Extract: Moonflower Murders by Anthony Horowitz

Moonflower Murders by Anthony Horowitz is a brilliantly intricate and original thriller from the bestselling author of Magpie Murders.

Retired publisher Susan Ryeland is running a small hotel on a Greek island with her long-term boyfriend. But life isn’t as idyllic as it should be: exhausted by the responsibility of making everything work on an island where nothing ever does, Susan is beginning to miss her literary life in London – even though her publishing career once entangled her in a lethal literary murder plot.

So when an English couple come to visit with tales of a murder that took place in a hotel the same day their daughter Cecily was married there, Susan can’t help but find herself fascinated. And when they tell her that Cecily has gone missing a few short hours after reading Atticus Pünd Takes The Case, a crime novel Susan edited some years previously, Susan knows she must return to London to find out what has happened.

The clues to the murder and to Cecily’s disappearance must lie within the pages of this novel. But to save Cecily, Susan must place her own life in mortal danger…

Read on for an extract from Moonflower Murders by Anthony Horowitz!

Moonflower Murders
by
Anthony Horowitz

Agios Nikolaos, Crete

The Polydorus is a charming family-run hotel, located a short walk away from the lively town of Agios Nikolaos, one hour from Heraklion. Rooms cleaned daily, all with Wi-Fi and air con, some with sea views. Coffee and home-cooked meals served on our lovely terraces. Visit our website or find us on booking.com.

