Close to Death

Sarah reached into her jeans pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. She was wondering whether to answer. ‘I was stitched up,’ she said, at length. ‘I did six months at Feltham. Burglary.’

‘And?’

‘Two years at New Hall, Wakefield. I hurt someone in a pub.’

‘Hurt?’

‘I put a glass in his face. He deserved it.’

Hawthorne sighed. ‘They always do.’

‘That was three years ago.’ Sarah scowled. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Well, someone has just been shot with a crossbow,’ Dudley said. ‘So it might be a tiny bit relevant.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Khan.’

‘Detective Superintendent Khan to you, I think.’

‘He knows who I am, what I’ve done. I didn’t murder anyone and if he thought I had, why would I still be free?’

‘Why did May Winslow recommend you for the job?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Because she’s a decent sort – not a hard bastard like you.’ She took a breath. ‘I was looking for work,’ she went on. ‘I was knocking on doors all over Richmond, but nobody trusts anybody any more. She was the only one who listened to me. She took me in, and one after another all the others followed.’

‘Why Richmond?’

‘Richmond is full of rich people – or haven’t you noticed? I did an Open College Network course in farms and gardens at New Hall and I’ve always been good with my hands. I’m doing all right here. I don’t need to steal Rolexes and if you think otherwise, you’re as stupid as Giles Kenworthy.’

‘You sent Roderick Browne a text this morning,’ Dudley said. ‘What was that about?’

‘His petunias need watering.’

‘You really know anything about petunias?’ He pointed to the flowers on the compost heap. ‘You’ve cut half of them down.’

She shrugged. ‘The lawnmower’s twenty years out of date. It’s got a mind of its own.’

Sarah Baines had decided that the interview was over. She put her gloves back on, picked up the wheelbarrow and headed towards the other side of the garden. The cigarette was still in her mouth.

‘Benson and Hedges at eight quid a pack,’ Dudley muttered. ‘She’s doing all right for herself.’

The two of them walked round past the well. Hawthorne briefly peered into the tunnel of ancient brickwork but said nothing. They continued through a gate that led back to the close.

‘You want to wait for the two old ladies?’ Dudley asked. ‘And Dr Beresford?’

Hawthorne shook his head. ‘I think we’ve done enough for one day. How do we get a taxi out of here?’

‘The station’s five minutes away.’

‘I don’t like tube trains.’

They set off, walking up the hill towards the town centre. It was late afternoon and the close was empty and silent, the shadows lengthening. At that moment, with no cars parked, no police officers present and everything bathed in golden light, it could have inspired the cover of one of the books sold at The Tea Cosy. One murder had already taken place, but now there was a hushed expectancy, a feeling of evil in the air, and it would be easy to imagine that the stage had been set for another.

Four

Fenchurch International

1

Hawthorne was as unhappy with the second instalment as he had been with the first . . . and I hadn’t even shown him the whole thing. I had deliberately kept back one or two sections that I knew he wouldn’t like and there were some parts I hadn’t written yet. I would add them later.

Our next session was particularly awkward. The weather didn’t help. It was another one of those uncomfortably warm days that occasionally take hold of London, a city that was never really built to handle intense weather, so we had met on the balcony of my Clerkenwell flat, where a line of olive trees separated us from the traffic and there was at least a hint of a breeze. A fountain that had looked good in the catalogue but in fact resembled an oversized latrine tinkled to one side, providing an illusion of coolness.

Hawthorne didn’t like the way I was writing the story. Perhaps neither of us had quite understood the power of the third person. I was describing what people were saying, thinking, where they had come from, how other people saw them – even though, unlike Hawthorne, I had never met them. I was using the notes, pictures and recordings that he had given me, but I was interpreting them my own way and he was insisting that was a departure from the truth. So which one of us was actually in control? We were beginning to see that neither of us was. It was as if the characters themselves had taken control.

I still had absolutely no idea who had committed the murder.