Close to Death

‘Can we have his name?’ Dudley had produced a small notebook, which he was holding in front of him. He had somehow assumed that the friend was male and Lynda didn’t disappoint him.

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘You’re going to have to tell us sooner or later, love.’ It was always a mistake taking on Hawthorne. When he was at his sweetest and most reasonable, that was when he was most dangerous. ‘You got back after eleven o’clock. That’s time for a lot of laughs.’

‘It was horrible! The door was open. And he was lying there . . . !’

‘Who were you with?’ Hawthorne insisted.

Lynda reached for another tissue. ‘His name is Jean-François. He’s my French teacher.’

‘You’re learning French?’

‘Giles was talking about buying a place in Antibes.’

‘Mais malhereusement, cela n’arrivera pas,’ Dudley muttered.

Lynda stared at him. ‘What?’

3

Khan was unimpressed with the interrogation he had just witnessed. It seemed to him that Hawthorne had been unnecessarily hostile and had learned very little that Khan didn’t already know.

‘I’ve got things to do, so I’m going to let you get on with it,’ he said as they left the Kenworthys’ house. ‘We allowed Dr Beresford to leave for work . . . NHS doctor and all that. And the two old ladies – May Winslow and Phyllis Moore – own some sort of gift shop in Richmond. I thought they were better off out of it too.’

‘Not on your suspect list?’ Hawthorne asked.

Khan ignored him. ‘All the others are at home and you can talk to the whole lot of them, but I think it would be better if you didn’t mention you’re freelance. Just say you’re part of my support team or something. And maybe you could try to be a little more sympathetic? These people are in shock.’

‘One of them may not be,’ Dudley said.

But Khan was already walking away, catching up with DC Goodwin, who had just arrived in a police car.

Dudley watched him go. ‘Where do you want to start?’ he asked.

‘The murder weapon belonged to Roderick Browne,’ Hawthorne replied.

‘I don’t like dentists,’ Dudley sighed.

They walked the short distance across the courtyard and rang the bell of Woodlands, the last house in the terrace of three. The door opened almost at once, as if Roderick Browne had been waiting for them on the other side. He looked ill. He clearly wasn’t going into work today and had forsaken his morning routine, not shaving, not picking out the right tie, not even flossing. He had pulled on a crumpled shirt that ballooned over his trousers. Looking at him, with his pink face and cloud of white hair, Dudley was reminded of something you might win at a funfair. At the same time, the way he was gazing at them, he could have just stepped off the ghost train.

He had been expecting Khan and looked at Hawthorne with bewilderment. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Browne?’

‘Yes. Yes . . . That’s me.’

‘My name’s Hawthorne. I’m helping the police with this inquiry. This is my assistant, John Dudley. Can we come in?’

‘Of course you can. I spoke to the police yesterday, but if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

He stood back and allowed them to enter a hallway which had an elegance and formality that might have mirrored the reception area of his clinic in Cadogan Square. Everything was very neat. A faux-antique chest of drawers stood against the back wall, with a small pile of magazines next to an art deco lamp. A photograph in a silver frame had been carefully placed to one side so that it was hard to miss. It showed Roderick standing next to Ewan McGregor, presumably one of his celebrity clients. Two wooden chairs had been positioned symmetrically, one on either side of the front door, and Hawthorne noticed a suitcase perched on one of them, with a woman’s light raincoat draped over the top. Roderick led them into the kitchen, which provided a complete contrast to the entrance: everything modern, white and silver, too brightly lit, and so clean it might never have been used. A true dentist’s kitchen. There was a window at the far end with views towards the Kenworthys’ garden.

‘Has anyone said anything?’ Roderick asked before they had even sat down. He hadn’t offered either of them a coffee. He didn’t look in any fit state to make it.

‘Are you talking about your neighbours?’ Hawthorne took a seat at the head of the table that stretched out in front of the window.

‘Yes.’

‘That seems a very strange question to ask, Mr Browne.’

‘Do you think so? I was just wondering if you’d talked to any of them and if they’d said anything . . .’

‘About you?’

‘No! About Giles Kenworthy. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Hawthorne. For something like this to happen, not just in the close but right next door to me . . . and with my crossbow! As you can imagine, the whole thing is a complete nightmare and I find it hard to know what to think. Do you have any suspects?’

‘I would say that everyone who lives here is a suspect, Mr Browne.’ Hawthorne paused. ‘Including you.’