. . .”
His hand gave Sam’s a little squeeze.
As expected, the nurse’s footsteps squeaked across the lino toward them. “Now, Brian, are you feeling all right?” She started fussing around the monitors, checking things.
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Just a few more minutes, then,” she said, with a strong warning look toward Sam before she headed back to the nurses’ station.
“Barbara was suffering from depression,” Brian continued without any prompting. “Had it for ages, finally got some drugs from the doctors a few months ago.”
“Do you think she had been drinking that night?” Sam asked.
“Probably. She drank most nights.”
“Okay.” Sam took Brian’s hand in both of hers and held it for a moment. “Thank you for your time, Brian. I understand this must be very difficult for you.”
He gave her a weak smile.
“Is there anyone we can contact for you? A friend, a neighbor?”
Brian shook his head sadly. “You could try my daughter, but I doubt she’ll come.”
Sam wanted to ask him about that, too, but the nurse was back again. “I’ll show you out, Officers,” she said, in a voice that invited no argument.
At the door, she asked, “What about his daughter? Have you spoken to her?”
Ali said, “We spoke to her briefly; we’ll go back to her now Mr. Fletcher-Norman is awake.”
“See if you can persuade her to come. He needs somebody, and this would be a good time for a reconciliation.”
“Is he likely to make a full recovery?” Sam asked.
“You’ll need to speak to the doctors, but he isn’t out of the woods yet by any means.”
“Please do call us if he remembers anything, won’t you? Please?” Sam asked, handing her a business card.
Then Sam was marching down the corridor, heels sounding loudly, Ali having trouble keeping up. “I hate hospitals,” she said passionately. “I’ll see you at the station later,” she said, without even looking back.
14:12
Flora’s studio bore little resemblance to Felicity’s description, the building being a converted mill rather than a purpose-built industrial unit—and the office downstairs was a management consultancy, not a printer. A nice place to work, Andy thought, admiring the landscaped lawns and flower beds around the building. The door which led directly to the stairs and the upper floor had a handwritten sign taped to the inside of the glass which said “No junk mail thanks.” There was a buzzer, which also had a handwritten note: F MAITLAND STUDIO .
F Maitland was not there. The buzzer remained unanswered, and the parking space reserved for the studio was empty. The office downstairs was also locked.
Andy Hamilton sat in the car and dialed the mobile number he had been given for Flora Maitland. It rang several times and went to an answering machine. He thought about leaving a message but decided against it. Waited for a few moments and dialed again. This time it was answered.
“Hello?”
“Is that Flora Maitland?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton. I’m working on the Polly Leuchars murder investigation.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’m sorry about Polly. She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?” He had an instinct that being official wasn’t going to get him anywhere with Flora, so he decided to try sympathy instead.
“Yes,” came a small voice.
“Flora, I wondered if I could meet up with you today? I need to get more of an idea about what Polly was like, who her friends were, what she liked to do. I get the feeling you would be the best person to help me out with that.”
A longer pause.
“Are you in Briarstone? I could meet you for a coffee, if you like?”
“I guess so,” Flora said.
Like pulling teeth. “How about if I meet you in the Caffè Nero on the corner by the old post office? About three? How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
“Flora? You won’t stand me up, will you?”
He thought he could almost detect the
His hand gave Sam’s a little squeeze.
As expected, the nurse’s footsteps squeaked across the lino toward them. “Now, Brian, are you feeling all right?” She started fussing around the monitors, checking things.
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Just a few more minutes, then,” she said, with a strong warning look toward Sam before she headed back to the nurses’ station.
“Barbara was suffering from depression,” Brian continued without any prompting. “Had it for ages, finally got some drugs from the doctors a few months ago.”
“Do you think she had been drinking that night?” Sam asked.
“Probably. She drank most nights.”
“Okay.” Sam took Brian’s hand in both of hers and held it for a moment. “Thank you for your time, Brian. I understand this must be very difficult for you.”
He gave her a weak smile.
“Is there anyone we can contact for you? A friend, a neighbor?”
Brian shook his head sadly. “You could try my daughter, but I doubt she’ll come.”
Sam wanted to ask him about that, too, but the nurse was back again. “I’ll show you out, Officers,” she said, in a voice that invited no argument.
At the door, she asked, “What about his daughter? Have you spoken to her?”
Ali said, “We spoke to her briefly; we’ll go back to her now Mr. Fletcher-Norman is awake.”
“See if you can persuade her to come. He needs somebody, and this would be a good time for a reconciliation.”
“Is he likely to make a full recovery?” Sam asked.
“You’ll need to speak to the doctors, but he isn’t out of the woods yet by any means.”
“Please do call us if he remembers anything, won’t you? Please?” Sam asked, handing her a business card.
Then Sam was marching down the corridor, heels sounding loudly, Ali having trouble keeping up. “I hate hospitals,” she said passionately. “I’ll see you at the station later,” she said, without even looking back.
14:12
Flora’s studio bore little resemblance to Felicity’s description, the building being a converted mill rather than a purpose-built industrial unit—and the office downstairs was a management consultancy, not a printer. A nice place to work, Andy thought, admiring the landscaped lawns and flower beds around the building. The door which led directly to the stairs and the upper floor had a handwritten sign taped to the inside of the glass which said “No junk mail thanks.” There was a buzzer, which also had a handwritten note: F MAITLAND STUDIO .
F Maitland was not there. The buzzer remained unanswered, and the parking space reserved for the studio was empty. The office downstairs was also locked.
Andy Hamilton sat in the car and dialed the mobile number he had been given for Flora Maitland. It rang several times and went to an answering machine. He thought about leaving a message but decided against it. Waited for a few moments and dialed again. This time it was answered.
“Hello?”
“Is that Flora Maitland?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton. I’m working on the Polly Leuchars murder investigation.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’m sorry about Polly. She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?” He had an instinct that being official wasn’t going to get him anywhere with Flora, so he decided to try sympathy instead.
“Yes,” came a small voice.
“Flora, I wondered if I could meet up with you today? I need to get more of an idea about what Polly was like, who her friends were, what she liked to do. I get the feeling you would be the best person to help me out with that.”
A longer pause.
“Are you in Briarstone? I could meet you for a coffee, if you like?”
“I guess so,” Flora said.
Like pulling teeth. “How about if I meet you in the Caffè Nero on the corner by the old post office? About three? How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
“Flora? You won’t stand me up, will you?”
He thought he could almost detect the
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