You have no idea how long it took me to write that. I was worried about so many adjectives bunching up together. Was ‘lively’ the right word to describe Agios Nikolaos? I’d started with ‘busy’ but then decided it might suggest the endless traffic and noise that were very much part of the place too. We were actually fifteen minutes from the town centre. Was that a ‘short walk’? Should I have mentioned Ammoudi beach next door?
        The funny thing is, I spent almost all my working life as an editor and I never had any problem dealing with writers’ manuscripts, but when it came to a four-line advertisement on the back of a postcard I sweated over every syllable. In the end, I handed it to Andreas who read it in about five seconds and then just grunted and nodded, which, after all the trouble I’d taken, both pleased and infuriated me at the same time. That’s something I’ve noticed about the Greeks. They’re an incredibly emotional people. Their drama, poetry and music go straight to the heart. But when it comes to everyday business, to the little details, they prefer things to be ‘siga siga’, which translates roughly as ‘Who gives a damn?’ It was a phrase I heard every day.
Examining what I’d written along with a cigarette and a cup of strong black coffee, two thoughts crossed my mind. We were going to put the cards in a rack beside the reception desk, but since tourists would already be in the hotel when they picked them up, what exactly was the point? And more pertinently, what the hell was I doing here? How had I allowed my life to come to this?
        Just two years away from my fiftieth birthday, at a time when I had thought I would be enjoying all the comforts of life that come with a reasonable income, a small flat in London and a full social diary, I had found myself the co-owner and manager of a hotel that was actually much nicer than I’d managed to describe. Polydorus was right on the edge of the water, with two terraces shaded from the sun by umbrellas and cypress trees. It had just twelve rooms, a young, local staff who were always cheerful even at their most haphazard, and a loyal clientele. We had simple food, Mythos lager, an in-house musician and perfect views. The sort of travellers we encouraged wouldn’t dream of arriving on one of those gigantic coaches I would watch inching along roads that had never been designed to accommodate them, on their way to the six-storey monstrosities on the other side of the bay.
        What we also had, unfortunately, was dodgy wiring, impossible plumbing and intermittent Wi-Fi. I don’t want to slip into lazy Greek stereotyping and maybe I was just unlucky, but reliability was hardly a watchword amongst the people we employed. Panos was an excellent chef but if he argued with his wife, his children or his motorbike he would be a no-show and Andreas would have to take over in the kitchen, leaving me to host the bar and restaurant, which might be full but without any waiters or half-empty with too many of them. Somehow a happy compromise never seemed to materialise. There was always a faint possibility that a supplier might actually arrive on time but it would never be with the goods that we had actually ordered. If anything broke – and everything did – we would have hours of nervous tension waiting to see if the mechanic or engineer would show up. For the most part our guests seemed happy. But we were running about like actors in one of those madcap French farces trying to make it all look seamless and by the time I collapsed into bed, often at one or two in the morning, I was so exhausted that I lay there feeling almost desiccated, like a mummy in a shroud. That was when I would be at my lowest, falling asleep with the knowledge that the moment I opened my eyes the whole thing would start all over again.
        I’m being too negative. Of course it was wonderful too. The Aegean sunset is like nothing you will see anywhere in the world and I would watch it every evening, staring in wonder. No wonder the Greeks believed in gods – Helios in his golden chariot blazing across that enormous sky, the Lasithiotika mountains transformed into strips of the thinnest gauze, first pink, then mauve, darkening and fading at the same time. I swam at seven o’clock every morning, washing away in the crystal sea the traces of too much wine and cigarette smoke. There were dinners in tiny tavernas in Fourni and Limnes with the smell of jasmine, the stars twinkling, raucous laughter, the clink of raki glasses. I’d even started to learn Greek, working three hours a week with a girl young enough to be my daughter who managed to take the stressed syllables and verbs that weren’t just irregular but downright indecent and somehow make them fun.
        But this wasn’t a holiday for me. I’d come to Greece after the catastrophe that was Magpie Murders. It was the last book I’d worked on and it had led to the death of the author, the collapse of my publishing company and the end of my career… in that order. There had been nine Atticus Pünd novels, all of them bestsellers, and I had thought there would be many more. But that was all over now. Instead, I found myself starting a new life, and frankly too much of it was hard work.
