Close to Death

‘I don’t agree,’ I said. From shock to dismay to anger and now to recovery, I was running rapidly through the emotions. ‘Just because I know the ending, it doesn’t mean I have to tell the reader. Once the book is finished, I may be able to twist it all round.’ I was already thinking of ways to rewrite the pages I’d done.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing. Why don’t you want me to write it, Mr Morton? Who exactly are you trying to protect?’

‘I already told you . . .’

‘Is it Hawthorne? You said the story didn’t end well for him. What happened? What did he do?’

‘I think I’ve said enough.’ Morton’s eyes had narrowed. Right then I saw past the appearance and knew that this was one man I wouldn’t want as an enemy. ‘I suggest you think very carefully,’ he went on. ‘The story doesn’t end the way you think it’s going to. You may discover things about Hawthorne that you wish you hadn’t known and once you uncover them, there’ll be no going back. It may end your friendship with him. Hawthorne is clever. He’s very useful to us. But you know as well as I do that there’s a darker side to his nature. You remember how and why he left the police force. Trust me, Anthony. There are plenty of other stories you can tell. Leave this one alone.’

The interview was over. Alastair Morton stood up.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ he said.

I stood up. We did not shake hands. I walked back to the lift, which seemed to take even longer to return to the ground floor. I was totally confused. Roderick Browne was the killer. Roderick Browne was dead. How was I going to write my way around that? And what had Morton meant by those parting words, ‘The story doesn’t end the way you think it’s going to’? What else was going to happen? Suddenly I needed to get back to my office, to break open the next raft of documents. What had started as a simple act of vengeance in a quiet suburban setting had already turned into something much darker – and I couldn’t help wondering . . .

Was there worse still to come?

Five

Another Death

1

Hawthorne and Dudley knew something was wrong the moment they got back to Riverview Close the next morning. The ambulance had returned, along with a fleet of police cars. The number of officers on the scene had increased. The gaggle of journalists who had attended the murder of Giles Kenworthy was back too, more of them this time. There was also a constable standing guard at the archway. He had been friendly enough the day before, but this time he blocked their path.

‘DS Khan wants to talk to you,’ he explained.

‘Well, we can find him . . .’ Dudley replied.

‘He says you’re to wait here.’

The policeman spoke briefly into his radio, but it was another ten minutes before Khan wandered over, smartly dressed in a navy blue suit and brown shoes, with his silver hair neatly brushed. As the cameras clicked, snatching another dozen photographs for the next day’s news, he seemed not to have noticed them and it must have been no more than a coincidence that he had presented the reporters with his best profile and his most serious, businesslike face. This changed as he approached Hawthorne and Dudley. He seemed irritated that they had arrived.

‘Nice of you to show up,’ he began, glancing at his watch. It was after ten o’clock.

‘Seven-hour shift,’ Dudley replied, cheerfully.

‘Well, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.’

‘You’ve made an arrest?’

‘Not exactly. But as far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.’ He lowered his voice, keeping his back to the press pack. ‘Roderick Browne. He’s written a letter confessing to the crime and I’m afraid he’s taken his own life.’

‘How?’ Hawthorne asked.

Khan shook his head. ‘That’s not the first question I would have asked, but it makes no difference because there’s nothing more for you to do. I would have called you to tell you not to show up, but as you can imagine, I’ve been busy. You’re off the case. I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I don’t need you any more.’

‘You owe us for two days,’ Dudley said.

‘One day. But I’m a reasonable man. I’ll throw in the tube fare.’

‘We came by taxi.’

‘That’s your lookout.’

It was remarkable how quickly Khan had turned against them. He had been reluctant to employ them in the first place, but it was almost as if he was blaming them for the way things had turned out. A crime that had effectively solved itself and a killer who had escaped justice – neither of these would provide the publicity and promotion he had hoped for. Worse still, his use of Hawthorne would have sent a signal to his superior officers. He had shown a lack of confidence in his own abilities when if he’d just waited a couple of days the whole thing would have gone away.

‘I don’t believe Roderick Browne killed anyone,’ Hawthorne said. ‘And that includes himself.’

‘You don’t? Really? And why is that?’

‘I met him. He didn’t have it in him.’