Close to Death

There were fewer police around, but this was the second day of their inquiry and they had things wrapped up – quite literally in the case of the forensic teams, who were carrying out the last pieces of evidence concealed in white plastic. Everything else would have gone the day before: clothing, computers, documents and files, anything that might have a story to tell. Hawthorne and Dudley had both been in this world once, following the procedures set out in Blackstone’s Police Investigators’ Manual, volumes 1–4. Now, for different reasons, they had been cast adrift, unnoticed on the edge of the crime scene.

Dudley watched the slightly listless activity in silence. With the afternoon sun shining and everything so perfect, surrounded by designer houses with their stock-brick chimneys, Dutch gables and flowering jasmine, there was an unreality to the scene.

‘Look at them,’ he muttered. ‘This has got to be the unlikeliest place in the world for a murder. When you think about it, the worst crime you could imagine happening here would be someone borrowing someone else’s lawnmower without asking permission.’

Detective Superintendent Khan appeared, coming out of the long, narrow building that stretched across the bottom end of the close. He was accompanied by a man who was supporting himself on a walking stick, limping badly. The man, dressed rather too warmly for the summer weather, was short, neatly bearded, vaguely professorial, with thinning hair and spectacles. He seemed unusually relaxed, as if the two of them had been discussing the cricket season rather than the violent death of a local resident. Khan waved them over.

‘This is Daniel Hawthorne and John Dudley,’ he said, once they’d arrived. ‘They’re colleagues of mine. Helping us with our inquiries.’ He must have had a successful morning, Hawthorne thought. He was almost friendly. ‘How’s it going?’ Khan asked.

‘Swimmingly,’ Dudley said.

Khan scowled. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Adam Strauss. He lives in The Stables. He knows quite a bit about the neighbourhood.’

‘You played a brilliant game against Kramnik in the World Chess Championship last year,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Move seventy-two. A rook manoeuvre when you were two pawns down. Nobody could have seen that coming.’

Strauss beamed. ‘In a game at that level, you have to look ten moves ahead, Mr Hawthorne. Kramnik helped me, sacrificing his bishop on move sixty. Do you play chess?’

‘No. But my son’s crazy about it. He’s only fourteen, but he likes to read magazines with me.’

‘Maybe you have a chess prodigy on your hands.’

‘I doubt it. It’s chess one week, BMX bikes the next.’

Khan had been listening to this conversation with a sense of disbelief. He didn’t even know Hawthorne had a child. ‘Mr Hawthorne is asking some follow-up questions,’ he interrupted. ‘You’ve been very helpful to me, Mr Strauss, but would you mind having a chat with him too? A second perspective always helps.’

Strauss didn’t hesitate. ‘It would be my pleasure, Mr Hawthorne. Come in and have a cup of tea. I’m sure my wife will be delighted to meet you.’

Leaning heavily on his stick, he led the way into the main room, which stretched the full length of the building. A woman was sitting demurely on a sofa with an iPad on her lap, but she stood up as they came in. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress and leather thong sandals, a necklace of black pearls and gold clip-on earrings. Khan had already told Hawthorne that she was Hong Kong Chinese. He would have been less able to describe the steeliness behind her smile, the way she quickly weighed up the new visitors and came to a conclusion that she seemed determined to keep to herself.

‘This is my wife, Teri.’

‘More police officers?’ Teri was not pleased.

‘Daniel Hawthorne and John Dudley.’ Strauss was more convivial. ‘They’re helping the police. I’ve spoken to Mr Khan, and we should give them any help we can. This is an awful business – but the worst of it is that, like it or not, the shadow of suspicion has fallen on all of us. It’s clear the police believe someone living in the close may have been responsible, and as absurd as it sounds, that’s an intolerable situation. I just want to get back to normal.’ Strauss limped over to a sofa and sat down. ‘Let’s have some tea.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Jasmine or English breakfast?’ Taking her cue from her husband, Teri had risen – almost levitated – to her feet. Now she was the smiling hostess.

‘Builder’s will be fine,’ Dudley said.

Teri glided into the kitchen. She could still take part in the conversation as she set about making the tea, filling the pot with one of those taps providing instant boiling water.

‘Have you worked with Superintendent Khan before?’ Strauss asked.

‘First time,’ Hawthorne said.

‘So you are . . . what? Private detectives?’

‘You could say that.’