Close to Death

The driver obeyed, cutting down the edge of Marble Hill Park, the river now ahead of them. They came to a sharp right turn. Hawthorne had seen it on the screen. ‘Stop here!’

They paid and got out, then followed a narrow footpath that brought them to the water’s edge. There were a couple of old barges moored here, tied to the riverbank a short distance apart. Hawthorne checked the screen one last time. ‘That one!’ he said, pointing towards the nearest of the two.

It was called Bella, perhaps not the most appropriate name for such an ancient and unattractive vessel. It was sitting low in the water, which only added to its sense of dejection, along with its rotting wooden planks, algae-covered ropes and dusty windows. Much of the deck space was taken up with rubbish: plastic bins, cables, a rusting bike, a roll of tarpaulin, bits of machinery, a barbecue missing a leg. Surrounded by water and willow trees, with geese and swans flapping past and no roads or buildings in sight, this would be an extraordinary place to wake up, so it was all the more surprising that Bella should have been so neglected, barely able to keep afloat.

A rickety gangplank led down to the one clear space in front of the entrance, but as Hawthorne took his first step, his weight caused the boat to rock slightly and at once the door flew open and Sarah Baines emerged, furious even before she knew who was visiting her. She recognised Hawthorne and her face didn’t change.

‘This is private property. What are you doing here?’

‘Nice place you’ve got,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Is it yours?’

‘I rent it. What do you want?’

‘We’ve come to see you.’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘We didn’t. Can we come in?’ Hawthorne dared her to refuse.

Sarah examined him grumpily. ‘I’ll give you five minutes,’ she said.

The inside of the barge was a little more homely than the decks with all the rubbish had suggested. There was a tiny galley, a table that folded down from the wall, three stools, a sitting area and a cast-iron stove at the back. A sofa doubled as a bed. Clothes lines stretched the entire length of the cabin with an assortment of faded but multicoloured T-shirts, scarves, trousers and socks, giving the place the feel of a Dickens novel. It would have been no surprise if Fagin had appeared from behind the stove, holding a piece of burnt toast on a fork.

‘So why are you here?’ Sarah asked as they sat down on the stools. There was to be no offer of tea . . . or hot gin and sugar.

‘You asked how we found you,’ Hawthorne reminded her.

‘All right. Surprise me.’

‘You know the app Find My iPhone? I used that to track down Roderick Browne’s phone.’

Sarah considered what he had just said. ‘How is that even possible?’

‘I have a friend who made it easy.’

‘The phone disappeared after he got home and died in the garage,’ Dudley cut in. ‘You and May Winslow were alone in the house and it seems pretty obvious that one of you must have taken it.’ He smiled. ‘And speaking personally, I don’t believe that nice Mrs Winslow would go around nicking things.’

‘She not as nice as you think,’ Sarah growled.

‘We know all about Mrs Winslow, just like we know all about you.’ Hawthorne held out a hand. ‘Where is it?’

Sarah could see that there was no point pretending. She went over to one of the galley drawers, pulled it open and took out Roderick’s phone. ‘It’s useless anyway,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the passcode.’

‘Is that why you took it? To sell it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I wonder . . .’ Hawthorne turned the phone on, then entered the code that Felicity had given him.

‘It’s his date of birth,’ Dudley said.

‘Aren’t you the clever ones!’

‘We try to be.’

It took Hawthorne only a few seconds to find what he was looking for. He had opened Roderick’s text messages and turned the phone round to show Sarah an image he had expanded to fill the screen. She glanced at it as briefly as she could, then turned her head away, embarrassed.

The image showed her posing naked. It was one of several she had sent Roderick Browne. Hawthorne quickly scrolled through the others. The poses were raw and explicit. Dudley closed his eyes. Hawthorne showed no emotion at all. ‘Paid you for these, did he?’ he asked.

‘What if he did?’

‘Just answer the question, love. It’s late. I want to get home for tea . . .’

‘Turn it off!’

Hawthorne did as she had asked.

‘All right,’ Sarah admitted. ‘Roderick was paying me twenty quid a shot, but I was doing him a favour, poor sod. With his wife locked in the bedroom, he hadn’t seen a naked woman for ten years. I made him happy.’

‘So between blackmailing May Winslow, stealing from the Kenworthys, putting Ellery down the well and selling dirty pictures to Roderick, you were pretty busy in Riverview Close,’ Hawthorne said.

‘No wonder you didn’t have much time for gardening,’ Dudley remarked.