Close to Death

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.

Felicity Browne had come down from the bedroom and was sitting on the sofa next to her sister. She was wearing a dressing gown and slippers and her hair was bedraggled, but apart from that, she didn’t look much worse than she had done when her husband was still alive. That was the cruelty of her illness. It had dragged her down to such a low level that there wasn’t anywhere further to go. Hawthorne and Dudley sat on a second sofa, facing her. Gareth had already taken the only armchair.

‘I know how difficult this is for you,’ Hawthorne said. ‘But there are still unanswered questions relating to the deaths of both your husband and Giles Kenworthy.’

Felicity said nothing.

‘You don’t have to talk to them,’ Alison said quietly.

‘Actually, I think she does,’ Hawthorne contradicted her. ‘We believe there’s a good chance that Mr Browne did not kill himself . . .’

‘Mr Khan never said anything about that.’

‘Fresh information has come to light over the weekend which may have altered the picture.’ Hawthorne was deliberately trying to sound as official as possible. In fact, had Khan known they were there, they might well have ended up under arrest.

His strategy worked. ‘What do you want to know?’ Felicity asked.

Dudley took out his notebook. His iPhone was already recording everything that was said.

‘Do you think your husband killed Giles Kenworthy?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘What sort of question is that?’ Alison cut in, appalled.

‘A reasonable one,’ Hawthorne returned.

‘Maybe we should call the Detective Superintendent . . .’ Alison took hold of her sister’s hand.

But Felicity pulled away. Hawthorne had roused something within her, an anger that until now she hadn’t been allowed to express. Khan had told her that her husband was dead. He had explained that he had confessed to the murder. He had destroyed her world. But he had never listened to her. ‘Of course he didn’t kill anyone,’ she said. ‘Roderick didn’t have it in him. He was the gentlest, kindest of men. The police don’t know what they’re talking about.’

‘So you don’t believe he committed suicide either,’ Dudley said.

‘He would never have left me on my own. We’d been together for twenty-six years and we were happy until this illness came and turned me into what I am. Nobody wants to be married to an invalid, but he stuck by me because that was the sort of man he was. Ask any of his patients. They’ll tell you the same thing. He worried about every single one of them. If he was going to do something complicated – root canal surgery, or an extraction – he would go over and over the X-rays. Everything had to be perfect.’

Alison and Gareth exchanged glances. It had been a long time since they had heard Felicity say so much in one breath.

‘So how do you explain the letter he sent you?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why do you think he wanted you out of the house?’

‘He was worried about me.’

‘Roderick called us,’ Alison said. ‘He told us that Felicity’s neighbour had been found dead. He said there were police everywhere, a lot of noise and activity, and it would be better for Fee to be away for twenty-four hours. He asked to bring her round.’

‘Of course we agreed,’ Gareth said. He was a large, bearded man, sitting with legs splayed and his hands on his knees. ‘Ever since Felicity got poorly, we’ve taken her in from time to time. We’ve got both our kids at college now and it’s not as if we don’t have the room.’

Hawthorne turned back to Felicity. ‘In the car, when he drove you over here, did he say anything that struck you as strange? Did he give you any indication of what he was thinking about?’

‘He said he’d done something stupid.’

‘Like . . . killing his neighbour with a crossbow?’ Dudley suggested.

‘No. That’s not what he meant. He was angry with himself. But he told me not to worry. He brought me in and he kissed me goodbye in this very room and I can tell you – just from the way he looked at me – he was expecting to see me again.’ She closed her eyes, remembering the moment. ‘It wasn’t a final goodbye. I’d have known.’

A Siamese fighting fish swam lazily across the aquarium, a multicoloured tail rippling behind it. Bubbles were rising from a pump concealed in a plastic pirate’s galleon. The hum of the motor was constant, insinuating itself into every silence.

‘So what do you think happened?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘If he didn’t take his own life, why do you think he was killed?’

‘I think he saw something and somebody silenced him.’

‘Who?’ Dudley asked.

‘The same person who killed Giles Kenworthy.’ Felicity made it sound as if she was explaining the obvious. ‘I don’t know who that was – but when they took the crossbow from our garage, Roderick might have seen them. There’s a skylight on the roof and you can look through it from the bathroom. He could have seen them while he was cleaning his teeth.’

‘But he didn’t say anything to you.’

‘He wouldn’t have wanted to worry me.’

‘Do you have any more questions, Mr Hawthorne?’ Gareth cut in. ‘I think Felicity should get back to bed. This has been a terrible time for her.’

‘Yes. I do.’ Hawthorne ignored the brother-in-law and turned back to Felicity. ‘Adam Strauss was the last person to see your husband.’

‘I know. The police told me.’

‘They were friends?’

‘Very much so. Adam was always helping us, finding ways to do small kindnesses. All our neighbours were lovely. May and Phyllis next door. Andrew Pennington, giving us advice about the planning permission. Tom Beresford prescribing temazepam for me . . .’

‘Roderick couldn’t do that?’

‘It’s against the guidelines set down by the General Dental Council.’ She struggled for breath. ‘How can I help you, Mr Hawthorne? I will do anything . . . anything to find out what really happened.’

‘I want to revisit the house,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Can I borrow your keys?’

‘Well, I don’t know—’ Alison began.

‘Let him have them,’ Felicity said. ‘The police have given up on us. They don’t care about Roderick.’ She pointed towards the floor. ‘They’re in my handbag.’

Gareth looked doubtful but fished them out: two Yale keys attached to a silver ring with a mortice key next to them. Hawthorne showed Felicity the third key. ‘This opens the door into the garage,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve had it on you all the time? There’s no chance someone else might have used it?’

