Moonflower Murders Read online

  And yet I couldn’t have lived in a house like this. I wouldn’t even have bought a house that had a name. Numbers were good enough for the likes of me.

  Three Chimneys was in a quiet crescent just outside Woodbridge and yes, it did have three chimneys, even if they were completely useless because all the fireplaces had been filled in with those gas-effect fires. Looking at all the polished surfaces, the sliding glass doors, the thick-pile carpets and tasteful art, I knew that if I had lived here I would have felt trapped, but Katie didn’t seem to mind. She was a mother, a wife, a housewife. She liked to be defined.

  Not that I would hold up my own, chaotic lifestyle as anything to be envied. My early love of books hadn’t taken me to the places of my imagination. It had taken me into . . . books. I’d started as a junior editor at HarperCollins, then commissioning editor, then editorial director and finally Head of Fiction at a company that had, literally, gone up in flames. The publishing industry is full of idealists, people who love what they do, which is why so many of us are badly paid. I was lucky to buy a two-bedroom flat in Crouch End before prices went insane but I’d never paid off the mortgage, not until the day I sold it. I’d had plenty of relationships but they’d never lasted because I didn’t want them to. At least Andreas had changed that.

  So there we were. Two sisters looking at each other across a divide that had widened as we had grown older, far apart and yet close. We made judgements about each other, but perhaps those judgements told us more about ourselves.

  ‘Do you think it’s sensible, getting yourself involved in another murder enquiry?’ Katie asked.

  ‘I’ll be more careful this time.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m beginning to think the whole thing may be a waste of time.’

  She was surprised. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because the more questions I ask, the more likely it seems to me that it was Stefan Codrescu who killed Frank Parris. All the evidence is stacked up against him, and as far as I can see there were only two people who had any motive, and I’m not even sure what that motive was.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Oh . . . a couple who live in Westleton. Joanne and Martin. She was Frank’s sister.’

  Katie looked surprised. ‘Joanne and Martin Williams?’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘I met them once. I can’t say I really liked them.’ That was unusual. Katie always thought the best of everyone.

  ‘Why was that?’ I asked.

  ‘It was nothing personal. They just weren’t my type.’ She saw that I wanted more and continued, reluctantly. ‘She was a real ball-breaker. She dominated the table . . . never let anyone get a word in edgeways. And he was a complete doormat. She walked all over him. She seemed to revel in it.’

  That puzzled me. ‘When did you last see them?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh . . . it was ages ago. Maybe even before the murder. They were at a dinner and I only remember them because I joked about it afterwards. I didn’t understand how two people like that could possibly stay married to each other!’

  ‘And she was the one in control?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘It’s strange because I saw them this morning and if anything, I’d say it was the other way round.’ I put them out of my mind. ‘It has to be Stefan,’ I said. ‘I mean . . . blood on the pillow, blood in the shower, money under the mattress. He was even seen going into the room!’

  ‘In that case, what happened to Cecily Treherne?’

  ‘It could just be a coincidence. She could have fallen into the river. She could have gone for a swim and drowned. According to her sister, the marriage wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be and she could have run off with somebody else.’ Even as I said that, I knew it was impossible. She wouldn’t have left her daughter behind.

  ‘Will they still pay you if you don’t get a result?’

  That was something I hadn’t considered. I reached for my cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I step outside? I want one of these.’

  Katie gave me a sideways look. ‘You said you were thinking of giving up.’

  ‘I did think about it.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I decided not to.’

  She passed me an ashtray. She’d known I was going to use it. Then she put a percolator of coffee, milk and two mugs on a tray and – unusually for her – two tumblers of whisky. ‘Will you join me?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a small one. I’m driving.’

  We went outside and sat at a wooden table beside the fish pond. It was a warm evening with a half-moon and a few stars. The garden looked beautiful, of course, filled with plants that Katie got at half price from her work. She had recently bought a statue of a leaping frog with water gushing out of its mouth and the sound of it only made the silence around us more profound. I noticed that one bush had died. It was very prominent, in a circular bed in the middle of the lawn. I wouldn’t have been able to put a name to it – it was round and tightly cropped – but it was completely brown. For some reason, it troubled me. I would have thought Katie would have got rid of it the moment the first leaves began to droop.

  I lit a cigarette and smoked peacefully, listening to the falling water.

  ‘You are going back to Crete?’ she asked.

  Katie and I had no secrets from each other. We had talked about the hotel, the problems, my misgivings, while we ate.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know where I am with Andreas. Before we left England, he asked me to marry him.’

  ‘You told me. You turned him down.’

  ‘I said yes. But later on we both changed our minds. We didn’t think marriage would suit us. I made him take the ring back. It was much more than he could afford anyway and we need every penny we can get.’ I examined her over the tip of my cigarette. ‘Sometimes I wish I could be more like you.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’ She looked away.

  ‘No. I mean it. There are times when I just feel completely worn out. I don’t know if I want to be with Andreas any more. I don’t know what I want.’

