A Line to Kill

Hawthorne was less discreet. ‘Haven’t you got it in your head yet, mate? Torode hasn’t got a clue and if he did have one, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. You heard what he said! He’s not going to solve this case. He’s got more chance of finding the meat in his shepherd’s pie than he has of working out who killed le Mesurier. And it probably matters more to him too.’

Terry laughed at that. I was right. He was listening to every word.

Judith and Colin Matheson lived with their three children in a converted barn whose true glory should have been the gardens that surrounded it – and in particular an immaculate lawn that sloped gently down from the edge of the building to the road. But as we drew in, we saw that the lawn had been desecrated. Someone had recently taken a spade to it and gouged out six letters, each one about two metres in length, the fresh earth spelling out a familiar message:

BAN NAB

The work had been done quickly, perhaps under the cover of darkness. The first N was twisted on its side and the final B was too big. It was a particularly ugly piece of vandalism, given how much care had been put into the rest of the garden. Hawthorne and I both saw it as we walked up to the front door but neither of us said anything, as if it would be somehow indecent to comment.

Colin Matheson had seen us arrive and opened the door before we rang the bell. He looked utterly worn out. The first time I’d seen him, he’d reminded me of a junior doctor. Now he was more like an undertaker. ‘I wondered if I might see you today,’ he said – to Hawthorne, not to me. ‘Is it true what I’m hearing about Helen?’

‘She’s disappeared. Yes.’

‘They haven’t found her yet?’

‘They’re looking.’

‘Please come in.’ But Hawthorne stood where he was, examining the garden. He didn’t need to ask anything. Matheson volunteered. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? Someone did this on Saturday morning while Judith was out with Lucy, our youngest. She has horse-riding lessons every weekend and our other two are at boarding school, so I expect they knew that the house would be empty. When she got back, this is what she found. I was actually with you when she rang.’

So this explained why Judith Matheson hadn’t come to hear me and Hawthorne give our talk. I had some issues at home. That was what she had said, and Matheson had been deliberately vague about it too.

‘I know the point they’re making,’ he went on. ‘Digging up my garden just like those cables George Elkin was going on about. But it all seems so personal, so vindictive. I wish I’d never heard of that bloody power line. I thought it would benefit the island. I thought it would help secure our future. But all it’s done is tear us apart. I don’t think this place will ever be the same again.’

He turned his back on us and walked into the house. We followed him into a wide hallway that ran all the way to the garden at the back, with a flight of stairs twisting round to the first floor. The house was elegant, classical, with landscapes and horse pictures on the walls, nineteenth-century furniture (real, not repro) and everywhere a sense of neatness and order.

‘Who is it?’ a voice called out.

‘It’s Mr Hawthorne, dear.’

‘Oh.’ A door opened and Judith Matheson strode out of the kitchen, wearing an apron, drying a plate. She saw us. ‘You didn’t say you were coming,’ she said accusingly.

‘Well, I’m investigating a murder and now a woman has gone missing, so I wasn’t exactly waiting for an invitation,’ Hawthorne replied.

Judith processed this. She gave the plate another couple of wipes. ‘Take them into the drawing room, Colin,’ she said.

You can probably tell a lot about a house by whether it has a drawing room, a living room or a lounge … certainly about the people who live in it. A few minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on high-backed, remarkably uncomfortable sofas that surrounded a coffee table, with gold mirrors and more horse pictures on the walls. A faded grand piano stood to one side and I noticed books of Grade 2 piano music – the first suggestion that there were actually children who also inhabited this house – scattered over the top. The curtains had been drawn across the windows that would have looked out over the front garden, but I could see a greenhouse and vegetable patch round the side.

For a few minutes we chatted aimlessly to Colin, whose role, it seemed, was to keep us occupied without saying anything of any significance. Then Judith reappeared, carrying coffee and biscuits on a tray. We hadn’t asked for them. Maybe it was her way of making everything feel normal.

‘You’ve seen the garden,’ she said, before she’d even sat down. ‘It’s a wicked thing to have done. Just wicked!’

‘Actually, we’re here about the murder, Mrs Matheson,’ Hawthorne reminded her.