Promises to Keep (4 page)

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.

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?

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.

But he had always had trouble taking no for an answer.

Flora pulled her cold wellington boots on over her thick socks in the mudroom at the back door.

‘Can I come with you?’ the policewoman asked, appearing in the doorway.

‘Sure,’ Flora said, her tone unnaturally bright. ‘You’ll need boots. Here, try these.’

The woman slipped off her shoes and pulled Felicity’s old boots over the top of her smart grey trousers. ‘They’ll do,’ she said.

‘What’s your name?’ Flora asked, giving in at last.

‘Miranda Gregson,’ came the reply.

As soon as she heard the name Flora remembered it. ‘Of course. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK. It’s a difficult time.’

She gave Miranda one of her father’s jackets to wear and they set off towards the stables. It was already starting to get dark, a wind blustering and swirling around the farm buildings, tugging at their clothes.

‘I used to go riding when I was younger,’ Miranda said. ‘I helped out at some stables at the weekends. Loved it.’

Flora didn’t answer. Given a choice, she would much prefer to work with this woman than Connor Petrie. Nigel had phoned him twenty minutes ago and told him to get his arse down to the stables. He’d been somewhere else, clearly, even though he was supposed to be working.

Petrie, leaning against the horsebox, gave them a wave as they approached. ‘Who’s this, then?’

‘This is one of the police officers,’ Flora said quickly. ‘Miranda.’ ‘You here about Polly?’ he asked. ‘Boss told me. Lots of blood everywhere, right?’

‘Shut up!’ Flora snapped at him. ‘Have some bloody respect. You’re here to work.’

‘I’m the Family Liaison Officer,’ Miranda said, her tone even. ‘Here to help, if I can.’ She offered her hand and after some shuffling and wiping, Connor gave it a brief shake.

Oh God, this was no good. The ugly little bastard was going to have her crying in a minute. She had come out here to try and take her mind off the subject of Polly’s death, lose herself in mindless physical activity. She walked away from them to the hay store. Connor could talk to the police all he wanted, she wouldn’t be there to listen. Didn’t care any more, in any case.