‘Except someone got killed.’
‘Yes.’ That sobered him. ‘It should have been the happiest day of my life,’ he said. ‘We got married at midday, in the garden. It wasn’t a religious service; neither of us believes in God. Drinks started at about a quarter to one. And then just as we were sitting down for lunch, one of the hotel maids – a woman called Natasha Mälk – came out screaming that someone was dead and that was the end of it. That was the end of my wedding.’ He emptied his glass, then pushed it away as if to indicate that he wasn’t having any more. ‘I loved Cecily more than you can begin to imagine. I still love her. She’s smart and beautiful and she’s considerate and she puts up with me. We have a wonderful daughter. And now this has happened and it’s like my whole life has turned into a fucking nightmare.’
Just then, a car pulled up in the drive, a silver VW Golf Estate. I saw the nanny driving. Roxana was strapped into the back. The car stopped. The nanny got out and Bear, the golden retriever, jumped out too. This, of course, was the dog that had barked in the night. He must have been quite a puppy then. Now he was old, overweight and slow, bear-like in a meandering way.
‘Do you mind if we pick this up another time?’ Aiden asked.
‘Of course.’
‘How long are you planning to stay?’
It was a good question. I didn’t really know. ‘Perhaps another week,’ I said.
‘Thank you. Thank you for trying to help.’
So far I had done nothing.
I left Aiden MacNeil in the kitchen and showed myself out. As I opened the front door, Roxana ran past me, eager to see her father, not even noticing I was there. She was a very pretty girl with a dark complexion and deep brown eyes. He swept her into his arms.
‘How’s my girl?’
‘Daddy!’
‘Where have you been?’
‘We went to the park. Has Mummy come home?’
‘Not yet, baby. They’re still looking . . .’
Once outside, I found myself face to face with the nanny, Eloise, who was carrying a blanket and a picnic hamper. For a moment we stood there, unsure which one of us should get out of the other’s way.
She was furious. In a way it was a repeat of what had happened that morning with Joanne Williams – yet this was different. The emotion coming from her was so strong, so pronounced, that I was actually quite shocked. And it was coming out of nowhere. The two of us hadn’t even met. I have described Eloise as dark and slim, but she was also wraith-like, vengeful, like something out a Greek tragedy. Even on this bright summer’s day, she was dressed in shades of grey. She had jet black hair with a silver-grey streak down one side; less Mary Poppins, more Cruella de Vil.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m a friend of the family. I’ve been asked to help.’
‘We don’t need help. We just need to be left alone.’ She had a French accent that belonged in an art-house film. Her eyes locked on to mine.
I brushed past her and walked back towards the hotel. When I was some distance away, I turned back to take a last look at the house. She was still there, standing on the doorstep, watching me, warning me not to come back.
Contacts
From: Craig Andrews
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 14:03
To: Susan Ryeland
Subject: RE: Stefan Codrescu
Hi Susan
Surprised to get your email. I see you’re using a new email address. Is that in Greece? I was really sorry to hear what happened. Actually, what did happen? Everyone has got different stories. All I know is that I’m sad I don’t see you any more. I used to enjoy our long sessions with Pringles and Prosecco!
Did you see my new book in the ST top ten? Well, for one week only, but they can still put it on the cover. It’s called Marking Time. (Yes – I know. Always ‘Time’ in the title, and it’s the same character, Christopher Shaw . . . Hodder like to keep me in my comfort zone.)
Stefan Codrescu is being held at HMP Wayland, which is in Norfolk. If you want to meet him, you’ll need to get his permission or perhaps you can talk to his brief. I checked him out on the Internet. Are you interested in the murder? I’d love to know what you’re up to. Do give me a shout.
Look after yourself.
Craig
PS If you’re in town and you need somewhere to stay, let me know. I’m on my own at the moment and there’s plenty of room. X
* * *
Stefan Codrescu
HMP Wayland
Thompson Road
Griston
Thetford IP25 6RL
20 June 2016
Dear Stefan,
You and I have never met but my name is Susan Ryeland and I used to work in publishing. I was recently approached by Lawrence and Pauline Treherne who are the owners of Branlow Hall, where I understand you once worked. As you may have seen in the newspapers, their daughter, Cecily, has disappeared and they are very concerned. They think I may be able to help.
The reason they came to me is that my most famous writer was a man called Alan Conway and he wrote a book about Branlow Hall and what happened there eight years ago. Alan is now dead and I can’t talk to him, but it seems there may be something in his book that is connected to Cecily Treherne. It may also be relevant to you and to your conviction.
I would very much like to meet you as soon as possible. As I understand it, I can only come to HMP Wayland if you put me on your visiting list. Would you be able to do that? If you want to reach me, you can call me on 07710 514444 or write to me at Branlow Hall.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes,
Susan Ryeland
* * *
From: Susan Ryeland
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 14:18
To: James Taylor
Subject: Alan Conway
Dear James
It’s been a long time since we saw each other and I hope you haven’t changed your email address. How are you? The last time we met was a very drunken dinner at the Crown in Framlingham and you told me you were going back to drama school. Did that ever happen? Should I have seen your name in lights by now?