‘No. It always stays with me.’ Felicity had answered enough questions. She was exhausted. ‘If there’s nothing more you want to know, I think I’ll go back to bed now,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, but there are still a few things, Mrs Browne. The police were only able to find one set of car keys. It was in your husband’s pocket.’

She nodded. ‘There is only one set. He lost the other one while we were on holiday in Torquay and he hadn’t got round to ordering a replacement. Why? Is it important?’

‘Probably not. Also, they weren’t able to find his mobile.’

‘That’s very strange.’

‘He had it when he came here,’ Alison cut in. ‘He checked his messages. That was about midday. I saw him.’

‘And then he went straight back home?’

‘He kept his phone on the chest of drawers in the hallway,’ Felicity said. ‘He was quite religious about that. He could hear it from everywhere in the house if it rang and he always knew where to find it.’

‘We’ll look for it,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know the PIN?’ Felicity looked unsure, so he added: ‘If we do find it, it might give us valuable information. We’ll need to open it.’

She nodded. ‘One nine six five. It was his birthday.’

She reached out and Gareth helped her to her feet. She had expended all her strength on the conversation. Gareth started to lead her out of the room, but before she reached the door, Hawthorne stopped her.

‘There was a second meeting,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’ Felicity turned.

‘I’d imagine they were all there – probably at The Stables. That was where the first one happened. It was probably sometime over the weekend. Giles Kenworthy died on Monday, so just before that.’

She stood there, clinging on to Gareth. It took her a long time to find the strength to reply. ‘It was Sunday evening,’ she said. ‘How did you know about it? Who told you?’

‘Nobody told me,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Not in so many words. Were you there?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I was too tired and I couldn’t see any point in talking any more.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘I can’t tell you anything, Mr Hawthorne. I didn’t see Roderick on Sunday evening, but I could tell he must have drunk a lot because I could smell the alcohol the next morning. He went into work on Monday like he always did. He brought in my breakfast before he left. I could see he wasn’t himself. He said that he had been at The Stables the night before and I could see that something had upset him, but when I asked him about it, he refused to tell me. He said I wasn’t to mention it to anyone.

‘I didn’t ask him again. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that I didn’t like to, but maybe I should have – because two days later he was gone. Two days later, he was taken from me.’

She was desperate to leave the room, but there was one last thing she had to say.

‘They did meet a second time. I don’t know what happened, but I hope you’ll find out, because whatever it was, that was the reason my Roderick had to die.’

2

Hawthorne and Dudley took a taxi back from Woking to Richmond. Not a black cab. The distance was almost twenty miles. They had wedged themselves into the back of a car provided by a local company: sticky plastic seats, half-inflated tyres and a driver who was too cheerful by half. Hawthorne seldom used public transport. He didn’t like being close to people he didn’t know. But in many ways, this ponderous journey along the M3 was even worse.

‘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.

May remembered she was still holding it and thrust it into her hands. ‘You can have it, my dear,’ she said. ‘Just let me know if you enjoy it.’

Phyllis had been standing in the kitchen area of the shop all this time and watched, discomfited, as the three customers trailed out into the street. May went over and locked the door. Hawthorne and Dudley sat down at the table. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Phyllis asked.

‘You’d better come and join us, Phyllis,’ May instructed her friend. ‘They don’t need tea.’

Phyllis did as she was told.

‘We’ve just seen Felicity Browne,’ Hawthorne began.

‘Oh. How is she?’

‘You mean, apart from the incurable disease and the suicide of her husband?’ Dudley chipped in. ‘She’s not doing too badly.’

May flushed. ‘What do you want, Mr Hawthorne?’

‘We were just on our way back to Riverview Close and we were passing the shop, so we thought we might have a word, if that’s all right.’

‘And it would be nice if – this time – you told us the truth,’ Dudley added.

‘I think you’re a very rude young man.’

‘I’m not that young.’

‘We know your real names,’ Hawthorne said.

Phyllis looked shocked. May tried not to show any emotion.

Hawthorne continued. ‘Two old ladies move into a house in Richmond. They’ve come from nowhere. Nobody knows anything about them. Nobody visits them. They don’t get any letters or parcels. I try to find out more about them, but nothing turns up and I ask myself if they’re even using their own names. Or maybe they’ve changed them.

‘It’s quite easy to do it without anyone noticing. If your name is More, for example, spelled like Sir Thomas, you just add a second o. Or you can go back to your maiden name. May Winslow, for example, instead of May Brenner. In this country it’s also dead easy to use the deed poll system. Criminals do it all the time. And if you’re not applying for a passport or a driving licence, who’s even going to notice?’

May had gone white. She was breathing heavily, little gasps that made her shoulders rise and fall.

‘You gave yourselves away a few times, love,’ Hawthorne went on. ‘You want to know how?’

May nodded.

‘Well, to start with, you said you were at the convent for almost thirty years, but your friend Phyllis here seems to think that the last service before bed is vespers, when she really ought to have worked out that it’s compline or night prayer, which is followed by the great silence, when nobody is meant to talk. Also, she said that you and she were “cellies” and you were quick to explain this meant you shared a room, but quite apart from the fact that I’m not sure nuns ever have to share, it’s prisoners who call themselves cellies, women prisoners in particular.

‘Let’s work this out. St Clare was supposedly in Osmondthorpe, near Leeds. By an amazing coincidence, that’s just half an hour away from HMP New Hall in Wakefield, which is where Sarah Baines did her time, and you recommended Sarah for a job here. “You have to give young people a chance”. That’s what you said. It’s a lovely thought and I suppose it’s doubly true if she’s threatening to expose who you really are. It’s also why you couldn’t fire her, even though she’s a useless gardener and she may have killed your dog. She had you by the short and curlies.’