        Inevitably, this had had an effect on my relationship with Andreas. The two of us didn’t quarrel – we weren’t the quarrelling sort – but we’d developed a way of communicating that had become increasingly terse and wary, circling each other like two prize boxers who have no intention of starting the fight. In fact, a full-throttle punch-up might have done us both good. We had managed to drift into that awful arena, so familiar to the long-term married couple, where what was left unspoken was actually more damaging than what was said. We weren’t married, by the way. Andreas had proposed to me, doing the whole diamond-ring-down-on-one-knee thing, but we had both been too busy to follow through, and anyway, my Greek wasn’t good enough yet to understand the service. We had decided to wait.
        Time had done us no favours. In London, Andreas had always been my best friend. Perhaps it was because we weren’t living together that I had always looked forward to seeing him. We read the same books. We loved eating in… especially when Andreas cooked. We had great sex. But Crete had trapped us in an altogether different sort of arrangement and even though it had only been a couple of years since we had left the UK, I was already thinking about a way out, even if I wasn’t actively looking for one.
        I didn’t need to. The way out arrived early one Monday morning with a smart-looking couple, obviously English, walking arm in arm down the slope that led from the main road. I could tell at once that they were rich and that they weren’t here on holiday. He was wearing a jacket and long trousers – ridiculous for the morning heat – a polo shirt and a panama hat. She had on the sort of dress that was more suited to a tennis party than the beach, a proper necklace and carried a neat little clutch bag. Both had expensive sunglasses. I guessed they were in their sixties.
        The man came into the bar and uncoupled himself from his wife. I saw him examining me. ‘Excuse me,’ he said in a cultivated voice. ‘Do you speak English?’
        ‘Yes.’
        ‘I don’t suppose… you wouldn’t by any chance be Susan Ryeland?’
        ‘That’s me.’
        ‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Miss Ryeland? My name is Lawrence Treherne. This is my wife, Pauline.’
        ‘How do you do.’ Pauline Treherne smiled at me but not in a friendly way. She didn’t trust me and she hadn’t even met me yet.
        ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I phrased the question carefully. I wasn’t offering to buy them one. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m mean, but this was something else preying on my mind. I had sold my flat in north London and ploughed most of my savings into Polydorus, but so far I hadn’t made any profit. Quite the reverse: although I’m not sure that Andreas and I were doing anything wrong, we had still managed to find ourselves almost ten thousand euros in debt. Our funds were leaking away and I sometimes felt that the distance between me and bankruptcy could be measured by the froth on a free cappuccino.
        ‘No. We’re all right, thank you.’
        I steered them towards one of the tables in the bar. The terrace was already crowded, but Vangelis, who worked as a waiter when he wasn’t playing his guitar, was managing fine and it was cooler out of the heat. ‘So how can I help you, Mr Treherne?’
        ‘Lawrence, please.’ He took off the hat, revealing thinning silver hair and a scalp that had still managed to catch the sun. He placed the hat in front of him. ‘I hope you’ll forgive us for tracking you down. We have a mutual friend – Sajid Khan. He sends you his regards, by the way.’
        Sajid Khan? It took me a moment to remember that he was a solicitor, living in the Suffolk town of Framlingham. He had been a friend of Alan Conway, the author of Magpie Murders. When Alan died, Sajid Khan was the one who had discovered the body. But I’d only met him a couple of times. I wouldn’t have called him a friend, mutual or otherwise.
        ‘Do you live in Suffolk?’ I asked.
        ‘Yes. We own a hotel near Woodbridge. Mr Khan has helped us on one or two occasions.’ Lawrence hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I was speaking to him last week about a rather difficult matter and he suggested we talk to you.’
        I wondered how Khan had known I was here in Crete. Someone else must have told him because I certainly hadn’t. ‘You came all this way to talk to me?’ I asked.
        ‘It’s not really that far and we travel quite a bit anyway. We’re staying at the Minos Beach.’ He pointed in the direction of his hotel, which was on the other side of a tennis court, right next to mine. It confirmed my first opinion that the Trehernes were rich. The Minos Beach was a boutique hotel with private villas and a garden full of sculptures. It cost around three hundred pounds a night. ‘I did think about ringing,’ he went on. ‘But it’s not something I’d want to discuss over the phone.’
        This was getting more mysterious – and, frankly, annoying – by the minute. A four-hour flight from Stansted. A one-hour drive from Heraklion. Getting here had hardly been a stroll. ‘What is this about?’ I asked.
        ‘It’s about a murder.’

