Close to Death

The material he’d given me did not include the arrest report and I’d probably need to meet him three or four more times to get to the end of the book. At this stage, I couldn’t even be certain that the story would be worth telling. For example, I was very much hoping that Sarah Baines wasn’t going to be revealed as the killer. With her prison record, her tattoos and her possible involvement in the death of Ellery, she was frankly too obvious a suspect and if it did turn out to be her, the solution would be much less of a surprise than if it was, say, Andrew Pennington who was revealed. Unfortunately, things seemed to be pointing that way. She had access to the garage. She knew about the crossbow. She had just lost her job. I also wondered how she had managed to sweet-talk an old lady who was also an ex-nun into giving her the job in the first place.

Sitting on my terrace, Hawthorne poured himself a black coffee and lit his first cigarette. Curiously, what upset him most was the way I’d described John Dudley. He still hadn’t answered any of the questions about the man I had effectively replaced and he was as reluctant to talk about him as he was to tell me anything about himself. I’d scribbled a series of questions on a sheet of paper. How long had they known each other? Where did they meet? Where was he now? What had happened to Dudley in Bristol? I was still waiting for the opportunity to ask them.

‘You’ve got him all wrong, mate,’ Hawthorne said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well . . . the description. Scruffy, sloping shoulders, lank hair. What does “lank” mean, anyway?’

‘It means limp. Lifeless.’

‘That’s wrong for a start. There was nothing wrong with his hair. And why do you say he wore scuffed shoes? John always wore trainers.’

‘Well, I may have just imagined the shoes, but I think the general picture is accurate.’ I searched around all the documents spread out on the table in front of us and pulled out a photograph. It was the only picture of Dudley I had found in the bundle he had given me. It must have been taken by a police photographer and showed Hawthorne and Dudley standing outside Riverview Lodge. Khan was in the background too, slightly out of focus.

‘His hair definitely looks a bit lank,’ I said. ‘Those trousers of his are shapeless. And I’ve heard his voice on the recordings. I think my description fits him pretty well.’

‘You keep trying to make him seem stupid. Yes, he had a strange sense of humour. But I’m telling you, he was sharp as a knife. In fact, I’d never have solved the case without him.’

‘So you did solve it!’

‘Of course I solved it. You think I’d be sitting here talking about it if I hadn’t? But Dudley was always on the money. He was the one who saw the packed suitcase in the hallway of the dentist’s house, for example. Not me. That turned out to be important. And he also worked out that Sarah Baines had been in prison.’ He paused. ‘I know you’ve been out with me a few times and you’ve never noticed a thing. In fact, you’ve helped the killers more than you’ve helped me. But he’s not the same.’

‘So what happened?’ I asked. I refused to rise to the bait. ‘If he’s so brilliant, how come he’s not working with you any more? Why did you have to come to me?’

‘I came to you because Peter James turned me down.’

‘Only Peter James? I thought you approached half the crime writers in London!’

‘I approached a few of them.’

‘That’s not the point. What I’m asking is – where is he?’

‘I already told you. I haven’t seen him for a while.’ He looked at me angrily. ‘Maybe this is a mistake.’ He contemplated his cigarette. ‘But it’s not too late to stop.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s about forty thousand words too late! I’m not stopping now.’ I forced myself to calm down. ‘Why can’t I meet him?’ I asked.

‘Why would you want to?’

‘To get his side of the story.’

Hawthorne shook his head. ‘You don’t need it. You’ve got mine.’ His voice was bleak. He was warning me not to argue.

‘Well, at least tell me this. How did you meet him?’

‘It’s not relevant.’

‘I’m the one writing the book, Hawthorne. Maybe I should decide what’s relevant or not.’

‘He’d been a police officer, but he was on sick leave. He came to London. We met.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

‘That’s all I’m going to tell you.’

‘Then maybe you should go back to Peter James.’

We had never argued like this before. There was a brief silence while we glowered at each other. I decided to change the subject.

‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘If you won’t talk about John Dudley, let’s talk about you and what was going on in your head.’ I took out another page of notes. ‘Khan had telephoned you. You went round to Riverview Close. You talked to Lynda Kenworthy, Roderick Browne, Gemma Beresford, Andrew Pennington, Adam Strauss and his wife. You didn’t meet May Winslow and Phyllis Moore because they were at their bookshop . . . but I’m not sure they were suspects anyway. So here’s the question. At this stage, on the first day of your investigation, had you guessed who did it?’