‘Do nuns have short and curlies?’ Dudley asked.

May glared at Phyllis. ‘I was always warning you,’ she said. ‘But you never could keep your mouth shut.’

‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ Phyllis began miserably.

May looked across the table at Hawthorne, the half-eaten cake and the cold tea between them. ‘I’ve done my time,’ she said. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. All I wanted was to get on with the rest of my life in peace. Sarah knew that. And you’re right, the little cow blackmailed us. She knew who we were and she was going to tell everyone.’

‘What was she going to say?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘That we’d been in prison.’

‘Rather more than that, I think.’

‘You murdered your husband,’ Dudley said. ‘His name was David Brenner.’

‘He deserved it.’

‘Well, you certainly made your point. You hit him thirty times with a meat cleaver. There was so much blood in the house that even the police dogs threw up. You piled up the pieces in the bath and put his head in a dustbin for the Thursday-morning collection.’

‘I told you the truth about him. David was a monster. I was seventeen when I met him. I didn’t know anything about the world. I was just a child. And once I was in his hands . . . you have no idea. The things he did to me! He beat me and he brutalised me and he destroyed any confidence I had in myself until the day I finally snapped.’ She paused. ‘I’ll have one of your snouts, Phyllis, if you don’t mind.’

‘Snouts,’ Dudley muttered. ‘More prison slang.’

‘You can never get it completely out of your system.’ May had got rid of the fear and anger when the accusations had been made. Now she was regaining her composure. Phyllis handed her a pouch of tobacco and she rolled a cigarette for herself with expert fingers and lit it. ‘The judge agreed with me,’ she said. ‘He said I had a submissive personality and that David had tormented me. Those were his exact words. He said it was because of David’s appalling behaviour throughout our entire married life that I’d been driven to such extremes and that I wasn’t entirely responsible for what I did.’

‘He still sent you to prison.’

‘That was because I’d planned the crime.’ Despite herself, she half smiled. ‘I planned it for ten years. The judge had no choice. But he felt sorry for me and he let me keep the money.’

‘You mean, your husband’s money.’

‘Yes.’

‘The Forfeiture Act of 1982,’ Dudley said.

‘You know your law! In normal circumstances, you’re not allowed to keep your partner’s cash if you kill them. You lose everything. But judges can make exceptions – and he did that for me.’

‘I never did believe your story about the rich aunt,’ Hawthorne said. ‘That sort of thing might happen in one of the books you sell here but never in real life.’

‘And let’s not forget Phyllis More with one o . . .’ Dudley said.

Phyllis squirmed. ‘Do we have to?’ she asked, feebly.

‘It’s best to have it all on the table, love.’ Dudley sighed. ‘You didn’t much like your husband either, did you! You smashed a whisky bottle over his head, doused him in petrol and set fire to him. They heard his screams a mile away.’ He shook his head. ‘If either of you two ever write your autobiographies, I rather doubt you’d be able to stock them here.’

‘I lost my temper,’ Phyllis said. Her eyes were downcast. ‘But you’d have done the same if you’d been married to him. He was a dreadful man.’

‘How did Sarah Baines find you?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It was just bad luck. She saw us on the street in Richmond and followed us home.’ May glared at Hawthorne. ‘I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed either,’ she declared. ‘Nobody understands murder . . . not real murder.’ She waved a dismissive hand, drawing in the entire bookshop. ‘All of this is entertainment. It doesn’t mean anything. But Phyllis and me, we’ve been to a terrible place.’

‘New Hall,’ Phyllis said.

‘No, dear. Not prison. Before that.’ May drew on her cigarette. ‘You have no idea what it’s like to commit murder, the darkness that destroys everything inside you and consumes you. To take a human life. Not in a battlefield or a place of war but in your kitchen, your living room, in the home where you felt safe. In that single moment, it’s two lives, not one, that are finished.

‘You sit there and you feel euphoria. It’s over! All the anger and the rage has finally burst out of you. But then comes the recognition of what you’ve done, the knowledge that there’s no going back, the terrible fear of being found out, and, of course, regret. How you wish . . . how you wish it hadn’t happened. Have you read Thérèse Raquin? We have a copy here somewhere. You should take it with you.’ She paused. ‘All murderers regret their deeds . . . unless they’re completely insane. When I was in New Hall, and in Holloway before that, I never met a single woman who still celebrated what she’d done. There were some who pretended, but you could see it eating at them, day after day. I spent twenty-four years behind bars for what I did. Look at me now! I’m a shadow. Everything has gone. I have a son who won’t even speak to me, who lives in California and who probably regrets he ever came out of my womb. I have grandchildren I’ve never seen.’

She hadn’t finished the cigarette, but she stubbed it out anyway.

‘So now you know the truth, Mr Hawthorne. What else do you want?’

‘I want to know what Sarah Baines was doing with Roderick Browne.’ May looked blank so he went on. ‘The two of them had a relationship. He was protecting her . . . just like you were. She texted him while we were with him.’

‘I don’t know. She’s a devil. She was always taking money from us. She’d steal anything she could get her hands on.’ She gave a sniff of laughter. ‘Giles Kenworthy and his precious Rolex. I could have told him where to look on eBay.’

‘Is that why you went with her when she found the body?’

‘I wasn’t going to leave her alone with Roderick’s keys! He’d have come back to an empty house. I followed her there and we went into the garage together. I managed to wiggle the key out and open the door and there he was in his car. A horrible sight with the bag over his head.’

‘Sarah broke the car window.’

‘I told her to. Roderick wasn’t moving, but there was always a chance he was still alive.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I opened the car door and felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. We went back into the house and called the police.’

‘You did or she did?’

‘She did.’

‘She had her own phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure she didn’t see Roderick’s?’

