Close to Death

‘I have his photograph.’ I took out the picture I had been given by Hawthorne. It showed the two of them together. ‘This was taken five years ago. John Dudley is standing on the left. The man who’s with him is called Daniel Hawthorne.’

‘Mr Hawthorne can’t help you?’

‘He won’t help me. He doesn’t want me to meet Dudley.’ Morton had only glanced at the photograph. He didn’t seem to have recognised Hawthorne and hadn’t reacted at all to his name.

‘Where was this taken?’ he asked.

‘Riverview Close. It’s a private street in Richmond.’

He laid the picture down. ‘I’d have thought it would be a simple matter to find him,’ he said.

‘For you, perhaps. But I’m certain that Hawthorne works for you. Lady Barraclough told me that she met him. I’d be interested to know anything you can tell me about him.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘I want to know how his parents died and what happened in Reeth.’

That was the moment when the pretence ended. I saw it in his eyes: a flash of intelligence, even cruelty. Alistair Morton had known who I was before I even walked into the room. All along, he’d been toying with me, seeing where this was going to lead. We looked at each other like two actors who have come to the end of a rehearsal and can now put down their lines.

‘Hawthorne isn’t going to be pleased that you came here,’ he said.

‘You know who I am.’

‘You think we’d just let anyone walk in here?’ Now he was having less trouble with his breathing. ‘Who do you think we are? The second you emailed us from your wife’s computer, we knew everything about her – who she was married to and therefore, obviously, who and what you were. For what it’s worth, you also gave us access to the financial accounts of her film production company for the last seven years, her personal bank details, all her email correspondence and seven thousand, two hundred and thirty family snaps. If I were you, I’d think twice before doing that again.’

‘Does Kevin Chakraborty work for you?’ I asked.

He ignored this. ‘We know all about you too. Born in Stanmore in 1955. Unhappy schooldays – you seem to have talked about that at quite worrisome length. Both parents dead of cancer. You ought to have regular scans.’

‘How do you know I don’t?’

‘Your wife, your sons, your Labrador . . . everything. Did you really think it was a good idea walking in here, pretending to be a client?’

‘Well, it seems to have worked,’ I said. ‘I’ve managed to meet you.’

‘You needn’t have bothered. I was going to call you anyway. I was thinking we might have a drink.’

‘You’ve read my books about Hawthorne?’

‘I’ve read all four of them. I can’t say I enjoyed them.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Then I remembered. ‘The last one hasn’t been published yet!’

‘I want you to understand that I’m not at all happy about this project of yours: you and Hawthorne. I was very annoyed that he came to you with the idea in the first place. I don’t want to be part of your narrative. In my business, we like to keep a low profile. In fact, no profile at all is preferable.’

‘What exactly is your business?’ I asked.

‘Security.’ He made it sound obvious. ‘I’ve also read some of the book you’re writing at the moment. Do you have a title yet?’

‘I’m thinking about Death Comes to a Close.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘It’s a play on words.’

‘I see that. But it doesn’t really make any sense. It’s life that normally comes to a close. How about Close to Death? That’s a little more direct.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that it really matters. I’d much rather this book didn’t appear. Don’t you have other fish to fry?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

‘You’re a busy man. The Ian Fleming estate wants a new Bond novel. You have television projects. You could find yourself doing something more constructive – and safer – than writing about Hawthorne.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

He looked at me blankly. ‘I haven’t said a single word that anyone could say was threatening – and you might as well know that this conversation is being recorded to protect both our interests. Anyway, you’ve missed the point. I’m thinking of what’s best for you. I know what happened at Riverview Close five years ago and let me assure you that the story doesn’t end well. Not for Hawthorne. Not for you. Your readers aren’t going to like it one little bit.’

‘Perhaps I should be the judge of that, Mr Morton.’

‘Do you know who killed Giles Kenworthy?’

That threw me. ‘I have my suspicions,’ I said.

He smiled at that. ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you don’t ever get it right. You don’t even come close.’

‘Do you know?’

‘Of course I do. It’s one of the first rules in my line of business: never ask a question unless you already have the answer.’ He paused. ‘Would you like me to tell you?’

I sat and stared.