Close to Death

‘That’s right, Hawthorne. You knew him for – what? – all of half an hour? I bow to your superior instincts. But you’re wrong. Roderick Browne gassed himself in his garage with a cylinder of nitrous oxide, used by dentists as a sedative. He’s sitting in there right now with a plastic bag over his head.’

‘What sort of bag?’

‘Tesco. From the middle of Richmond.’

‘Did he shop at Tesco?’ Dudley sounded surprised. ‘I had him down as more of a Waitrose sort of guy.’

Khan snapped back: ‘I very much doubt that he thought about which supermarket he planned to advertise in his last moments! He was found this morning by Sarah Baines, the gardener. You might like to know that the garage was locked from the inside. The key was in the door.’

‘So how did Sarah get in?’

‘Browne’s neighbour, May Winslow, was a keyholder in case of emergencies. Sarah needed to enter the garage to get her tools and start work, but there was no answer from anyone in the house, so she went next door. Mrs Winslow found her key and the two of them opened the front door, walked through the kitchen and went into the garage that way. Except they couldn’t open the door because the key was in the lock – on the other side. Sarah did that old trick with a piece of wire and a sheet of newspaper. Wiggled the key out and pulled it underneath the door. Then they went in and discovered the body.’

‘Are they on your suspect list?’

‘There are no suspects, Hawthorne, so there is no list. Browne was in his car, which was also locked, windows and doors, with the ignition key – the only ignition key that we’ve been able to find – in his left trouser pocket. A locked car in a locked garage. And on his lap, right in front of him, we found a letter. It was written in his own hand and signed, setting out his intentions in plain English.’ Khan smiled mirthlessly. ‘I’d say that adds up to an open-and-shut case.’

‘No such thing,’ Hawthorne replied. ‘Let us take a look. I’d say you owe it to us, Khan. You’ve dragged us halfway across London. Where’s the harm?’

‘I don’t see . . .’

‘And I’d like to talk to Roderick Browne’s wife.’

‘She’s not here. Browne took her to her sister yesterday morning. He explains in the letter. He didn’t want her to see what he was going to do.’

‘I’d like to see the letter too.’ Hawthorne took a step closer, standing right next to Khan so that there was no chance of anyone overhearing. ‘Just suppose you’re wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘Suppose there’s something you’ve missed. If there’s a killer still out there, you might even have a third death on your hands and maybe it’ll be Strauss or Pennington next. How do you think that will look on your CV?’

Khan hesitated. For all his dislike of Hawthorne, he had to admit that he might have a point. Chief superintendent in two years, then commander, then all the way up to commissioner . . . He and his wife had his future all planned. From the day he’d joined the police force, he’d had more than his share of luck, but he knew that even one miscalculation could do incalculable damage to his image and, subsequently, his career. That was the trouble with being a high-flyer. There were too many bastards waiting for you to fall, and this Richmond business – two deaths in a nice, upmarket community – could all too easily go sour.

He came to a decision.

‘Well, since you’re here, you might as well stay. Just for today. But you’re now in an unofficial capacity, as observers. You’re not getting paid.’

It was a mean little victory. Khan had found a way of capitulating whilst still showing he was the one who pulled the strings.

He walked with them, back into Riverview Close. As they continued towards the dead man’s house, Teri Strauss suddenly appeared, coming out of The Stables, clutching the edges of the silk kimono she had wrapped around herself. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded.

‘Please go back into your home, Mrs Strauss,’ Khan said.

‘Is it true that Roderick is dead?’

‘We’ll talk to you shortly.’

They went round the side of the house, Khan leading the way. The garage was too small for the number of forensic officers who needed to get in, so they’d raised the up-and-over door to provide access from the drive. DC Goodwin was inside, in charge of a slimmed-down team.

The Skoda Octavia Mark 3 took up almost all the available space and the body was still inside it, sitting in the front seat, behind the steering wheel. The police photographers had struggled to get a good angle, and bagging the hands and feet had required unusual contortions, the procedure made all the more grotesque by the fact that Roderick had already done the same for his head. The forensic team had left much of their equipment outside. Standing in the driveway, looking into the garage, Hawthorne could see very little – a vague shape on the other side of the back window. The driver’s window had been smashed. There were fragments of tinted glass scattered over the concrete floor.