‘I think I saw Roderick’s phone on the chest of drawers in the hall. She definitely used her own.’

‘Can we go home now?’ Phyllis asked.

‘We may not have a home any more, dear. But you’re right. There’s no point staying here. Why don’t you start clearing up?’ May waited until Phyllis had moved away, then spoke quietly. ‘We’ll have to sell the house after all this – and The Tea Cosy. You know who we are. So does Detective Superintendent Khan. It won’t be long before the whole of Richmond finds out.’

‘You may find people are more forgiving than you think,’ Dudley said.

‘I don’t want their forgiveness. I just want to be left alone.’

Hawthorne hadn’t finished yet. ‘There’s one thing more I want you to tell me,’ he said. ‘On the Sunday night – Sunday, July the sixteenth – you went to a meeting at The Stables. That was one night before Giles Kenworthy was killed. Who was there?’

‘I didn’t go to the meeting.’

‘Yes, you did. If you’re going to lie to me, Mrs Brenner, your face is going to be all over the Richmond and Twickenham Times – and every other newspaper in the country. To be honest with you, I’m getting a tiny bit tired of being led up the garden path by the residents of Riverview Close. Who was there?’

May was stone-faced. ‘Almost everyone. Mrs Beresford came with her husband. They had a babysitter looking after the children because their nanny was away. Mrs Browne wasn’t well enough to come over, but otherwise we were all there.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I can’t tell you, Mr Hawthorne. Not on my own. I’m sure we all have different memories anyway. I’m not going to say anything to you unless the others are there.’

4

There was room for all nine of them around the table in the garden of Well House. The well itself was just out of sight, but May and Phyllis still made sure they sat with their backs to it. They had called the others from the bookshop. Gemma Beresford had driven back from her jewellery shop in Mayfair and was sitting next to her husband, who had left the surgery early. Adam and Teri Strauss had walked across from The Stables after Andrew Pennington had offered his home for this third and final congregation. Hawthorne had taken his place at the head of the table. Dudley was next to him, his notebook poised.

It could have been a summer luncheon that had stretched on into afternoon tea. Andrew had even provided a jug of iced lemonade. But the atmosphere was far from convivial as they finally revealed the shadows that they had been living under all along.

May Winslow

The worst of it was that we’d all been so happy here. Phyllis and I knew we’d love The Gables the moment we saw a picture of it online. It was secluded, but it was in its own community and it was all so picturesque. I was born in Richmond. I made the decision without a second thought and we moved into The Gables in the spring of 2000. And for twelve years or more, everything was perfect. Phyllis and I aren’t the most sociable people. We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves. But I’d like to think we were all friends in Riverview Close. Nobody complained about anything. Not until the Kenworthys moved in.

We do need a sense of perspective. They weren’t the most unpleasant people in the world and I really did try to give them the benefit of the doubt. But they were causing so much upset and discord that when Mr Strauss invited us to that first meeting, six or seven weeks ago, we didn’t hesitate. It really mattered that we got things sorted out – and even Felicity Browne left her sickbed to be there. Dear Mr Strauss and his wife provided lovely hospitality and wouldn’t hear of any one of us contributing. We were all there – and then, at the last minute, the Kenworthys didn’t show up. That really was a slap in the face and quite unnecessary!

Adam Strauss

I agree. It was a serious disappointment. It sent a signal to us that they just didn’t care. Andrew would be the first to say that the best way to solve a neighbourhood dispute is through conciliation – but what’s the point of talking if your neighbours refuse to listen? And May is right, incidentally. Giles Kenworthy wasn’t a monster. He was arrogant and he was insensitive. But I can’t say he ever did me any harm. Well, apart from my chess set – I was sorry about that.

What I think is interesting is how much worse things got after that first meeting. It was almost as if the Kenworthys were telling us that they didn’t care any more. They could park their cars and make as much noise as they wanted and there was nothing we could do about it. That carelessness led to the death of one of Tom’s patients. Looking back, I’d say that was the critical position, if you’ll forgive a piece of chess terminology. After that, everything had a sort of inevitability.

Teri Strauss

It wasn’t just the parking. What about the swimming pool and Jacuzzi? That was what mattered most to Roderick. We didn’t care about it . . . Adam and me. We live on the other side of the close and we wouldn’t hear all the noise or smell the chlorine. But poor Felicity! She had nothing left in her life except for peace and quiet and the view, and that was all going to be wiped away. How could Richmond Council do that to her? Don’t they have any sense? I have a friend on Richmond Hill – she couldn’t even put in new windows. But the Kenworthys could do anything they liked.

Tom Beresford

In my view, Giles Kenworthy took a petty delight in punishing us, in making life difficult any way he could. That camper van of his. The Union Jack that only went up after he met Andrew. The smoke from the barbecue – it’s funny how he only ever lit it when the wind was blowing our way. And yes, I have to live with the fact that if I had been in my surgery instead of arguing with him about his bloody parked car, Raymond Shaw would still be alive.

But I’m not sure I entirely agree with Adam. The real turning point in all this was the moment when Giles Kenworthy chose not to come to the first meeting – and didn’t even bother telling us until after we’d all arrived. That was when he showed his true colours and after that he seemed to think he could get away with anything he wanted.

Gemma Beresford

Like having poor Ellery killed. How could he do that? That was disgusting!

It was Andrew’s idea to have the second meeting and he was absolutely right. Tom had put up with more than enough. We all had! We had to get together and work something out. That man was going to drive us all mad if we didn’t take some sort of action. None of us could have known what was going to happen. I still don’t quite understand how things turned out the way they did, but we didn’t have any ill intentions. That’s what we have to remember. We were there to look after each other. That’s all. We were just being good neighbours.