        That last word hung in the air for a moment. On the other side of the terrace, the sun was shining. A bunch of local children were laughing and shouting, splashing about in the Aegean. Families were packed together around the tables. I watched Vangelis go past with a tray laden with orange juice and iced coffee.
        ‘What murder?’ I asked.
        ‘A man called Frank Parris. You won’t have heard of him but you might know the hotel where the murder took place. It’s called Branlow Hall.’
        ‘And that’s your hotel.’
        ‘Yes. It is.’ It was Pauline Treherne who answered, speaking for the first time. She sounded like a minor royal, cutting each word as if with a pair of scissors before allowing it to escape. And yet I got the feeling that she was as middle class as I was.
        ‘He had booked in for three nights,’ Lawrence said. ‘He was killed on the second.’
        A host of different questions were going through my mind. Who was Frank Parris? Who killed him? Why should I care? But I didn’t say that. ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
        ‘About eight years ago,’ Lawrence Treherne said.
        Pauline Treherne set her clutch bag on the table, next to the panama hat, as if it was some agreed signal for her to take over. There was something about her – the way she used silence, her lack of emotion – that made me think she was always the one who made the important decisions. Her sunglasses were so dark that as she spoke to me I found myself almost transfixed by two images of myself listening.
        ‘It might help if I tell you the entire story,’ she said in that grating voice of hers. ‘That way, you’ll understand why we’re here. I take it you’re not too pressed for time?’
        I had about fifty things I needed to be doing. ‘Not at all,’ I said.
        ‘Thank you.’ She collected herself. ‘Frank Parris worked in advertising,’ she began. ‘He’d just come back to England from Australia, where he’d lived for several years. He was killed very brutally in his hotel room on the night of June the fifteenth, 2008. I’ll always remember the date because it coincided with the wedding weekend of our daughter, Cecily.’
        ‘Was he a guest?’
        ‘No. We’d never met him. We’d taken over a dozen or so rooms for the wedding. We put up close family and friends. The hotel has thirty-two rooms in total and we’d decided, against my better judgement – my husband, I’m afraid, did not agree – to stay open to the public. Mr Parris was in Suffolk visiting relatives. He’d booked in for three nights. He was killed late on Friday night, although the body wasn’t discovered until Saturday afternoon.’
        ‘After the wedding,’ Lawrence Treherne muttered.
        ‘How was he killed?’
        ‘He was struck several times with a hammer. His face was very badly disfigured and but for his wallet and his passport, which was found in his safe, the police would have been unable to identify him.’
        ‘Cecily was most dreadfully upset,’ Lawrence cut in. ‘Well, we all were. It had been such a beautiful day. We had the wedding service in the garden and then lunch for a hundred guests. We couldn’t have asked for better weather. And all the time, we were unaware that in a room actually overlooking the marquee, he’d been lying there in a pool of his own blood.’
        ‘Cecily and Aiden had to postpone their honeymoon,’ Pauline added, a tremor of indignation still there in her voice even after all these years. ‘The police wouldn’t allow them to leave. They said there was no question of it even though it was clear the murder had nothing to do with them.’
        ‘Aiden is her husband?’
        ‘Aiden MacNeil. Yes. Our son-in-law. They were meant to be leaving on the Sunday morning for Antigua, but in the end it was two weeks before they were allowed to go and by then the police had arrested the killer, so there was really no need for such a long delay.’
        ‘So they knew who did it,’ I said.
        ‘Oh yes. It was all very straightforward,’ Lawrence explained. ‘It was actually someone we employed, a Romanian by the name of Stefan Codrescu. He was working as a general maintenance man and he lived in the hotel. He actually had a criminal record – we knew that when we employed him. In fact, it was rather the point, I’m afraid to say.’ His eyes flickered downwards. ‘My wife and I used to run a programme at the hotel. We employed young offenders – in the kitchen, cleaning, gardening – after they were released. We’re great believers in prison reform and giving young men and women a second chance. I’m sure you’re aware that the reoffending rate is astronomical. That’s because these people don’t get a chance to integrate themselves back into society. We worked closely with the probation service and they assured us that Stefan would be suitable for our programme.’ He sighed heavily. ‘They were wrong.’
        ‘Cecily believed in him,’ Pauline said.
        ‘She knew him?’
        ‘We have two daughters and they both work with us at the hotel. Cecily was the general manager when all this happened. In fact, she was the one who interviewed Stefan and employed him.’
        ‘She got married at the same hotel where she worked?’
        ‘Absolutely. It’s a family business. Our staff are part of our family. She wouldn’t think of having it anywhere else,’ Pauline said.
        ‘And she thought Stefan was innocent.’
        ‘To begin with, yes. She insisted on it. That’s the trouble with Cecily. She’s always been far too good-natured, too trusting, the sort who believes the best in everyone. But the evidence against Stefan was overwhelming. I don’t know where to begin. There were no fingerprints on the hammer… it had been wiped clean. But there was blood splatter on his clothes and on money – taken from the dead man – under his mattress. He was seen entering Frank Parris’s room. And any way, he confessed. When that happened, even Cecily had to admit that she was wrong and that was the end of it. She and Aiden went to Antigua. The hotel slowly returned to normal, although it took a long, long time and no one ever stayed in room twelve again. We use it for storage now. As I said, this all happened years ago and we thought it was behind us. But it seems not.’
