from Branlow Hall. Are

you still on this number?

Are you in the UK? Can we meet?

It’s about Cecily Treherne.

Very important. Thanks.

Susan Ryeland.

*

From: Susan Ryeland <[email protected]>

Sent: 20 June 2016 at 14:38

To: Kate Leith <[email protected]>

Subject: Alan Conway

Hi Katie

I’m back in the UK – briefly – and in Suffolk! Sorry I didn’t have time to call or email. It was all very sudden. I’m afraid it’s Alan Conway again. He won’t leave me alone.

How are you? And Gordon, Jack, Daisy? It’s been ages. You never did come to Crete!

How about dinner tonight or tomorrow (Saturday)? I can come over or you can come to me. I’m staying at Branlow Hall (free). Call or email.

Love

Susan xxx

Fri 20 June, 14:32

Hi Susan. Yes. I saw about

Cecily in the papers. Terrible.

Anything I can do to help.

I’m in London. Virgin Active

Barbican. Call or email:

[email protected] any

time. All best. Lionel.

From: Susan Ryeland <[email protected]>

Sent: 20 June 2016 at 14:45

To: Lawrence Treherne <[email protected]>

Subject: Cecily

Dear Lawrence

I hope you’re OK and that Pauline is feeling better.

I met Aiden this morning and we had a good chat. I’ve also managed to track down Lionel Corby with the number you gave me. He’s in London and I will probably go and see him tomorrow. We could talk over the phone but I think it’s better to see him face to face.

While I’m away, I wonder if I could ask you a favour? Could you write everything that happened, from your perspective, on Thursday 14th, Friday 15th and Saturday 16th June? I.e. the wedding weekend. Did you talk to Frank Parris? Did you see or hear anything the night he was killed? I know this may be a lot to ask but the more people I talk to, the more complicated it all gets and it would be really helpful to have an overview.

Also, I hate to mention this, but I’d be very grateful if you could send me part or all of the payment we agreed. My partner, Andreas, is on his own in Crete and he may need to hire extra people to cover for me. I can give you his bank details if you want to send it electronically.

Thanks.

Susan

PS You said you’d let me have the name of the headmaster who moved out of room 12 when Alan Conway moved in. Did you manage to find it?

*

From: Kate Leith <[email protected]>

Sent: 20 June 2016 at 15:03

To: Susan Ryeland <[email protected]>

Subject: RE: Alan Conway

Sue!

Can’t believe your back and you didn’t tell me. Yes. Come tonight – 7 or whenever. What are you doing at Branlow Hall? Glad you’re not paying – it’s an arm and a leg.

Godron not here, I’m afraid. Working late as usual. Daisy also on her travels but Jack may grace us with an appearance.

Let me know if there’s a problem. Otherwise I’ll expect youy around 7.

Can’t wait to see you.

Katie xxxxx

*

From: Susan Ryeland <[email protected]>

Sent: 20 June 2016 at 15:20

To: Andreas Patakis <[email protected]>

Subject: Missing you

My dearest Andreas

It feels funny to be emailing you. We never send each other emails … certainly not in the last two years (except that time when you disappeared in Athens and I was about to summon Interpol). But I’m sending out a whole raft of emails and this seems the easiest way.

First of all, I’m missing you. I really am. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I notice is the empty bed. They’ve given me an absurd mountain of pillows but it’s not the same. I’ve only been here a couple of days but it feels a long time already. I drove past Cloverleaf when I was in London (it’s still in scaffolding) and I had this weird sense that I don’t really belong here. I’m not sure where I am any more.

There’s not much to tell you about Cecily Treherne. I met her husband, Aiden MacNeil, this morning and I liked him more than I thought I would. I’d certainly be surprised if he had anything to do with her disappearance. I wouldn’t say he was in mourning exactly – but he looked quite exhausted. He’s got a 7-year-old daughter and a nanny straight out of The Omen. And a dog who ought to be a witness as he was actually there, in his basket, on the night Frank Parris died. If only he could talk!