Andrew Pennington

Was the meeting my idea? I’m not sure. It came up in conversation with Adam and Teri. Does it really matter? I’m not trying to evade responsibility. Far from it!

There must be a word for it when a group of people, normally quite sane and sensible, have a sort of collective breakdown – that’s how I see it. I’m not for a moment suggesting that Giles Kenworthy deserved what happened to him, but it’s unarguable that he pushed us all over the edge. Some of us were beginning to think that we would have to sell our homes and leave Riverview Close – although that in itself might be problematic because, as I pointed out several times, we would have been obliged to fill in a Property Information Form highlighting our relationship with the Kenworthys and that would have been enough to put any buyer off.

The second meeting took place at The Stables on a Sunday evening – eight days ago. The aim was to explore possibilities, to see if we could find a way out of the situation in which we found ourselves. I was the first to speak once everyone had arrived and I must confess that I didn’t have a great deal to offer. Property law isn’t my speciality and as far as I could see we had limited options.

Riverview Close is controlled by a management company, Riverview Close Ltd, of which I am currently the chairperson. We all have shares and the idea is that, together, we take responsibility for supervision and maintenance, insurance, repairs and antisocial behaviour – although it’s never an easy matter, defining what antisocial behaviour is. The Kenworthys had parties. Their children did a certain amount of damage. There were parking problems. But what could we do? At the end of the day, threatening Giles Kenworthy with legal action might only have exacerbated the issues and could have led to ruinous expenses. Who had the bigger pockets? It was probably him.

And then there was the overarching question of the swimming pool – but this was a matter between the Kenworthys and the local council. Unfortunately, there was a limit to what we could do as we were no more than third parties. The management company had little room for manoeuvre. We could suggest to the council that they had failed to consider the impact of a swimming pool on neighbouring properties, especially given Felicity Browne’s illness. But once planning permission has been given, it’s always very difficult to turn it around.

That’s really what we wanted to talk about, but at the same time I have to admit that we all had rather too much to drink. That’s down to Adam’s generosity, although I also brought wine and so, I think, did May . . .

May Winslow

I brought vodka. I didn’t think for a minute that it was going to be a knees-up. Nor would I have wanted such a thing. But after what had happened with Ellery, I needed something to keep up my spirits. We were all upset. And if I may say so, without wishing to be rude to Mrs Strauss, I did think there would be a little more food.

Anyway, we all sat down and we talked about Giles Kenworthy and what we were going to do and somehow the conversation turned to murder.

Adam Strauss

We didn’t mean it seriously! We were just letting off steam! I can’t even remember who started it, but I’m pretty sure it was Roderick. Or Phyllis, talking about the bookshop. It’s hardly surprising when you’ve got two ladies with a whole library of golden age crime. ‘Why don’t we just kill him?’ I’m sure it was Phyllis who started it.

Phyllis Moore

That’s not true.

Adam Strauss

I’m not making accusations. It might have been Roderick. But whoever it was, they didn’t mean it. We’d all had a bit too much to drink, that’s all. He was joking!

Tom Beresford

Roderick didn’t say it. I did.

It was stupid and for what it’s worth, Gemma did try to stop me. Looking after me has become a full-time job for her and don’t think I don’t know it. I said we should kill him and then we all took it in turns suggesting different ways. I started. My idea was to inject a couple of mill of air into his pulmonary veins and hope it would find a way into his cerebral circulation. May suggested cyanide. Do you remember? She said it turns up in lots of crime novels. Teri said she could buy a herb called heartbreak grass in a Hong Kong market. Even Gemma joined in. She talked about doll’s eyes, another poisonous plant. And Andrew was all for pushing him off the roof of a tall building. Oh yes, it was a jolly little evening.

Roderick didn’t hold back. If anything he was more enthusiastic than anyone else, and I’m sure every one of us here remembers what he said. How could we forget? He reminded us that he had a crossbow in his garage. Do you remember what he said? ‘It would be easy. Just ring the front doorbell and put a bolt in him when he answers.’

Teri Strauss

And then Phyllis said – why don’t we all do it together!

Phyllis Moore

It was me. Yes. Of course, it was Agatha Christie who gave me the idea. It was that book where all the suspects do the murder and then afterwards they look after each other. They give each other alibis and things like that. You know the one I mean! It’s been filmed twice and David Suchet did it on television. I do love David Suchet! I don’t think anyone did Poirot better than him. And here’s the funny thing. By coincidence, we’d sold two copies of that very same book that week. Two different people! That probably explains why it was on my mind.

I said we should shoot a bolt into him, each and every one of us. Turn him into a pincushion! That’s what I said.

Andrew Pennington

In retrospect, there was something very strange and psychological going on in that room. Almost a mass hysteria. The idea took hold of us. We were laughing, but at the same time we were saying the most dreadful things. How would we do it? When would we do it? How would we get away with it? I think the situation we were facing – the anger we all felt – had no solution in reality and so we moved into the world of fantasy to hold ourselves together.

Do you understand what I’m saying? Nobody in the room was seriously considering murder. But we were finding some sort of psychological release by expressing it.

Gemma Beresford

There’s not a single person in the world who hasn’t dreamed of killing an unpleasant boss, an irritating husband, a mean teacher, a lying politician. We were just doing the same. But we were doing it out loud.

We all agreed to kill him. And then someone asked the obvious question. Who was going to do it?

Hawthorne

So you drew straws.

May Winslow

You really are very clever, Mr Hawthorne. I don’t know how you worked that out. But you’re right. We talked about playing cards – making the ace of spades the death card. Or throwing a dice. Party games! I used to play something similar with my parents when I was a little girl. We’d sit around the table and we’d choose a killer by drawing matchsticks – and then whoever was the killer had to wink at you, but he had to do it without being seen and the idea was that he’d go on until either someone guessed who it was or there was no one left.