You’re probably wondering why I’m contacting you. It’s a long story but somehow I’ve found myself involved with Alan Conway once again.
He wrote a book called Atticus Pünd Takes the Case – this was before the two of you became partners and, of course, before you turned up as Pünd’s assistant! It seems that he may have based the book on a real-life story that took place in Suffolk, at a hotel called Branlow Hall. Did he ever mention that name to you? A man called Stefan Codrescu was arrested for murder but it’s just possible that he wasn’t the real culprit.
I know that Alan kept a lot of notes. I remember going through his study with you when I was looking for information about Magpie Murders. I’m assuming that you inherited all his notebooks and things when you took over Abbey Grange and although you may have put the whole lot in a skip, if you have kept anything, it might be helpful.
You can contact me on this email address or on my phone: 07710 514444. It would be good to see you anyway. I’m assuming you’re in London. Right now I’m in Suffolk, but I can drop down any time.
Love,
Susan (Ryeland)
* * *
Fri 20 June, 14:30
Hi Lionel. I’m sending this
from Branlow Hall. Are
you still on this number?
Are you in the UK? Can we meet?
It’s about Cecily Treherne.
Very important. Thanks.
Susan Ryeland.
* * *
From: Susan Ryeland
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 14:38
To: Kate Leith
Subject: Alan Conway
Hi Katie
I’m back in the UK – briefly – and in Suffolk! Sorry I
didn’t have time to call or email. It was all very sudden. I’m afraid it’s Alan Conway again. He won’t leave me alone.
How are you? And Gordon, Jack, Daisy? It’s been ages. You never did come to Crete!
How about dinner tonight or tomorrow (Saturday)? I can come over or you can come to me. I’m staying at Branlow Hall (free). Call or email.
Love
Susan xxx
* * *
Fri 20 June, 14:32
Hi Susan. Yes. I saw about
Cecily in the papers. Terrible.
Anything I can do to help.
I’m in London. Virgin Active
Barbican. Call or email:
[email protected] any time. All best. Lionel.
* * *
From: Susan Ryeland
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 14:45
To: Lawrence Treherne
Subject: Cecily
Dear Lawrence
I hope you’re OK and that Pauline is feeling better.
I met Aiden this morning and we had a good chat. I’ve also managed to track down Lionel Corby with the number you gave me. He’s in London and I will probably go and see him tomorrow. We could talk over the phone but I think it’s better to see him face to face.
While I’m away, I wonder if I could ask you a favour? Could you write everything that happened, from your perspective, on Thursday 14th, Friday 15th and Saturday 16th June? I.e. the wedding weekend. Did you talk to Frank Parris? Did you see or hear anything the night he was killed? I know this may be a lot to ask but the more people I talk to, the more complicated it all gets and it would be really helpful to have an overview.
Also, I hate to mention this, but I’d be very grateful if you could send me part or all of the payment we agreed. My partner, Andreas, is on his own in Crete and he may need to hire extra people to cover for me. I can give you his bank details if you want to send it electronically.
Thanks.
Susan
PS You said you’d let me have the name of the headmaster who moved out of room 12 when Alan Conway moved in. Did you manage to find it?
* * *
From: Kate Leith
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 15:03
To: Susan Ryeland
Subject: RE: Alan Conway
Sue!
Can’t believe your back and you didn’t tell me. Yes. Come tonight – 7 or whenever. What are you doing at Branlow Hall? Glad you’re not paying – it’s an arm and a leg.
Godron not here, I’m afraid. Working late as usual. Daisy also on her travels but Jack may grace us with an appearance.
Let me know if there’s a problem. Otherwise I’ll expect you around 7.
Can’t wait to see you.
Katie xxxxx
* * *
From: Susan Ryeland
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 15:20
To: Andreas Patakis
Subject: Missing you
My dearest Andreas
It feels funny to be emailing you. We never send each other emails . . . certainly not in the last two years (except that time when you disappeared in Athens and I was about to summon Interpol). But I’m sending out a whole raft of emails and this seems the easiest way.
First of all, I’m missing you. I really am. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I notice is the empty bed. They’ve given me an absurd mountain of pillows but it’s not the same. I’ve only been here a couple of days but it feels a long time already. I drove past Cloverleaf when I was in London (it’s still in scaffolding) and I had this weird sense that I don’t really belong here. I’m not sure where I am any more.
There’s not much to tell you about Cecily Treherne. I met her husband, Aiden MacNeil, this morning and I liked him more than I thought I would. I’d certainly be surprised if he had anything to do with her disappearance. I wouldn’t say he was in mourning exactly – but he looked quite exhausted. He’s got a 7-year-old daughter and a nanny straight out of The Omen. And a dog who ought to be a witness as he was actually there, in his basket, on the night Frank Parris died. If only he could talk!
