Moonflower Murders Page 7

  ‘How are Panos and Vangelis?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Don’t they miss me?’

  ‘Of course they miss you.’ He spread his hands so that they disappeared on either side of the screen. ‘But we get by.’

  I scowled. ‘You mean, you can manage without me.’

  ‘We need the money! Have you got it yet?’

  In fact, Lawrence hadn’t paid me anything so far. ‘I’m chasing it,’ I said.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for the money, I wouldn’t have let you go.’

  He sounded so Greek when he said that. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  ‘So tell me about the murder,’ he went on. ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know anything yet.’

  ‘It was the husband.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The woman who disappeared. Of course he did it. It’s always the husband.’

  ‘I haven’t even spoken to him yet. And it’s more complicated than that. This is all about something that happened eight years ago. If someone has killed Cecily, it was because of that.’

  Andreas pointed at the screen. His finger loomed towards me, out of perspective. ‘Just you take care of yourself. Remember, if you get into trouble, I won’t be there to help you.’

  ‘Why don’t you get on a plane?’ I said, wanting him beside me.

  ‘The Polydorus can manage without you. But it can’t manage without both of us.’

  I heard shouting. It was coming from underneath the terrace, I think, but it was impossible to tell who it was. Andreas listened, then shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I have to go,’ he said.

  ‘If it’s the microwave, just turn it off and then on again.’

  ‘That’s true of everything in the hotel. In the whole country!’ He leaned forward. ‘I miss you, Susan. And I worry about you. Don’t put yourself in any danger.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The shouting continued, louder.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you.’

  Two thousand miles apart, we reached towards each other. Our fingers found the cursor at the same moment. We pressed. The screen went blank.

  Heath House, Westleton

  The next morning began with an unpleasant surprise.

  I’d had breakfast in my room and was just on my way downstairs when a man in a suit appeared, walking briskly from the front of the hotel towards reception. I recognised him at once: those angry eyes, his black skin, his muscular neck and shoulders, even the way he walked – as if searching for a wall to bulldoze his way through. With or without his promotion, there could be no mistaking Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Locke, and I briefly considered turning round and going back to my room as if I had forgotten something rather than risk running into him a second time. He had been angry enough when I had involved myself in his last investigation.

  But I was already committed. I couldn’t avoid him. So I kept my head down and hurried forward, pretending not to notice him, as if lost in my own thoughts. We passed within inches of each other at the foot of the stairs and although he must have seen me, he didn’t actually recognise me, which I couldn’t help feeling showed a distinct lack of observational skills in someone who called himself a detective. To be fair, his mind must have been on other things. I heard him ask for Aiden MacNeil and realised he had come to report on the search for his wife and, presumably, his lack of progress. I was glad that Locke hadn’t seen me. It was a distraction that neither of us needed.

  It also gave me an excuse to postpone seeing Aiden myself, which was a meeting I was still dreading. I didn’t agree with what Andreas had said. Just because Aiden was married to Cecily, it didn’t make him the prime suspect in her disappearance. On the contrary, and ignoring what Lisa had said, all the evidence suggested that the two of them had been happy together. They also had a child. Surely that made it less likely that he would want to do her harm?

  It was a relief to climb into my dear old MG Roadster and to feel the rush as it carried me away from the hotel. It was a beautiful day but I wanted to get on the road as quickly as possible and waited until I got to the end of the drive before stopping and folding down the roof. After that, I continued on my way, pushing against the speed limit, feeling the wind streaming over my shoulders and tangling my hair. I spun through green leaves and woodland until I reached the A12, then headed north to Westleton. Frank Parris had visited somewhere called Heath House on the day he was killed. I wondered if this was where his relatives had lived and, more to the point, if they were still there.

  Westleton is a funny village in that it isn’t really a village at all, more a confluence of roads. There’s the Yoxford Road to Yoxford, the Dunwich Road to Dunwich and the Blythburgh Road to Blythburgh, but there doesn’t seem to be a Westleton Road to Westleton. It’s as if someone is trying to tell you that there’s no particular reason to visit the place where you actually are. It has an old-fashioned garage, a pub that’s signposted but nowhere to be seen, a second-hand bookshop and not much else. That said, it’s on the edge of a superb nature reserve and you can walk to the sea. I’m sure it’s a lovely place to live.

  Heath House wasn’t easy to find, especially in an old car without satnav. I had printed up a map at the hotel but drove in circles until I came across a farmer hosing down a tractor: he directed me to a narrow lane I hadn’t noticed, mainly because it had no name. The lane led me away from the centre of the village and into the nature reserve itself, finally petering out on a stretch of grassland with a timber-frame farmhouse on the other side. This was Heath House. The name was written on an American-style mailbox beside the gate.