But in this case, Mr Strauss remembered that he had some straws left over from a party and it just seemed so appropriate – so biblical, almost. We would draw straws and whoever picked the shortest would have to kill Giles Kenworthy. Of course, sitting here in the light of day, it may seem very silly and irresponsible to you. But that’s what we did.

Phyllis Moore

We cut eight pieces of straw, each one of them a different size. There were eight of us there. And so there could be no cheating, Mr Strauss held them behind his back so he couldn’t see which straw was being taken. I went first. It was quite exciting. We all entered into the spirit of the thing . . . the game.

Andrew Pennington

It’s true. We were all very caught up in the spirit of the moment, and I might add that Roderick was probably keener than anyone. Mrs Winslow drew a straw that was about two or three inches long. I was next and mine was shorter, but I knew there was an even shorter one somewhere in there. There was quite a bit of nervous laughter as Adam shuffled from person to person until there was only him and Roderick left.

And then it was Roderick’s turn. He looked at the two straws that were sticking out of Adam’s hand and he milked the moment for all it was worth. Then he made his choice and drew the shortest straw, holding it up for us all to see. He wasn’t upset. He was almost triumphant. ‘Well, that’s it,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d better go round and get it over with!’

Adam Strauss

It’s funny how quickly the mood changed after that. The whole thing was a joke, of course, but we’d reached the punchline and I suppose it wasn’t as funny as we’d thought it was going to be. The conversation turned quite serious again – the letters we were going to write, the actions that we might take. Andrew repeated some of the advice he had already given us. By now it was about half past nine and we were all tired and a little drunk. Nothing had been resolved. Things went downhill pretty quickly and everyone went home to bed.

Roderick was the last to leave and I was very worried about him. Not because I thought he’d go through with it and take it upon himself to kill Giles Kenworthy. That thought never crossed my mind. But he was desperately worried about Felicity. The meeting had achieved nothing. And I could see that he was depressed. I told him to call me the next day if he wanted to talk, but as things turned out, I didn’t speak to him again properly until the day he died. As you know, he called me and asked me to come round.

That was Wednesday evening. By then, Giles Kenworthy was dead. Three days after Roderick had told everyone he was going to do it. And Kenworthy had been killed in exactly the way that he had described – a crossbow bolt through the neck. Everything I told you, the last time we spoke about this, was true. The only thing I omitted to mention was the context, what had happened at that second meeting. It was the reason why Roderick was so upset.

In fact, he was terrified. He told me over and over again that he hadn’t done it, that it wasn’t him, and although I did my best to calm him down, I’m not sure if I believed him or not. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence – unless someone else in the room had heard what he’d said and had decided to do it themselves. But, hand on heart, I can’t say I suspect anyone here. And anyway, how would they have got into the garage with both Roderick and Felicity in the house? As far as I know, the up-and-over door was kept locked and they could hardly have sneaked in through the kitchen.

He had already been interrogated – twice – and he said he could feel the net closing in on him, that Detective Superintendent Khan was going to arrest him at any moment. And then there was the added worry that one of us would tell the police about the second meeting, drawing straws, everything you now know. If that happened, he’d be finished. He’d confessed to the murder before it had even happened!

Andrew Pennington

That second meeting has cast a very long shadow. None of us could be completely honest with you, Mr Hawthorne. We also had to conceal what we knew from the police. I’m sure you can imagine how difficult that was for me. It went against everything in my nature.

The basic fact of the matter is this. We had taken part in what we have described as a fantasy, a party game. But everything had changed when Giles Kenworthy was killed. We were guilty of conspiracy to commit murder as defined by the Criminal Law Act of 1977. Looking back, I can’t believe I allowed it to continue. We had selected the victim and discussed various weapons. We had drawn straws to decide who was going to do it, for heaven’s sake! Even if Giles Kenworthy hadn’t been touched, we had still committed a crime – technically speaking. But if any of it had come out during the police investigation, we could all of us have been facing a life sentence.

May Winslow

The moment I left the garage, I telephoned Mr Pennington. I told him what had happened and he came straight round to my house. He couldn’t believe it. Nor could I. He warned me that we might all be in serious trouble. We couldn’t lie to the police. That would be an offence in itself. We couldn’t obstruct their investigation. But nor could we tell them about the meeting we’d had on Sunday night. That was what he told me. We had to keep absolutely quiet about that.

Andrew Pennington

I telephoned everyone on the Thursday morning when Roderick’s body was discovered. We could not lie. But the law does not compel a witness to provide information to the police. Our silence was not itself illegal and there was no reason why anyone should have asked us what we were doing on Sunday evening. I’m afraid this has also coloured our dealings with you, Mr Hawthorne, and for that I must apologise. I suppose there’s nothing to prevent you passing on what you know to Detective Superintendent Khan.

Tom Beresford

What’s the point? We all know the truth. Roderick Browne was a decent enough man. I liked him. We all did. And we’re all desperately sorry for Felicity. But what we said and what we did that evening have got nothing to do with the end result. Roderick was the one who had the most to lose if Giles Kenworthy went on living. It was his crossbow. I have never doubted, not for a minute, that he was the one who committed the crime.

And then he got scared. The police knew it was him: Detective Superintendent Khan had made that clear. He was going to be arrested. So he sent his wife off to Woking, wrote a suicide note and killed himself. A dead man in a locked car in a locked garage with a suicide note in his lap. What other explanation can there be?

