A Line to Kill

It was time for dinner and I wondered if we might eat together, not that I had much appetite after everything that had happened that day. The drinks came and we sipped them in a silence that might, I suppose, have been called companionable. The argument we’d had just before we’d visited Derek Abbott had been forgotten and it seemed to me as good a moment as any to press him for some of the information that always seemed to be just out of my grasp.

‘When we were doing our event together, you said that you didn’t have any brothers or sisters,’ I began. ‘But when we were in London, you mentioned that you had a half-brother who was an estate agent.’ I waited for him to comment. He said nothing. ‘Did one of your parents remarry?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Are they still alive?’

‘No.’ The monosyllables were in stark contrast to his performance in front of an audience. They also made no sense. How was it possible to have a half-brother if his parents had never remarried?

‘What did your father do?’ I tried again. ‘Was he a police officer?’

‘No.’ Hawthorne had lost patience. ‘I don’t really like talking about myself.’

‘You did well enough when you were on the stage.’

‘Well, that was different – and it’s not going to happen again.’ He paused. ‘You can do the next one on your own.’

‘I think people are more interested in you than they are in me.’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘That’s not true.’

‘It is. Even Colin Matheson got it right when he introduced you. He said you were the real thing. Why do you think there are so many detective stories? People are fascinated by detectives, by what you do. I am too. It’s one of the reasons why I agreed to follow you around.’ I picked up my drink. ‘I’m sorry I got angry with you when we went to visit Derek Abbott. We’ve just got to try to be more of a team.’

Hawthorne considered what I’d just said, but before he had time to reply, the door opened and Torode and Whitlock came in. They came straight over to us and sat down.

‘I was hoping to find you here,’ Torode said. He looked as if he was off duty, wearing a jersey that was one size too big for him. It hung off his chest in softly undulating folds. Whitlock was in uniform. Perhaps she had forgotten to pack anything else.

Torode eyed our drinks. ‘Who’s buying?’

‘You are,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Well, that’s not very friendly – but never mind.’ He called out to the bar. ‘A pint of best, please. And what will you have, Whitlock?’

‘A tomato juice, please, sir.’

The barman acknowledged him and Torode turned back to us. ‘I’ve got a few things to tell you, starting with Maïssa Lamar.’

‘We already know about OLAF,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Yes. That was a bit of a turn-up for the books, don’t you think? Or for the book!’ He smiled at me. ‘I had her boss on the phone just now and he didn’t give me any choice. I had to let her leave. Anyway, it’s one suspect less, so I suppose that’s something to be grateful for. And while we’re on the subject of suspects, Hawthorne … You’re not going to like this, but we’re going to have to let all the other writers go too.’

Hawthorne didn’t look particularly put out. ‘Is that a good idea?’ he asked. ‘One of them might have committed two murders – Helen le Mesurier just a few hours ago.’

‘That’s true. But we can’t keep them locked up on Alderney for ever and I can’t see any of them committing a double murder. Mr Pastry, perhaps, with his steak and kidney puddings? Or Mrs Fizzbang? Whitlock here can’t wait to get home.’

‘I wish I’d never come,’ Whitlock said, looking as miserable as ever.

‘I know! I know!’ Torode shook his head. ‘As for the others, I imagine you’ve had a chance to talk to the whole lot of them by now. Any thoughts?’ The barman brought over the drinks. ‘Put them on his room.’ Torode pointed at me and lifted his glass. ‘Cheers!’

Whitlock stared at her tomato juice but didn’t touch it.

‘I’ll make sure you’ve got all their addresses and contact numbers,’ Torode went on. ‘But if your reputation’s anything to go by, you’ve probably worked it out by now anyway. If not, this might help.’ He produced a second envelope, just like the one Whitlock had given us the evening before. ‘Mrs le Mesurier’s medical report. No surprises there. Blunt trauma. Three blows more or less caved in the skull, leading to massive haemorrhaging. There was enough blood swilling around in there to fill a coconut.’

Whitlock looked up from the tomato juice. Her face had gone pale. ‘Excuse me, sir …’ She hurried out of the room.

Torode watched her leave. ‘Sorry about that. She’s done nothing but complain since I brought her here. I won’t make that mistake again.’

‘What happens to the money?’ Hawthorne asked.