Under a Silent Moon by Elizabeth Haynes Page A

incredible softness of her mouth . . .
    And she had lain back, the ground hard beneath her shoulders, breathing hard while Polly’s hand inside her jeans brought her to orgasm, looking up at the pattern made by the sunshine through the leaves on the trees, such a bright, bright green, and somewhere nearby a blackbird sang a song of uplifting joy while Flora writhed, clutching Polly’s wrist with one hand, the other buried in that thick blond hair.
    That was what she had been trying to paint.
    It had been a way of dealing with the way things had finished between them at the end of August. She had stayed away from the farm, avoided Polly as much as she could. And it had hurt that Polly hadn’t really pursued her, hadn’t asked her why, had seemingly carried on with her life as though nothing had happened. Finishing the painting had been like a catharsis, and Flora had believed that when it was completed she would have what they called closure.
    But this was different. How could she ever finish it, when Polly had been taken from her? How could she ever even look at it again?
    No point staying here—she wasn’t going to be able to paint today. She turned the key in the ignition and drove back out toward the town.
    13:25
    â€œSlumming it a bit, aren’t we, Sarge?” Ali Whitmore said with a smile on his face, as Sam Hollands crossed the car park toward him.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she said, not hearing him—or maybe pretending not to.
    â€œInterviewing with me.”
    â€œBoss clearly thinks you can’t manage on your own. How are you getting on?”
    Ali dropped his voice, although there was nobody near enough to hear them. “Bits and pieces coming in on Maitland; still the same stuff he was up for when I was working on him—you know, all the trafficking, the links to the McDonnells. We had a couple of arrests and convictions—drivers, dealers. None of the big nobs, though. Whatever we did, Nigel Maitland came up clean. Felt like he’d been tipped off, it was that obvious, but we couldn’t get any further with it.”
    â€œHappens a lot,” Sam said. “Karma says one of these days we’ll get to put him away.”
    â€œYeah,” Ali said. “Fingers crossed for this job, then. I can’t wait to see that smarmy bastard locked up.”
    The Intensive Care Unit nurse looked them up and down appraisingly, as though she could sense them bringing germs into her domain. They were shown to the antibacterial hand gel, and she watched them closely as they rubbed the stuff into their hands.
    â€œHe only woke up this morning,” she said, “and had the tubes removed a couple of hours ago, so he’s still very tired and out of sorts. I don’t want you upsetting him if you can help it.”
    â€œIs he aware that his wife is dead?” Ali asked.
    â€œYes, but I’m not sure how much you’ll be able to get out of him, so don’t expect miracles.”
    â€œHow is he, physically?”
    â€œHe’s fine, for now. We take things one day at a time with heart attacks. And his was particularly nasty—you should be grateful he’s here at all.”
    More grateful than you could possibly realize, thought Sam.
    Brian Fletcher-Norman was propped up at an angle of about forty-five degrees, connected to various machines. His eyes were closed and monitors attached to the wires coming out from underneath his blue hospital gown kept reassuringly steady beats. Sam looked at the gray chest hair at the neck of the gown and wondered idly how much it would hurt when they took off the sticky pads. Maybe they’d shaved those bits underneath . . .
    â€œMr. Fletcher-Norman? Brian?”
    The eyes opened and swiveled round to Sam’s face. He managed a smile, although he was pale.
    â€œI’m Detective Sergeant Sam Hollands, and this is my colleague Detective Constable Alastair Whitmore.” She took