5

Hawthorne and Dudley let themselves into Woodlands with the keys that Felicity Browne had given them. There were cameras in Gardener’s Cottage and burglar alarms in both The Stables and the Lodge, but otherwise the houses in Riverview Close were surprisingly lacking in electronic security. It was part of the charm of the place that it existed in the world as it had been fifty years ago, when neighbours left their doors open or their keys under the mat and burglaries were rare enough to be news.

The house was still in pain. Both Hawthorne and Dudley sensed it the moment they crossed the threshold, the strange atmosphere, almost an awareness, that always lingers after a sudden death, as if the bricks and the plasterwork that have embraced so much day-to-day activity somehow know. Roderick Browne’s absence was everywhere. The police had been and gone, taking with them their photographic markers and crime-scene tape. But they had been unable to erase the memories.

It was late afternoon and still bright, but Hawthorne reached out and flicked on the light switch beside the door. The lights in the hallway, above the stairs and on the upper floor came on. He looked around him as if he had just proved a point. Andrew Pennington had described the last thing he had seen before Roderick took his own life. The light going out, in every sense.

Hawthorne went back through the kitchen and into the garage where Roderick had been found. The door had not been locked. The space on the other side was empty. The Skoda Octavia Mark 3 had been removed by the police and would be thoroughly examined for the coroner’s report, even if the conclusions had already been reached. In its absence, a drain with a cast-iron gully grid had been revealed, set in the concrete floor. Dudley knelt down and tried to move the cover. It was stuck fast.

The up-and-over door was locked in place. The various bits and pieces that Hawthorne had seen when he had last been here hadn’t moved. The crossbow had been taken, but it too had left its ghost behind, an empty space on the shelf. The interior was lit by the sun, not quite overhead, streaming diagonally through the skylight and picking out a thousand motes of dust.

‘If I was going to kill myself, I’m not sure this is the place I’d choose.’ Dudley had followed Hawthorne in and was looking around him with a sour expression on his face.

‘People who kill themselves don’t usually care,’ Hawthorne said.

‘They might do if they have the right self-image. Dentist to the stars. I see Roderick in a comfy chair with a bottle of champagne. And definitely Waitrose, not Tesco.’

‘You may be right, mate. But you know what the real puzzle is? Roderick Browne going to all this trouble to make it one hundred per cent clear that he’s offing himself because he killed Giles Kenworthy and all his neighbours know he did.’

‘But he still leaves the straw in his top pocket.’

‘Exactly. It leads us directly to them.’

‘It’s almost like he’s trying to implicate them.’

Hawthorne went over to the cardboard box filled with electrical bits and pieces that had been added to the garage after his first visit. He pulled out different plugs and cables and plastic boxes, some of them smashed. They hardly seemed to merit examination, but he still rummaged through them. Meanwhile, Dudley was examining the Dyson hoover.

‘Is it working?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Are you kidding? I had one of these once. It never did the job.’ He showed Hawthorne a plastic cylinder. ‘The dust collector’s cracked and the trigger’s missing. It doesn’t even look that old.’ He put the piece down. ‘What you need is a bigger Dyson to scoop up this one.’

Hawthorne had already moved on to the box of DVDs, the various gardening tools and the golf clubs. One of the putting irons seemed to be missing. He examined the bolts that held the up-and-over door in place. They were solid steel, as thick as his finger.

‘Let’s take this step by step,’ he said. ‘We know that Roderick Browne died around midnight.’

‘That’s what Khan said.’

‘And we know he was alive and conscious at ten o’clock because that was when he was heard saying goodbye to Adam Strauss. He turned off the light. What does that say to you?’

‘It says something’s wrong.’ Dudley had brought a chair in with him from the kitchen. He placed it in the middle of the floor – approximately where the driver’s seat would have been. He sat down. ‘He took sleeping pills and then he gassed himself with nitrous oxide. Why would he turn the light off? He wasn’t going to bed and I somehow doubt he wanted to save electricity!’

‘I agree. Let’s say he goes into the kitchen, swallows the pills and then, when he’s feeling sleepy, enters the garage for the final act. He climbs into the car, locks the doors and closes the windows from inside . . .’

‘. . . slips the key fob into his trouser pocket . . .’

‘. . . and dies.’

‘But if it wasn’t suicide, if it’s murder, the big question is – how did the killer get out?’

They both looked up at the same moment.

‘The skylight,’ Dudley said. ‘It’s the only way.’

‘We need a ladder.’

They found one outside, lying flat on the grass beside the garage. It was exactly the right length too. They leaned it against the wall and Dudley held it while Hawthorne climbed up, then followed.

They found themselves on a flat surface lined with asphalt, securely nailed down. The skylight was in the middle. From where they were standing, they could see the window of Roderick Browne’s bathroom a short distance above them and all three gardens stretching out behind. The view of the close was largely blocked by the roof of the house, but they could make out a window in the eaves of Gardener’s Cottage and the figure of a young woman, framed behind the glass. This had to be Kylie, the Beresfords’ nanny.

‘We’re being watched,’ Dudley said. He knelt beside the skylight and examined the eight stainless-steel screws that held the frame in place. He took a screwdriver out of his pocket and tried to turn one of them, then another. They didn’t move.

‘Khan said they’d rusted into place,’ Hawthorne said.

‘They’re certainly stuck fast.’

He tried two more, then gave up.

Hawthorne took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Let’s imagine the glass wasn’t here,’ he said. ‘How easy would it be to climb onto the roof of the car and pull yourself up here and then go back down the ladder if, say, you had a sprained ankle?’

‘Not easy.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘It wouldn’t be easy if you were seventy-nine or eighty-one either.’

Hawthorne nodded. Smoke trickled up from between his fingers. The two men stood where they were, watching the shadows stretch themselves across the lawns.

‘You should go back into the police,’ Hawthorne said.