As far as I can see, the police have more or less given up looking for Cecily. DCS Locke is in charge of the case. He was also the detective who investigated Alan’s murder and he was pretty useless then. So far we haven’t spoken which is probably just as well as – you’ll probably remember – we didn’t get on.

As to what happened all those years ago, it feels as complicated as an Alan Conway novel but without the usual hints and tips from the author to help me solve it. And if it’s true that Stefan Codrescu didn’t do it, then once again it’s missing the last chapter! I’ve found out where Stefan is in prison and I’ve written to him, though I don’t know if he’ll see me.

But I’m not writing to you about the murder.

It all happened very suddenly, the decision to come back to the UK and I know it’s only supposed to be a week, but it has made me think a lot about us and the hotel and Crete. I do love you, Andreas, and I do want to be with you, but I’m beginning to worry that things aren’t working between us … not the way they used to.

We never have time to talk about anything except business and I sometimes wonder if we’re running the hotel or if the hotel is running us. I’ve tried so hard to keep up my end of things but the two of us are working so hard that we never seem to have time for each other. And I have to be honest. I’ve spent my entire life in publishing. I’ve always loved everything about books … manuscripts, editing, sales conferences, parties. I miss it. I just don’t feel fulfilled.

God, that sounds awful. It’s all about me! But it isn’t. Really it’s about us.

I just think we need to sit down and talk about what we’re doing, why we’re doing it and whether we actually want to go on doing it together. I even wonder how happy you really are at the Polydorus, especially when everything is going wrong. If we’ve made a mistake, we have to be brave enough to say so. The last thing we want is to end up blaming each other, but sometimes I think that’s exactly where we’re heading.

Anyway, I’ll stop there. I’m off for dinner with Katie. Please don’t be cross with me. I just wish things were as they used to be. I wish Magpie Murders had never happened. Bloody Alan Conway. It’s all his fault.

All my love,

Susan

From: Susan Ryeland <[email protected]>

Sent: 20 June 2016 at 15:35

To: Michael Bealey <[email protected]>

Subject: London/help

Michael

I know it’s been a while but I’m back in London for a few days and just wondering if there was anything doing at OB or Hachette? You may remember you did approach me a couple of years back. We had that nice lunch at the Wolseley and I was very tempted … that was before everything went awry!

Or maybe you’ve heard if there’s anything around? Senior editor? Commissioning editor? Whatever.

Hope all’s well. Nice to see you making money out of Atticus Pünd – and with the original covers!

Susan X

Three Chimneys

Katie came bounding out of the house as I drove up in the MG and I guessed she must have been listening out for me. It had been two years since I had last seen her and she looked completely unchanged, happy to see me, relaxed. I got out and we embraced.

‘You look wonderful. What an amazing tan. Oh my God, really, you look more Greek than English.’

I had brought her olive oil, honey, dried herbs from the village of Kritsa, up in the hills. She gathered them up and led me into the house and I had to admit that, almost for the first time since I had arrived in England, I actually felt welcome.

She had, of course, prepared a perfect meal, perfectly presented in her perfect kitchen. How did she do it? I’d emailed her at two thirty in the afternoon and this was the day she worked at the local garden centre, but even so she’d managed to conjure up a Moroccan chicken tagine with chickpeas, almonds and couscous served with a chilled rosé. I mean, come to my flat in Crouch End and you wouldn’t have found even half of the ingredients. Cumin powder? Coriander leaves? Most of the jars on my spice rack had that sticky, dusty quality that comes from never being opened and you’d have had to root around in the fridge to find a vegetable that wasn’t limp, bruised or withered – or all three.

Come to dinner with me and I’d have ordered takeaway, but although I’d offered to take us out to a pub or a restaurant in Woodbridge, she wouldn’t hear of it.

‘No. We can’t talk properly in a restaurant and anyway, Jack will be home later. He’ll want to see you.’