Close to Death

A taxi pulled up at the archway just after nine o’clock and two men got out. Khan was waiting on the other side, holding a cardboard file. He was glad to see that the press people had disappeared. There was still something about getting outside help that troubled him, as did the sight of the taxi. Was that going to be charged to expenses? Khan had called Hawthorne the night before and had been surprised how cheerful he had sounded at his end of the line, as if he had been expecting the call. Khan had quickly gone through what had happened in Riverview Close. In broad strokes, he had described the various residents: age, profession, ethnicity, what they had told him, what he believed. So far, it didn’t add up to very much. Now that Hawthorne was here, would he be able to do any better?

Quickly, he made his assessment of the man he’d called in to help.

Hawthorne was a diminutive figure, oddly dressed in a suit and a loose raincoat despite the warm July weather, looking around him with eyes that seemed to absorb and analyse every detail, a face that gave nothing away. His hair was short, neatly brushed, of no particular colour. He was in his mid to late thirties, although it was difficult to be sure as there was something childlike about his appearance. Khan had begun his career as a juvenile protection officer and in some strange way Hawthorne reminded him of some of the victims he had met.

The person he had brought with him was equally puzzling. He seemed an unlikely partner for Hawthorne, keeping his distance and taking less interest in his surroundings – as if he was bored by it all. He was about the same age, with sloping shoulders and long, lank hair, untidily dressed in ill-fitting corduroy trousers, a jacket with patches on the elbows and scuffed shoes. He hadn’t shaved that morning and the lower part of his pale, oblong face was covered with stubble. Everything about him had an air of carelessness. He had the appearance of a man who didn’t know how to look after himself or who couldn’t be bothered, and Khan thought that if he hadn’t been in the company of Hawthorne, he wouldn’t have allowed him anywhere near a crime scene.

Hawthorne saw the detective superintendent and walked over, his companion a few steps behind. Already, Khan was wondering if he hadn’t made a mistake. He took Hawthorne’s outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

‘Thank you for inviting me. This is John Dudley.’

The other man nodded vaguely.

‘I take it that’s the house where Giles Kenworthy lived.’ Hawthorne pointed at Riverview Lodge.

‘Yes. That’s right.’ For a brief moment, Khan allowed his irritation to get the better of him. ‘I need to get one thing straight before we go in,’ he said. ‘You’re working for me. I hope you understand. The moment you find anything, I want to know. And you’re to hold nothing back.’

‘Don’t worry, mate. That’s my job – to tell you what you’ve missed.’

‘I don’t think I’ve missed anything so far. And I’d prefer it if you addressed me as Detective Superintendent.’

They began to walk towards the house.

‘Mr Kenworthy was killed on Monday night at around eleven o’clock,’ Khan began. ‘I’ll send you a copy of the pathologist’s report. A single crossbow bolt, fired at close range, penetrated his cricoid cartilage and buried itself in his throat. They took the body yesterday, but I’ve got some of the photographs here. Death was caused by haemorrhagic shock.’

‘Were the cricothyroid or cricotracheal ligaments severed?’ Dudley asked.

‘No.’

‘Then it wasn’t his kids who killed him!’

Khan wondered if he was joking. ‘How do you work that one out?’

‘The bolt didn’t slant up or down. It must have been fired by someone of about his own height.’

‘The kids aren’t suspects.’ Khan scowled. ‘In fact, they’ve got a rock-solid alibi. They’re at a local prep school which does a couple of nights’ boarding each week. They weren’t at home. Probably just as well.’

‘Was Kenworthy on his own?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Yes. His wife was having dinner with a friend. She was the one who discovered the body. She’s upstairs now . . . and not in a good way. They also have a Filipino housekeeper, but she’s on annual leave, in her own country. She’s not expected back for another week. Then there’s a part-time chauffeur. We’re talking to him and we’ll let you know if he’s got anything to say.’

‘When did the wife get in?’

‘Twenty past eleven on Monday night. The door was half-open, which puzzled her. Her husband was on the other side, blood everywhere. She screamed the house down and that woke up the neighbours. Must have made a change from the parties and the car stereo and all the other things they were complaining about.’

They had reached the front door, where a uniformed policeman stood to one side. But before they went in, Khan stopped. ‘We haven’t talked money,’ he said.

Hawthorne looked offended. ‘We don’t need to, Detective Superintendent.’