t be trusted,’ Felicity wailed. ‘Polly said he was always sloping off. I don’t know why you insist on having him here, Nigel, he’s more trouble than he’s worth, and—’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Flora called sharply. ‘I’ll do the bloody horses.’
The toaster popped up and Flora applied herself to the task of buttering, slicing into halves. Tea. Must make the tea. What had the police officer said to her offer, yes or no? She couldn’t remember. She would make one anyway, not wanting to ask again; aware of the way the woman was watching her. Pretending to be here to help, but they were being watched, that was the truth of it. And right now the police-woman was watching her.
Flora could remember the exact moment of the exact day when she fell in love with Polly Leuchars. It was on the fifteenth of December, almost a year ago. Half past ten in the morning and Polly was sitting at the kitchen table in the farmhouse, her long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, wearing a jumper, jeans and thick socks. Her boots were on the mat.
‘Where’s my mum?’ Flora asked, wondering who this was.
‘Are you Flora? My, you’ve grown up since I last saw you,’ the person said, with a beautiful smile. ‘I’m Polly. You probably don’t remember me. I’ve come to work.’
It turned out that Felicity had known Polly was coming but had neglected to tell anyone else. Polly was the daughter of Cassandra Leuchars, an old school friend of Felicity’s. Polly needed a job for a year or so before she went travelling. And when she was reminded, Flora remembered her from years ago, from family holidays when Cassandra had been abroad and had left Polly with them.
She was twenty-six, and the most beautiful thing Flora had ever seen. It was hard to believe that the thin, quiet blonde girl who lurked on the fringes of her childhood memories could have turned into this lithe, confident, always-smiling young woman.
Who on earth would want to hurt Poll? Who could do it?
15:37
Nearly time for the briefing. Lou had asked Barry Holloway to do most of the talking for the first one. Not, strictly speaking, the way it was usually done, but to his credit he didn’t argue or ask her to explain. She wanted to watch the room, keep an eye on them all, see their reactions – gauge from it who she could use, who she would need to keep an eye on.
The room was almost ready – it had previously been the central ticketing office, but they’d been moved to the new traffic unit two weeks ago. Fortunately, as it turned out, because the room usually reserved for MIRs was already in use. There had been three armed robberies in the space of a month, a bank manager and a member of the public shot dead, and the investigation for that was well underway.
In a way this room was better, Lou realised; the area briefing room was right next door, which meant they could use it without having to lug all the equipment backwards and forwards, and the canteen was just up the corridor. The downside was that the only windows looked out onto a brick wall and a few had bars on them because it was the former cell block. The nearest custody suite was now a few miles away in Briarstone nick, which wasn’t ideal, but no one asked anyone who was ever actually affected by these management decisions what they thought.
A knock on the door of her goldfish bowl office which was right in the corner; Mandy, one of the HOLMES inputters. ‘More for you,’ she said, handing over another pile of papers to add to the collection.
‘Thanks. How’s it looking out there?’
‘Well,’ Mandy said, with a discreet cough, ‘were you expecting DI Hamilton?’
‘Oh, shit.’ Lou felt the blood drain from her cheeks. ‘What’s he doing here? I asked for Rob Jefferson.’
‘Apparently DI Jefferson’s done his back in. Sorry. Thought you should know.’
Lou pulled herself together and managed a smile. ‘Thanks, Mandy. All the photos ready?�
�
Mandy nodded, and left her to it.
Fucking Andy Hamilton – that was all she needed. Another knock at the door, and Lou looked up to see Andy’s bulky frame filling the glass window. She took a deep breath and beckoned him in.
‘Guv,’ Andy acknowledged, giving her his best charming smile.
She regarded him steadily. He’d put on weight since she’d last seen him, but he was still attractive, that dark hair and dark, neatly trimmed goatee. Eyes that were wicked, that suggested imminent misbehaviour.
‘Andy. How are you?’
‘Great, thanks. You’re looking … well.’ His eyes had managed to travel from her new shoes, up her legs, to her face, within a fraction of a second.
She gave him a smile so tight it pinched. ‘We’ve got a briefing in twenty minutes. Have you got a desk?’
‘I’ll find one. It’s going to be great working with you again, Lou.’ He was disarmingly relaxed. Not fair.
‘How’s Karen? And the kids?’
Andy’s expression tensed, but only slightly. ‘They’re all fine.’
‘Is Leah sleeping through yet?’
‘Not quite. We have the odd good night here and there.’
‘This is going to be a tough case, Andy. If you’re finding it difficult fitting it around home, I want to know about it, OK? I can’t have you not with us a hundred per cent on this.’
‘You know me, boss. Loads of energy and up for anything.’ He finished with his cheekiest grin, and a wink.
Lou felt something twist inside her. She looked up at him. ‘Strictly work, Andy, OK?’
‘Sure thing.’ And he was gone.
Promises to Keep Page 4