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 . . .
“Mr. Fletcher-Norman? Brian?”
The eyes opened and swiveled round to Sam’s face. He managed a smile, although he was pale.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Sam Hollands, and this is my colleague Detective Constable Alastair Whitmore.” She took Brian’s hand, resting on the white sheet that reached up to his waist, half shook it and half gave it a gentle squeeze. “I wonder if we could take up a few moments of your time.”
“As you can tell,” said Brian, “I’m not exactly busy.” His voice was a little hoarse, but otherwise strong and with a resonance that was curiously attractive.
“I wish we were meeting under other circumstances, Mr. Fletcher-Norman. I’m very sorry about the death of your wife.”
His gaze fixed at some point in the middle distance. “You must call me Brian.”
“Thank you. How are you feeling, Brian?”
He gave a little shrug. “Quite tired . . . Do you know any more about what happened to my wife?”
“That’s why we’re here, I’m afraid. Can you tell us a bit more about that day? About what happened?”
Brian cleared his throat weakly. “I said goodbye to her in the morning as usual. Well, she was still in bed asleep when I left. I don’t—don’t remember much about the evening. I got home late. Barbara—she’s often out in the evenings, playing bridge or tennis, or at dinner parties or whatnot.”
He paused for a moment, brows furrowed.
“I’ve been trying to remember. I sat in the living room, drank a whiskey. Read some papers from work. Then I went up and had a bath, went to bed.”
“So you didn’t see Barbara in the evening?”
A long, long pause. For a moment Sam wondered if he was drifting off to sleep.
Then he sighed. “I don’t remember. It’s very hazy. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“And in the morning?”
“I didn’t set the alarm because Wednesday isn’t one of my working days. I woke up some time after nine, had a shower. I was going down the stairs when I heard the door knock, and it was the—the police officers.”
“So you didn’t go into the kitchen at all?”
“I don’t think so. No. I didn’t.”
Sam took his hand again, gave it a little squeeze. There had been a little tremor in his voice, his eyes filling slightly. He was a handsome man, despite his circumstances, and still looked strong, fit. No wonder Polly had been attracted to him—if that rumor was true.
“Brian, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Polly Leuchars was murdered in the early hours of Wednesday morning.”
She’d kept hold of his hand, knowing that his reaction to this news was fairly crucial. The monitor tracking his heartbeat noticeably speeded up. He was looking at Sam again, eyes wide.
“Polly? What—what on earth happened?”
“She was attacked at Yonder Cottage. Brian, I am so sorry about this, but you realize there is a question I have to ask you.” Sam’s voice was gentle. “Is there any reason why Barbara might have wanted to harm Polly?”
The eyes closed. There was a long pause. Sam was desperate for him to say something, as she could sense the approach of the nurse and knew she did not have long.
“Brian?”
“Barbara was a very jealous woman. Polly and I were friends. She’d given me riding lessons at the stables in the summer. We had—we had some arguments about it, so I gave them up. But I never thought
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 . . .
“Mr. Fletcher-Norman? Brian?”
The eyes opened and swiveled round to Sam’s face. He managed a smile, although he was pale.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Sam Hollands, and this is my colleague Detective Constable Alastair Whitmore.” She took Brian’s hand, resting on the white sheet that reached up to his waist, half shook it and half gave it a gentle squeeze. “I wonder if we could take up a few moments of your time.”
“As you can tell,” said Brian, “I’m not exactly busy.” His voice was a little hoarse, but otherwise strong and with a resonance that was curiously attractive.
“I wish we were meeting under other circumstances, Mr. Fletcher-Norman. I’m very sorry about the death of your wife.”
His gaze fixed at some point in the middle distance. “You must call me Brian.”
“Thank you. How are you feeling, Brian?”
He gave a little shrug. “Quite tired . . . Do you know any more about what happened to my wife?”
“That’s why we’re here, I’m afraid. Can you tell us a bit more about that day? About what happened?”
Brian cleared his throat weakly. “I said goodbye to her in the morning as usual. Well, she was still in bed asleep when I left. I don’t—don’t remember much about the evening. I got home late. Barbara—she’s often out in the evenings, playing bridge or tennis, or at dinner parties or whatnot.”
He paused for a moment, brows furrowed.
“I’ve been trying to remember. I sat in the living room, drank a whiskey. Read some papers from work. Then I went up and had a bath, went to bed.”
“So you didn’t see Barbara in the evening?”
A long, long pause. For a moment Sam wondered if he was drifting off to sleep.
Then he sighed. “I don’t remember. It’s very hazy. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“And in the morning?”
“I didn’t set the alarm because Wednesday isn’t one of my working days. I woke up some time after nine, had a shower. I was going down the stairs when I heard the door knock, and it was the—the police officers.”
“So you didn’t go into the kitchen at all?”
“I don’t think so. No. I didn’t.”
Sam took his hand again, gave it a little squeeze. There had been a little tremor in his voice, his eyes filling slightly. He was a handsome man, despite his circumstances, and still looked strong, fit. No wonder Polly had been attracted to him—if that rumor was true.
“Brian, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Polly Leuchars was murdered in the early hours of Wednesday morning.”
She’d kept hold of his hand, knowing that his reaction to this news was fairly crucial. The monitor tracking his heartbeat noticeably speeded up. He was looking at Sam again, eyes wide.
“Polly? What—what on earth happened?”
“She was attacked at Yonder Cottage. Brian, I am so sorry about this, but you realize there is a question I have to ask you.” Sam’s voice was gentle. “Is there any reason why Barbara might have wanted to harm Polly?”
The eyes closed. There was a long pause. Sam was desperate for him to say something, as she could sense the approach of the nurse and knew she did not have long.
“Brian?”
“Barbara was a very jealous woman. Polly and I were friends. She’d given me riding lessons at the stables in the summer. We had—we had some arguments about it, so I gave them up. But I never thought
Similar Books