As far as I can see, the police have more or less given up looking for Cecily. DCS Locke is in charge of the case. He was also the detective who investigated Alan’s murder and he was pretty useless then. So far we haven’t spoken which is probably just as well as – you’ll probably remember – we didn’t get on.
As to what happened all those years ago, it feels as complicated as an Alan Conway novel but without the usual hints and tips from the author to help me solve it. And if it’s true that Stefan Codrescu didn’t do it, then once again it’s missing the last chapter! I’ve found out where Stefan is in prison and I’ve written to him, though I don’t know if he’ll see me.
But I’m not writing to you about the murder.
It all happened very suddenly, the decision to come back to the UK and I know it’s only supposed to be a week, but it has made me think a lot about us and the hotel and Crete. I do love you, Andreas, and I do want to be with you, but I’m beginning to worry that things aren’t working between us . . . not the way they used to.
We never have time to talk about anything except business and I sometimes wonder if we’re running the hotel or if the hotel is running us. I’ve tried so hard to keep up my end of things but the two of us are working so hard that we never seem to have time for each other. And I have to be honest. I’ve spent my entire life in publishing. I’ve always loved everything about books . . . manuscripts, editing, sales conferences, parties. I miss it. I just don’t feel fulfilled.
God, that sounds awful. It’s all about me! But it isn’t. Really it’s about us.
I just think we need to sit down and talk about what we’re doing, why we’re doing it and whether we actually want to go on doing it together. I even wonder how happy you really are at the Polydorus, especially when everything is going wrong. If we’ve made a mistake, we have to be brave enough to say so. The last thing we want is to end up blaming each other, but sometimes I think that’s exactly where we’re heading.
Anyway, I’ll stop there. I’m off for dinner with Katie. Please don’t be cross with me. I just wish things were as they used to be. I wish Magpie Murders had never happened. Bloody Alan Conway. It’s all his fault.
All my love,
Susan
* * *
From: Susan Ryeland
Sent: 20 June 2016 at 15:35
To: Michael Bealey
Subject: London/help
Michael
I know it’s been a while but I’m back in London for a few days and just wondering if there was anything doing at OB or Hachette? You may remember you did approach me a couple of years back. We had that nice lunch at the Wolseley and I was very tempted . . . that was before everything went awry!
Or maybe you’ve heard if there’s anything around? Senior editor? Commissioning editor? Whatever.
Hope all’s well. Nice to see you making money out of Atticus Pünd – and with the original covers!
Susan X
Three Chimneys
Katie came bounding out of the house as I drove up in the MG and I guessed she must have been listening out for me. It had been two years since I had last seen her and she looked completely unchanged, happy to see me, relaxed. I got out and we embraced.
‘You look wonderful. What an amazing tan. Oh my God, really, you look more Greek than English.’
I had brought her olive oil, honey, dried herbs from the village of Kritsa, up in the hills. She gathered them up and led me into the house and I had to admit that, almost for the first time since I had arrived in England, I actually felt welcome.
She had, of course, prepared a perfect meal, perfectly presented in her perfect kitchen. How did she do it? I’d emailed her at two thirty in the afternoon and this was
the day she worked at the local garden centre, but even so she’d managed to conjure up a Moroccan chicken tagine with chickpeas, almonds and couscous served with a chilled rosé. I mean, come to my flat in Crouch End and you wouldn’t have found even half of the ingredients. Cumin powder? Coriander leaves? Most of the jars on my spice rack had that sticky, dusty quality that comes from never being opened and you’d have had to root around in the fridge to find a vegetable that wasn’t limp, bruised or withered – or all three.
Come to dinner with me and I’d have ordered takeaway, but although I’d offered to take us out to a pub or a restaurant in Woodbridge, she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘No. We can’t talk properly in a restaurant and anyway, Jack will be home later. He’ll want to see you.’
Jack was her twenty-one-year-old son, now in his first year at Bristol University. Daisy, nineteen, was on her gap year, helping refugees in northern France.
It’s funny how close the two of us have always been, even though we’re worlds apart. That was true even when we were children. We grew up together in a very ordinary house in north London. We went to the same school. We swapped clothes and made jokes about each other’s boyfriends. But while Katie was completely happy, dreaming of the day when she would have a home and a lifestyle almost identical to the one our parents had foisted on us, I was escaping to my local library and my dreams were of a very different nature. I would join a gang at Jamaica Inn, preying on the wretched sailors who came too close. I would fall madly in love with Edward Rochester, but in my version of the story I would save him from the flames. I would travel to the lost city of Kôr and find immortality in the Pillar of Fire. We were the complete opposite of Cecily and Lisa Treherne, who had been two sisters at war, actually throwing knives. Katie and I had nothing in common except our fondness for each other and that had lasted throughout our lives.
There were times when I wished I was more like her. Katie’s life was a model of comfort and orderliness: the two children now entering their twenties, the accountant husband who spent three nights a week in London but who was still devoted to her after a marriage that had lasted a quarter of a century, the part-time job, the close circle of friends, the community work . . . all the rest of it. I often thought of her as a smarter, more grown-up version of myself.
Moonflower Murders Page 9