  ‘Listen to me, Susan. Forget this stupid murder investigation.’ She had turned back and her eyes locked on to mine. ‘Go back to Greece. You don’t belong in England any more. Go back to Andreas.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he’s a good man and you don’t want to lose him. Honestly, I was so glad when you met him. I was the one who introduced you!’

  ‘That’s not true. It was Melissa . . .’

  ‘Well, you’d never have met him if I hadn’t sent Jack and Daisy to Woodbridge School. Trust me. When you’ve got someone like Andreas in your life, you should count your blessings. But that’s how you’ve always been. You’re always thinking ahead, planning for the future. You never actually sit back and enjoy what you have.’

  I was puzzled. I thought she was trying to tell me something quite different but she wasn’t putting it into words. ‘Katie, is everything all right?’ I asked.

  She sighed. ‘Do you ever think about your age?’ she asked.

  ‘I try not to. Don’t forget I’m two years older than you.’

  ‘I know. But there are times when I can’t stop myself.’ She tried to make light of it. ‘I hate the idea of getting old. I’m getting to the age when I look around me at this house, this garden and I think to myself . . . is this it?’

  ‘But it’s everything you ever wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. I’ve been lucky.’

  A silence fell between us. For some reason it wasn’t a very comfortable one.

  ‘Did you tell Sajid Khan where to find me?’ I’m not sure why I blurted the question out just then but it had been in the back of my mind ever since Lawrence and Pauline Treherne had turned up at the hotel. How had they found me? They had said that Khan had given them my address, but he didn’t have it. Only Katie did.

  ‘Sajid Khan? The solicito
r?’ I could see I had thrown her. ‘He helped us when we had that unfair-dismissal thing at the garden centre and I see him now and then. But I don’t think I said anything. Was he the one who got you into all this?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re not blaming me. Maybe it was Gordon. He can’t keep anything secret.’

  Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a motorbike pulling up. ‘That’s Jack,’ Katie said. She sounded relieved.

  A few moments later, Jack came through the garden gate, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a helmet. It was two years since I had seen him and I was a little thrown by his appearance. His hair was long and quite skanky. He hadn’t shaved and the stubble didn’t suit him. He came over and kissed me on both cheeks and I smelled alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath. I was hardly in any position to judge him, but I was still surprised. He had never smoked in his teens. Looking at him, I thought a light had been switched off in his eyes. He seemed almost nervous, as if he hadn’t expected to find me there.

  ‘Hi, Susan,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, Jack. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. How’s Crete?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Mum. Is there anything in the fridge?’

  ‘There’s some chicken. And you can finish the pasta if you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He half smiled at me. ‘It’s great to see you, Susan.’

  And then he was gone, shuffling off towards the kitchen. I watched him leave, remembering the ten-year-old discovering The Lord of the Rings, the twelve-year-old shouting and laughing in the back of my new MG, the fifteen-year-old sweating over his GCSEs. Was this just part of the natural process of growing up or was I missing something?

  Katie must have seen what I was thinking. ‘It’s all been a bit much for him, his first year at uni,’ she said. ‘When he comes home, all he wants is food, laundry and bed. But he’ll be all right in a couple of weeks. He just needs a bit of TLC.’

  ‘I’m surprised you let him buy a motorbike.’ It was none of my business but I knew how much Katie must have hated the idea. She’d always worried – almost obsessively – about either of her children getting hurt.

  She made a helpless gesture. ‘He’s twenty-one. He saved up for it himself. How was I going to stop him?’ She put down her drink, somehow signalling that the evening was over. ‘I’m sorry, Susan. I ought to go in and look after him.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’m going to London tomorrow. I’ve got an early start. Thanks for dinner.’

  ‘It’s been lovely to see you – but please think about what I said. Honestly, I don’t think you’re going to find Cecily Treherne. Maybe nobody will. And Frank Parris was killed a long time ago. You’re better off out of it.’

  We kissed and went our separate ways.

  It was only as I drove away that I realised that the whole evening had been out of kilter, almost from the start. Katie had been trying too hard. It was as if the chicken tagine, the pink wine, the paper napkins and all the rest of it had been set out deliberately to distract me, that they were somehow fake . . . like the three chimneys on the roof.

  I thought about the dead bush – the broom or the briar or whatever it was – sitting there untended in the middle of the lawn. And then I remembered the email she had sent me with no fewer than three typos. Godron not here, I’m afraid. Well, anyone can make mistakes. She had probably been in a hurry. But that wasn’t Katie. She was always so precise.

  Maybe I’d spent too much time playing detective, talking to people who seemed polite and pleasant on the face of it but who might turn out to be cold-blooded killers. But I couldn’t help myself. I was sure Katie was hiding something. She wasn’t telling me the truth.

  Nightcaps

  It was late when I got back to the hotel and I’d intended to go straight to bed, but coming in through the entrance hall, I noticed Aiden MacNeil, sitting on his own in the bar, and it was too good an opportunity to miss. I went in.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  I’d already sat down before he could answer but in fact he was pleased to see me. ‘I’d be glad of the company,’ he said.

