Close to Death

‘A question . . .’ Dudley said, as they overtook the one vehicle on the road that happened to be slower than them. There was no risk of the two of them being overheard by the driver. The engine was barely up to the journey and it was howling in protest. They were having difficulty even hearing each other.

‘Go on.’

‘Just wondering what we’re doing. We’re not on Khan’s payroll any more. He’s closed the investigation, wrapped it up and filed it under P for promotion. Which means we’re not getting paid.’

‘I’ll sort that out for you, mate.’

‘Out of your own pocket?’ Dudley looked doubtful. ‘That’s not like you, Danny . . . going in for charity.’

‘Not charity. I need you to help me get to the end of this.’

‘You don’t need anyone.’

‘Khan will pay when we deliver a result. And if he won’t, Morton will cough up.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘To keep me happy. And it’s good for business to keep in with the police. It’s company policy.’

They drove along in silence . . . at least, without talking. The car was still an echo chamber of distress and the driver had turned on the radio, to Pharrell Williams singing ‘Happy’, which had gone viral across the country. The motorway slipped past as all motorways do, without the slightest interest.

‘Don’t you want to know?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Who did it? Of course I do. Have you worked it out yet?’

‘Most of it. I don’t know how Roderick Browne was killed. We need to get into that garage and have a proper look around. But I think I know why.’

‘The straw.’

‘Yeah. The straw . . .’

‘. . . in the top pocket of his jacket . . .’

‘. . . and the keys in his trouser pocket.’

‘Yeah. That was wrong too. I thought you’d pick up on that.’

The driver changed gear with a nasty grinding sound.

‘Khan’s an idiot,’ Dudley said.

Hawthorne nodded. ‘That’s the only part of this case that’s been obvious from the start.’ He looked out of the window. On the radio, Pharrell Williams had reached the reprise.

‘Happiness is the truth . . .’

‘He’s got a point,’ Hawthorne said.

Dudley shook his head. ‘Happiness isn’t the truth, Danny. It’s making sure the bastards pay for it.’ A bitterness that Hawthorne hadn’t seen before had crept into his eyes. ‘Kenworthy was a prat. Money, old Etonian, neighbour from hell. But he didn’t deserve a crossbow bolt in his throat. And Roderick Browne was a decent man, looking after his sick wife. He was tricked, wasn’t he? Tricked and then got rid of. You’re right: we can’t walk away from this. We’ve got to get to the end.’

The driver swerved to get past an articulated lorry, cutting in front of a delivery van that blasted its horn in protest. For a moment, he wobbled in the central lane, then veered back towards the hard shoulder.

‘If we live that long,’ Hawthorne said.

The Richmond turn-off was signposted. Six miles ahead. They shuddered towards it.

3

The Tea Cosy was unusually busy. There were two customers browsing through the shelves, and a third sitting at a table, tucking into red velvet cake and Earl Grey tea. May Winslow knew her well. Mrs Simpson came into the shop at least once a week and very seldom bought anything.

May was sitting opposite her, holding a book. The cover showed the silhouette of a village with the title in red letters above: The Inverted Jenny: An Amelia Strange Mystery. ‘It’s a wonderful story,’ she was saying. ‘Of course, you’ve read The Murder of Roger Ackroyd – this was written in 1924, the same year. It starts with a summer fête in the village of Blossombury in Wiltshire. The vicar, who is running the cake stall, is poisoned and it turns out his uncle is Sir Henry Fellowes, the local squire and a well-known philatelist. The mystery starts when a very valuable stamp is found inside one of the coconuts.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Mrs Simpson said. ‘Who’s Jenny?’

‘It’s the name of the stamp. This is the third Amelia Strange story. There were forty-two of them in total. She’s one of my favourite detectives. She sings in the choir and she has an incredibly clever Siamese cat and they solve the mysteries together—’

The door of the shop opened and two men came in. May’s heart sank. They had already visited her once at The Gables. She thought she’d seen the last of them.

‘Mrs Winslow.’ Hawthorne nodded at her. ‘I wonder if we could have a word with you in private?’

‘I don’t understand.’ May forced a smile to her lips. ‘I understood that the investigation was over.’

‘Far from it, I’m afraid. We need to ask you some questions.’

‘About Mr Browne? I’ve already said—’

‘No. About the Franciscan Convent of St Clare in Leeds.’

Hawthorne stood where he was, daring her to pick a fight. John Dudley looked almost embarrassed to be with him and was shuffling his feet. May understood. In a way, she had been expecting it. She got to her feet. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to close early,’ she announced so that everyone could hear.

‘I was going to buy that book!’ Mrs Simpson muttered.