  It was the sort of home designed to be seen on a summer morning with the lawns freshly mown, the flowers in full bloom, the hammock swaying beneath the trees and so on. It must have been a hundred years old and even without going in I knew there would be exposed beams and open fireplaces, comfy nooks and ceilings where you would have to be careful not to bang your head. It wasn’t particularly beautiful: the roof had been badly repaired with tiles that changed colour halfway across, and an ugly modern conservatory had been added to one side. But it was a house that was completely comfortable with itself. It must have had five or six bedrooms, two of them tucked up in the eaves. A set of wind chimes hung from a tree, tinkling meditatively in the breeze.

  I parked the car and got out. There was no need to lock it or to close the roof. As I opened the gate, I noticed a man in dark blue overalls painting a window frame. He was short and thin, quite pale, with close-cropped hair and round glasses. Did he own the house? Or did he work for the man who owned the house? It was hard to be sure.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me. He was smiling.

  ‘Do you live here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. How can I help you?’

  I hadn’t been prepared for such conviviality and I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself. ‘I’m very sorry to bust in on you like this,’ I said, ‘but I wondered if I could have a word.’ He waited for more. ‘It’s about Branlow Hall.’

  At once he was interested. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’m staying there.’

  ‘Lucky you. It’s a nice hotel.’

  ‘I’m asking questions about something that happened quite a long time ago. Did you by any chance know a man called Frank Parris?’

  ‘Yes. I knew Frank.’ He noticed he was still holding the paintbrush and put it down. ‘Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’

  It baffled me that he was so amiable. He seemed not just willing but eager to talk to me. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I held out a hand. ‘I’m Susan Ryeland.’

  He examined his own hand, which was smudged with white paint. ‘Martin Williams. Forgive me if I don’t shake hands. Come this way . . .’

  He led me round the side and in through a sliding door. The interior of the house was exactly as I had imagined it. The kitchen
was large and homely, with an Aga, an island for food preparation, pots hanging from the rafters and a pine kitchen table with eight chairs. It had modern windows looking out onto the garden and an archway leading into a hallway with red-brick walls, a round, antique table and a staircase leading up. The family did its shopping at Waitrose. There were two Bags for Life on the floor next to a row of wellington boots, a cat’s litter tray, an ironing board, tennis rackets, a laundry basket and a bicycle pump. The house wasn’t untidy so much as lived in. Everything was where it was meant to be. Ordnance Survey maps and birdwatching books lay spread out on the table, along with a copy of the Guardian. There were framed photographs everywhere – two girls from infancy to their early twenties.

  ‘Builder’s or peppermint?’ Martin asked, flicking on the kettle.

  But before I could answer, a woman came into the room. She was a little shorter than him, about the same age – as a couple, they were in perfect proportion. She reminded me a little of Lisa Treherne: she had that same angry quality. The difference was that she was more defensive. This was her territory and she didn’t want me here.

  ‘This is Joanne,’ Martin said. He turned to her. ‘And this is Susan. She’s come over from Branlow Hall.’

  ‘Branlow Hall?’

  ‘Yes. She wants to know about Frank.’

  Joanne’s face changed when she heard that. She had been vaguely unwelcoming a minute or so ago but now she looked offended. She might even have been afraid.

  ‘It’s quite difficult to explain . . .’ I began, trying to put her at ease.

  Next to the Aga, the electric kettle began to hiss. ‘I was just making Susan some tea,’ Martin said. ‘What will it be?’

  ‘Builder’s would be fine,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Joanne reached for mugs and tea bags.

  ‘No, no, darling. You sit down and look after our guest.’ He smiled at me. ‘We don’t get many visitors out this way. It’s always nice to have company.’

  Why did I get the impression that the two of them were playing some sort of game? They reminded me of the husband and wife in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, the ones who invite a young couple into their home only to rip them apart.

  Joanne and I sat down at the table and I asked her about Westleton while Martin made the tea. I forget what she told me. I just remember the way she stared at me, so combative and intense. I was glad when Martin joined us. Unlike her, he was completely relaxed. He’d even brought a plate of biscuits.

  ‘So why are you interested in Frank?’ he asked.

  ‘Were you related to him?’ I asked him back.

  ‘Yes.’ Martin was completely unfazed. ‘He was my brother-in-law. Joanne’s his sister.’

  ‘And he’d come to Suffolk to see you.’

  ‘Forgive me, Susan, but you haven’t answered my original question.’ He smiled at me. ‘Why are you asking questions about him?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that Cecily Treherne has disappeared. Her parents own the hotel.’

  ‘Yes. We read about that in the papers.’

  ‘They asked me to help them because they think that her disappearance may be connected to Frank’s death.’

  ‘What are you? A clairvoyant or something?’

  ‘No. I used to work in publishing. One of my authors wrote about what happened and they think there may be a connection.’ It was too difficult to explain everything so I dived straight in. ‘Did you see Frank the weekend he died?’

  For a moment, I thought they might deny it. Joanne seemed to flinch but Martin didn’t even hesitate. ‘Oh yes. He came round here the same day it happened. He was killed on a Friday night if I remember correctly. And he came here that same morning, just after breakfast. What time was it, darling?’

  ‘About ten o’clock,’ Joanne answered, still staring at me.

  ‘Can you tell me why?’

  ‘He’d just come back from Australia. He wanted to see us.’

