Close to Death

I didn’t know it then, but both Andrew and Lynda had provided me with clues that, if I’d only been a little more alert, would have taken me to the very heart of what had really happened at Riverview Close. I just wasn’t thinking – or, at least, my thoughts were still focused on Hawthorne and John Dudley.

In one of our earlier meetings, Hawthorne had vigorously praised the assistant who had come before me. ‘I’d never have solved the case without him.’ But even then, he’d been reluctant to tell me very much about John Dudley. He’d been a policeman. He’d been ill. And something had happened to end the relationship between the two men. That was where I had come in. Was it any wonder that I wanted to find out more?

It was the principal reason I was calling DS Khan. Once again, those words of Morton’s were echoing in my head. ‘The story doesn’t end the way you think it’s going to.’ I had to know what he’d meant and I figured that Khan might be the one person who could tell me.

He answered on the third ring.

‘Khan.’

‘Detective Superintendent Khan? I hope you’ll forgive me ringing you on your private number. It was given to me by Lynda Kenworthy.’

‘Who is this speaking?’

I told him my name. There was a pause at the other end.

‘I know who you are,’ he said.

‘I’m working with Hawthorne.’

‘Yes. I’ve read one of your books.’

I waited for him to say he’d enjoyed it. He didn’t.

‘I was wondering if it would be possible to meet you.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m writing about Riverview Close.’

There was a lengthy silence as he considered. ‘That’s all done and dusted,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago and I’d like to think we’ve moved on. It’s not a good idea.’

‘Meeting you? Or writing about the murder?’

‘Both.’

‘I was hoping you could help me. I’m planning a book about the murder. I know a lot about what happened, but it would be very useful to get your point of view. How you enjoyed working with Hawthorne . . .’

‘I didn’t enjoy it at all. And he was only on the case for two days.’

‘I’m also trying to find John Dudley. Do you have a phone number or an email address for him?’

‘I have neither.’

He was about to hang up. I could hear it in his voice.

‘Detective Superintendent, would you at least consider meeting me for ten or fifteen minutes? I’ll come to anywhere in London. The book is going to be published either way and you’re going to be a central character. Obviously, I’m not going to write anything that will cause you embarrassment.’

‘I hope not.’ That was a warning.

‘The death of Giles Kenworthy and everything that followed is in the public domain. All I’m saying is that I’d like to get your side of the story.’

There was a second, longer silence.

He hung up.

Seven

The Second Meeting

1

Alison Munds and her husband, Gareth, lived in a street on the edge of Woking where every home was a variation on the same theme. Each one had a hedge running along the pavement, bay windows, faux-Tudor beams above the second floor, a portico, a garage and a small front garden with a parking area separating the front door from the road. Behind each house, a garden of exactly the same size and proportions ran down to a wire fence and a row of trees partly concealing a railway line.

The doorbell of number 16 played a tune: the opening bars of Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’. Gareth liked classical music. Alison said it drove her mad, but they recognised and tolerated each other’s fads. It was the secret of a long and successful marriage. The two of them heard the familiar phrase now.

‘They’re here,’ Gareth called out.

‘You get it!’ Alison’s voice came from the kitchen.

He opened the door.

‘Mr Munds?’ Hawthorne was standing on the other side with Dudley behind him. The car that had brought them here was just pulling away. ‘I’m Hawthorne. My colleague, John Dudley. How is your sister-in-law getting on?’

‘Well, it’s not easy . . .’ Hawthorne had called the day before and Gareth had been expecting them, but he was still reluctant to let them in. ‘The police were here last week,’ he said.

‘Detective Superintendent Khan . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘This is a follow-up. We need to be sure that everything is as it should be. I hope you understand.’

Gareth didn’t – but he felt he had no choice in the matter and showed them into the small, square living room that looked out onto the main road. The room had a fake gas fire and a mantelpiece crowded with swans made of crystal, porcelain, painted wood and plastic. Alison collected swans. A tropical fish tank stood in one corner, brightly coloured species swimming back and forth behind the glass in endless exploration of their tiny world.