Close to Death

‘Juvenilia and Short Stories.’ Hawthorne was toying with a cigarette, but he’d had the good grace not to light it. ‘Anyway, there are things you’ve left out that are important.’

‘Such as?’

‘The Union Jack in Giles Kenworthy’s garden. The lighting in Roderick Browne’s house. The state of May Winslow’s flower beds.’

‘Why are any of them relevant?’

‘They’re all clues.’

‘Well, how can I possibly know that when you haven’t even arrived on the scene? And the sooner you arrive the better, by the way. So far, we’ve got a murder mystery with no murder and no one to solve the mystery. Graham’s not going to like it.’ Graham was Graham Lucas, my editor at Penguin Random House. If he’d had his way, Giles Kenworthy would have died in the first paragraph.

‘And why do you say there was a life jacket in Roderick Browne’s garage?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It’s reasonable enough. He’d been a member of the Richmond Bridge Boat Club. He said so!’

‘There were a lot of things in that garage that really mattered. But he didn’t have a life jacket. Not one that I saw.’

‘I put it in there so people wouldn’t focus on the crossbow.’

‘I’m sorry?’

I sighed. ‘It’s the narrative principle known as Chekhov’s gun. If I simply mention there’s a crossbow in Roderick’s garage, it’ll be obvious that it’s going to be used as the murder weapon.’

‘So why mention it at all?’

‘Because it would be unfair not to! What I’ve done, though, is I’ve disguised it by adding the life jacket and the golf clubs. That way, it might still come as a surprise.’ I watched the cigarette Hawthorne was still twisting between his fingers. ‘Go ahead and light the bloody thing,’ I snapped. I got up and opened a window. ‘Aren’t you worried about your health?’

‘I’m more worried about your prose style, mate.’ Hawthorne flicked his lighter and drew in a lungful of smoke. ‘I mean, reading this, do you really get the position of the houses and what you could see from one to the other? You’ve got to get that right.’

‘We could put a map in at the beginning. Would that make you happy?’

‘It would certainly cheer up some of your readers. I’m not saying it’s confusing, but going through this, I’m not sure I could deliver the mail.’

All my life I’ve been getting notes. I get them from producers in London and New York, from directors, from Jill, from lead actors . . . even, on occasions, from their partners. My books are scrutinised by editors and copy editors and (more recently) sensitivity readers. I sometimes feel that I’m surrounded by notes, like a cloud of midges. But I never lose my temper. I always try to see the alternative point of view.

It wasn’t easy with Hawthorne.

‘I’ll ask Graham to put a map in,’ I said. ‘But he won’t like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s an extra cost. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes. There is one thing. You say that the barrister – Andrew Pennington – played bridge with the Brownes.’

‘He did.’

‘But he also played with friends who lived outside Riverview Close.’

That was one note too many. ‘Are you really telling me that was relevant to the murder?’ I exploded.

‘That meeting you describe, when all the neighbours got together, which took place on a Monday. Andrew Pennington played bridge every Monday and Wednesday and he had to cancel a game to be there.’

‘So he killed Giles Kenworthy for not showing up? He was upset he’d cancelled his game for no good reason?’

Hawthorne looked at me sadly. ‘Of course not. You’re missing the point.’

‘Well, since I don’t know exactly how or when Giles Kenworthy died, I’m not sure what the point is.’

I stopped. There was one thing Hawthorne had said that worried me slightly. It might be true that the book needed some action. I didn’t want to spend another ten thousand words describing the joys of suburban life.

‘When did he die?’ I asked.

‘You know the answer to that,’ Hawthorne said. ‘You’ve already written it.’

‘Six weeks later.’

‘Yes.’

‘Six weeks after the meeting at The Stables.’

‘Exactly.’ Hawthorne looked around him for an ashtray and found a hollow silver acorn that he used to deposit his ash. It was a children’s book award I’d been given about twenty years before. ‘I got a call from the investigating officer – DS Khan.’

‘Why did he think he needed you?’

Hawthorne gazed at me. ‘Tony, mate! A multimillionaire was found dead in a posh London suburb with a crossbow bolt stuck in his throat. Every single one of his neighbours wanted him dead. It was pretty obvious this wasn’t an ordinary case. It was a sticker if ever there was one, and frankly, the local plod had as much chance of solving it as . . . well, you!’

‘Thanks.’

‘I got the call the same day the body was found. Me and John Dudley.’

‘So what happened next?’

Three

Six Weeks Later

1

Detective Superintendent Tariq Khan had realised straight away that the murder of Giles Kenworthy would be like nothing he had ever investigated and that it might threaten what had so far been an unblemished career.