        ‘So what happened?’ I asked. I was intrigued, despite myself.
        Lawrence took over. ‘Stefan was sentenced to life in prison and he’s still behind bars. Cecily wrote to him a couple of times but he never replied and I thought she’d forgotten him. She seemed perfectly happy running the hotel and also, of course, being with Aiden. She was twenty-six when they got married. Two years older than him. She’ll be thirty-four next month.’
        ‘Do they have any children?’
        ‘Yes. A little girl. Well, she’s seven now… Roxana.’
        ‘Our first granddaughter.’ Pauline’s voice faltered. ‘She’s a lovely child, everything we could have ever wanted.’
        ‘Pauline and I are semi-retired,’ Lawrence went on. ‘We have a house near Hyères in the South of France and we spend quite a bit of time down there. Anyway, a few days ago, Cecily rang us. I took the call. This would have been around two o’clock, French time. I could tell at once that Cecily sounded very upset. More than that, I’d say she was nervous. I don’t know where she was calling from, but this was a Tuesday so she was probably at the hotel. We normally have a bit of banter but she got straight to the point. She said she’d been thinking about what happened—’
        ‘The murder.’
        ‘Exactly. She said that she had been right all along and that Stefan Codrescu was not responsible for the crime. I asked her what she was talking about and she said she’d come across something in a book she’d been given. “It was right there – staring me in the face.” Those were her exact words. Anyway, she told me she’d already sent it to me and sure enough, it turned up the very next day.’
        He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a paperback. I recognised it at once – the picture on the cover, the typeface, the title – and at that moment, this entire meeting began to make sense.
        The book was Atticus Pünd Takes the Case, number three in the series written by Alan Conway that I had edited and published. I immediately recalled that it was largely set in a hotel, but in the county of Devon, not in Suffolk, and in 1953, not the present day. I remembered the launch party at the German embassy in London. Alan had had too much to drink and had insulted the ambassador.
        ‘Alan knew about the murder?’ I asked.
        ‘Oh yes. He came to the hotel and stayed a few nights, six weeks after it happened. We both met him. He told us that he had been a friend of the dead man, Frank Parris, and he asked us a lot of questions about the murder. He talked to our staff as well. We had absolutely no idea that he was going to turn the whole thing into an entertainment. If he’d been honest with us, we might have been more circumspect.’
        Which was exactly the reason he wasn’t honest with you, I thought.
        ‘You never read the book?’ I said.
        ‘We forgot all about it,’ Lawrence admitted. ‘And Mr Conway certainly never sent us a copy.’ He paused. ‘But Cecily read it and she found something that cast new light on what had happened at Branlow Hall… at least, that’s what she believed.’ He glanced at his wife as if seeking her approbation. ‘Pauline and I have both read the book and we can’t see any connection.’
        ‘There are similarities,’ Pauline said. ‘Firstly, nearly all the characters are recognisable, clearly based on people that Mr Conway met in Woodbridge. They even have the same names… or very similar ones. But what I don’t understand is that he seems to have taken pleasure in twisting people so that they come out like horrible caricatures of themselves. The owners of the Moonflower, which is the hotel in the book, are clearly based on Lawrence and myself, for example. But they’re both crooks. Why would he do that? We’ve never done anything dishonest in our lives.’ She seemed more indignant than upset. The way she was looking at me, it was almost as if I was to blame.
        ‘In answer to your question, we had no idea the book had been published,’ she went on. ‘I don’t read murder mysteries myself. Neither of us does. Sajid Khan told us that Mr Conway is no longer alive. Maybe that’s just as well because if he were, we might be very tempted to take legal action.’
        ‘So let me get this straight,’ I said. I had the sense of facts tumbling on top of each other, yet I knew there was something they hadn’t told me. ‘You believe that maybe, despite all the evidence, not to mention the confession, Stefan Codrescu did not kill Frank Parris and that Alan Conway came to the hotel and discovered – in a matter of days – who the real killer was. He then somehow identified that person in Atticus Pünd Takes the Case.’
        ‘Exactly.’
        ‘But that makes no sense at all, Pauline. If he knew the killer and there was an innocent man in prison, surely Alan would have gone straight to the police! Why would he turn it into a work of fiction?’
        ‘That’s precisely why we’re here, Susan. From what Sajid Khan told us, you knew Alan Conway better than anyone. You edited the book. If there is something in there, I can’t think of anyone more likely to find it.’
        ‘Wait a minute.’ Suddenly I knew what was missing. ‘This all started when your daughter spotted something in Atticus Pünd Takes the Case. Was she the only one who read it before she sent it to you?’
        ‘I don’t know.’
        ‘But what was it she saw? Why didn’t you just call her and ask her what she meant?’
        It was Lawrence Treherne who answered my question. ‘Of course we called her,’ he said. ‘We both read the book and then we rang her several times from France. Finally we got through to Aiden and he told us what had happened.’ He paused. ‘It seems that our daughter has disappeared.’