  The bar had the feel of a gentleman’s club but a very empty one: we were the only guests, sitting there surrounded by leather armchairs, occasional tables, rugs and lots of wood panelling. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner, sonorously reminding us that it was twenty past ten. Aiden was wearing a cashmere jumper and jeans, moccasins but no socks. He had been cradling a tumbler of some colourless liquid that certainly wasn’t water. I also noticed a paperback book, which he had turned face down. It was the copy of Atticus Pünd Takes the Case that he’d shown me earlier.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Vodka.’

  Lars was behind the bar. He and Inga seemed to be all over the hotel, like extras from The Midwich Cuckoos. ‘I’ll have a double whisky and another vodka for Mr MacNeil,’ I said. I glanced at the book. ‘Are you reading it?’

  ‘Rereading it. For about the tenth time. I keep thinking that if Cecily found something in it then maybe I can find it too.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t usually read murder mysteries and I still think Alan Conway was a complete bastard, but I have to admit he knew how to tell a story. I like stories set in little communities where no one tells the truth. And it has some great twists – the ending has a real sucker punch . . . at least it did the first time I read it. What I don’t understand is why he had to be so fucking spiteful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Listen to this.’ He had folded down the corner of one of the pages. He opened it and began to read. ‘“For all his faults, Algernon was well spoken. He had been educated at a small private school in West Kensington and he could be charming and witty when he wanted to be. With his fair hair cut short and his matinée-idol good looks, he was naturally attractive, particularly to older women who took him at face value and didn’t make too many enquiries about his past. He still remembered buying his first suit on Savile Row. It had cost him much more than he could afford, but, like the car, it made a statement. When he walked into a room, people noticed him. When he talked, they listened.”’

  He put the book down.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Algernon Marsh.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘He works as an estate agent. So did I. He looks like me. He’s even got my initials. I don’t know why he’s got such a stupid name, though.’

  He had a point. During the editing process I had urged Alan to change the name of Algernon, which I’d said sounded like something out of a Noël Coward play. ‘Even Agatha Christie didn’t have a character called Algernon,’ I’d told him, but he hadn’t listened, of course.

  ‘Alan had a strange sense of humour,’ I said. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I turned up in one of his books too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Sarah Lamb in Gin & Cyanide. Ryeland is a breed of sheep, apparently. She’s a complete monster and she gets murdered near the end.’ The drinks arrived. Aiden finished the one in front of him and went on to the next. ‘Did you spend much time with Alan when he came here?’

  ‘No.’ Aiden shook his head. ‘I met him twice: once when I helped sort out his new room and then again for about five minutes. I didn’t terribly like him. He said he was a friend of Frank Parris and that he just wanted to know what had happened, but he was asking all these questions and right from the start I got the feeling he had another agenda. He spent more time with Lawrence and Pauline. And with Cecily. They were stupid to trust him because he went away and wrote a book about us.’ He paused. ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘I was his editor – but we were never close.’

  ‘Are all writers like that? Stealing things from the world around them?’

  ‘Every writer is different,’ I said. ‘But they don’t steal, exactly. They absorb. It’s such a strange profession, really,
living in a sort of twilight between the world they belong to and the world they create. On the one hand, they’re monstrous egotists. Self-confidence, self-examination, self-hatred even . . . but it’s all about self. All those hours on their own! And yet at the same time, they’re genuinely altruistic. All they want to do is please other people. I’ve often thought it must demand a sort of deficiency to be a writer. There’s something missing in your life so you fill it with words. God knows, I couldn’t do it, as much as I love reading. That’s why I became an editor. I get all the rewards and the excitement of creating a new book but my job’s more fun.’

  I sipped my drink. Lars had given me a single malt from the Isle of Jura. I could taste the peat.

  ‘Mind you, Alan Conway was like no writer I ever met,’ I continued. ‘He didn’t like writing – or at least, he didn’t like the books that had made him successful. He thought detective fiction was beneath him. That’s one of the reasons he put you and this hotel into his novel. I think he enjoyed playing with you, turning you into Algernon, because to him the whole thing was just a game.’

  ‘What were the other reasons?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, although I’ve never told anyone else. He was already running out of ideas. It was as simple as that. He actually stole the plot of his fourth book, Night Comes Calling, from someone he taught on a writers’ course. I met them and I read their original manuscript. I think he came to Branlow Hall partly out of curiosity – he knew Frank Parris – but mainly because he was looking for inspiration for his next book.’

  ‘But somehow he found out who the real killer was. At least, that was what Cecily believed. Isn’t that what this is all about?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, Aiden. He could have found something. But it’s equally possible that he wrote it without even knowing what he was doing. When Cecily read the book, a word or a description could have stirred up a memory or triggered an association that only she knew about. I mean, if Alan had worked out that Stefan Codrescu hadn’t killed Frank Parris, wouldn’t he have told someone? It wouldn’t have harmed his sales. It might even have helped them. What possible reason could he have had for keeping silent?’