Free Under a Silent Moon by Elizabeth Haynes Page A

photographer in with his big camera to flash away while they were talking. Part of the test was to see if you could remember to set the ground rules for the press conference before it started—no flash photography until the end, all mobile phones turned off, no questions until the end of the briefing. If you failed to do this, you’d have mobile phones going off left, right, and center; flashing in your eyes the whole time; questions fired at you from the back of the room with no warning. You’d lose control of the room, lose your thread, lose your marbles.
    â€œGood morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Lou said in a voice that sounded more confident than she felt. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Louisa Smith and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Before we begin, can I ask you please to turn all your mobile phones off? Thank you. There will be time for photographs at the end of the press conference, so I would ask you to refrain from flash photography until then. I would like to introduce my colleague Detective Inspector Andy Hamilton—I will run through a brief summary of the pertinent points of the investigation, and then DI Hamilton and I will be happy to take your questions. We will also be issuing you with a press pack at the end of the briefing which contains photographs that can be used in your reports, together with a written statement. There are also telephone numbers for the Incident Room, which I would be grateful if you could make public for the benefit of those people who may have information for us so they can contact us directly. Thank you.”
    She moved to the chart stand on one side of the table where she and Andy were sitting and flipped over the top sheet to reveal a photograph of Polly Leuchars, happy, smiling, blond hair blowing away from her tanned face. How fortunate it was for the investigation that the murder of good-looking people always received more press attention than the murder of the unlovely. Lou had worked on the killing of a middle-aged prostitute and drug addict, back in the days when she was a new DC at the Met. They’d held a series of press conferences, and after the first one almost nobody came. None of their readers would be likely to know anything that would help anyway, one arrogant old hack had told her, as though they moved in certain circles and remained untainted by the detritus of life that floated past.
    â€œWe are currently investigating the brutal murder of a young woman,” Lou began, turning to face her audience and standing in front of the table behind which Andy sat. She knew it was much harder to be intimidated by your surroundings when you were standing up with no barrier between you and your audience.
    â€œPolly Leuchars was twenty-seven years old, and was working as a groom at Hermitage Farm in Morden to earn some money to go traveling. In the early hours of Thursday, the first of November, Polly was violently assaulted in the hallway of her home, Yonder Cottage, which is part of the Hermitage Farm estate on Cemetery Lane. We are anxious to get a clearer picture of the events of Wednesday, thirty-first October, particularly in the evening, and we would like to appeal to anyone who has any information concerning where Polly might have been, and who she may have spoken to, on the day before she died. If anyone saw Polly’s vehicle, which is a blue Nissan Micra, I would ask them please to come forward and speak to a member of the investigation team as soon as possible.”
    There was silence as Lou scanned the journalists, some watching her intently, some busy scribbling notes.
    â€œI would like to emphasize that we are dealing with the murder of a popular young woman who had her whole life ahead of her. Her family and friends are needlessly dealing with her loss, and our feelings and thoughts are with all of them at this tragic time. If anyone has any information that might help