  ‘He didn’t stay with you.’

  ‘No. We’d have been happy to have put him up but he didn’t even let us know he was in the country until he called from the hotel. That was Frank for you. He was full of surprises.’

  I didn’t believe a single word he was saying to me and the strange thing was, I don’t think he wanted me to. Everything he said, even that playful smile of his . . . it was all a performance. He was like a magician daring me to pick a card in the certain knowledge that in two seconds’ time it would have changed into a different one. It was a very strange way to behave considering I was talking about a man, a family member, who had been brutally killed.

  I turned to Joanne. I thought it might be easier getting through to her. ‘Look, I hate intruding,’ I said. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but as I explained, I’m just trying to find Cecily and anything you can tell me about what happened that weekend might help.’

  ‘I don’t think we have anything to say—’ Joanne began.

  ‘You can ask anything you like,’ Martin cut in. ‘We’ve got nothing to hide.’

  In Alan Conway’s novels, people only said that when they most definitely did have something to hide.

  I looked around me. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked. I was deliberately changing the subject, coming in from a different angle.

  ‘We moved in around . . .’ Martin counted it out on his fingers. ‘Well, it must have been seven years before Frank went to Australia – 1998. It was the year Joanne’s mother died.’

  ‘This was her house?’

  ‘Yes. We were living in London before that. I was working for an insurance broker in the city. Guest Krieger . . . I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of them. They specialise in art.’

  ‘I don’t have any art.’

  ‘Well, fortunately there are plenty of wealthy clients who do.’ He flashed that strange smile of his. It was beginning to annoy me. ‘Joanne had always wanted to move out of London and as it happens, most of my work is done over the telephone. It doesn’t matter where I am. Our girls were just about to start school when this house became available and so we moved in.’

  ‘Where were your girls at school?’ I asked.

  ‘Woodbridge School.’

  ‘My sister sent her children there,’ I told them. ‘My partner used to teach there.’

  ‘It did very well for them,’ Joanne said, loosening just a little. ‘They’re at university now.’

  ‘They must have been pleased to see their uncle.’

  ‘They didn’t see him. They weren’t at home when he visited.’

  ‘And he didn’t want to meet them? After he’d come all the way from Australia?’

  ‘Frank was here on business,’ Martin said, allowing just a little impatience to creep into his voice. He had been holding a biscuit and now he snapped it in half and laid both pieces down. ‘It’s very sad but he’d lost a lot of money setting up his Australian business. He came back to England with almost nothing. He had this idea of starting another agency and he wanted us to invest.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it was out of the question. I work for myself now and I do well enough out of it, but there was no way I was going into business with him. It wouldn’t have worked.’

  ‘Because . . . ?’

  ‘Because I didn’t like him. Neither of us did.’

  And there it was, suddenly out there. An admission of sorts. But where exactly did it lead?

  Joanne set down her cup and saucer, the one rattling against the other. ‘It wasn’t really a question of liking him or disliking him,’ she said. ‘Frank and I had very little in common. To start with, there was the age difference. But we’d also made some very different life choices. When I was in London, I worked as a payment administrator with the NHS. I had Martin and the children. I’m not saying I disapproved, but Frank had a lifestyle that was completely alien to me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, there was his sexuality, of course. He was gay and I’ve got nothing against tha
t. But why did he have to shove it in your face? There were always parties and drugs and those clothes he used to wear and so many young men—’

  ‘Steady on!’ Martin seemed amused by his wife’s indignation. He tapped her gently on the arm. ‘Better watch out for the PC brigade!’

  ‘You know what I thought of him, Martin. I just thought it was disgusting, that’s all.’

  ‘Frank liked to show off,’ Martin said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘So what happened when he came here?’ I asked.

  ‘He told us that he’d lost a lot of money.’ Martin had taken over again. ‘He wanted us to help him. We said we’d think about it, although we’d both made up our minds that it wasn’t going to happen. We called him a taxi and he went back to the hotel.’

  ‘Did he mention the wedding?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he was quite pissed off about it. The place was jammed and there was a big marquee in the garden which spoiled the view. He said they should have given him a discount.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Cecily? Or her fiancé, Aiden MacNeil?’

  ‘He didn’t mention either of them. I wish I could tell you more, Susan. But he was only here for about forty-five minutes. We had tea. We talked. And then he left.’

  Joanne clearly wanted me to do the same. I had finished my tea and no second cup was being offered. I got to my feet. ‘You’ve both been very kind,’ I said. ‘I may be in Suffolk for a few more days. Do you mind if I come back?’

  ‘You’re welcome any time,’ Martin said. ‘If you have any more questions we’ll be happy to answer them, won’t we, Jo?’

  ‘Let me show you out.’ Joanne had got up too. She gestured towards the archway.

  If she had been just a little less formal, she might have escorted me through the sliding doors, the way I had come in. But she clearly felt a need to take me through the hallway and out through the front door, which was how I came to see the cork board half concealed behind the Aga and, as we walked past, the business card pinned in the corner.