‘You giving me the elbow?’

‘You can do better than working with me.’

‘I thought you enjoyed it.’

‘I’m not thinking of myself. I’m thinking of you. You should go back to Bristol and pick up where you left off. What happened, happened. You can’t let it grind you down.’

‘That’s what Suzmann says.’ Dudley looked at Hawthorne with eyes that were almost mournful. ‘Seems a strange time to be mentioning it.’

‘I’ve just got a bad feeling about this business – Riverview Close. I can’t explain it. I’ve worked out who killed Giles Kenworthy and Roderick Browne. I can tell you how they did it and why. There are still one or two loose ends, but otherwise it’s in the bag.’

‘You worrying about Khan? Getting him to see the light?’

‘He’s already made up his mind. You and me are off the case. He’s not going to want to lose face.’ Hawthorne smoked. ‘But that’s not the worst of it.’

‘Go on.’

‘There are killers and there are killers. This one is different. Maybe you should back out now and leave this to me.’

‘I’d prefer to see it to the end.’

‘That’s your choice, John. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.’

Hawthorne glanced up. He had spotted movements in Gardener’s Cottage. The nanny was still at the window, watching them. Even at this distance, they could tell she was uneasy. Two strange men on a roof, one of them smoking. Hang around much longer and she might report them to the police.

Hawthorne flicked his cigarette into the gutter. ‘All right. Kylie. Let’s see what she’s got to say.’

6

‘I’m sorry. This isn’t a very good time.’

Tom Beresford looked surprised to find Hawthorne and Dudley standing outside his door so soon after the meeting in Andrew Pennington’s garden. He was reluctant to let them in.

‘Not a good time for who, exactly?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘Not for Lynda Kenworthy or Felicity Browne, obviously. Not for that woman in Hampton Wick. Is she out of hospital yet? Not for Raymond Shaw, who dropped dead in your clinic while you were having a row about parking, and not for his wife and son. Not really a good time for anyone in Riverview Close when you think about it, what with blackmail, theft, racism and all the other activities that have been going on around here.’

‘Nice neighbourhood,’ Dudley agreed.

‘I don’t understand,’ Beresford said. ‘I thought you’d have gone by now. We’ve already told you everything we know. What are you doing here?’

‘You’re still telling me that Roderick Browne murdered his neighbour and killed himself?’

‘Have you got another explanation?’

‘If you let us in, you might find out. But meanwhile, let’s start with a little anomaly that I’ve noticed, Dr Beresford. Roderick took an overdose of sleeping pills. You had given his wife a prescription for temazepam.’

‘That’s right. But if you’re suggesting—’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just telling you that according to the police report, Roderick Browne swallowed thirty milligrams of zolpidem – which is the medication you prescribed to yourself. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd?’

Standing there, filling the doorway, Tom Beresford was suddenly looking less sure of himself. ‘I didn’t give Roderick my sleeping pills, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Then how did he get them?’

‘He came to my house now and then. He could have taken them.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Who told you what pills I was taking? That’s confidential information.’

‘Nothing is confidential in a murder investigation,’ Hawthorne replied with a smile of innocence. ‘By the way, when did you start smoking again?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You ever sneak round and have a puff in your garage?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Andrew Pennington saw you on the night of Roderick’s death. I just thought you might like to know.’

Hawthorne wasn’t moving. Tom Beresford realised he had no choice. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

He led them towards the kitchen. The sound of children shouting came from somewhere upstairs and then the voice of a young woman with an Australian accent.

‘Lucy! Claire! Will you both pipe down?’

‘Through here . . .’ Tom said.

Gemma Beresford was sitting at the table. She was not alone. She was deep in conversation with a young man who turned round as Hawthorne and Dudley came in. Neither of them looked surprised to see Felicity’s carer, Damien Shaw. For his part, he sat there squirming, obviously unhappy to see them.

‘I couldn’t stop them coming in.’ Tom’s words fell heavily. ‘They’re still investigating the two deaths. They think the police have got it wrong.’

‘Any reason you wouldn’t want us to find the three of you together?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘None at all!’ Gemma glared at him. ‘We’ve been seeing a lot of Damien since—’

‘Since the death of his father . . . Raymond Shaw.’

‘Yes, Mr Hawthorne. We feel we owe him a duty of care.’

Damien had already told Hawthorne that he’d recently been forced to take a week off and that he was living with his mother, who was on her own. Given his surname, it hadn’t taken a great leap of imagination to put things together.

‘I don’t blame Tom for what happened,’ Damien said, leaping to the defence.

‘Dr Beresford couldn’t get to your dad in time because he was held up by his neighbour.’ Hawthorne seemed to consider the matter for the first time. ‘Did you blame Giles Kenworthy?’

Damien blushed an angry red. ‘What if I did?’

‘Well, you might have been tempted to put a crossbow bolt through his neck.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘It doesn’t seem ridiculous to me,’ Dudley said. ‘You knew about the crossbow. You were home alone with Felicity. You had access to the garage.’

‘Leave him alone!’ Gemma reached out and took hold of Damien’s arm. ‘Damien wouldn’t hurt anyone. And anyway, we know who killed Giles Kenworthy.’

‘He says it wasn’t Roderick,’ Tom muttered.

‘Roderick Browne and Giles Kenworthy were both killed by the same person,’ Hawthorne said. ‘That’s been clear from the start.’

‘Well, it wasn’t Damien,’ Gemma insisted, still clinging on to him.

‘Why are you here?’ Dudley asked.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ Damien faltered. He withdrew his arm. ‘I’ve handed in my notice at the agency. I’ve spoken to Felicity and she’s not coming back to Richmond anytime soon. She was my main client and I need a break anyway. This is all so horrible! I’m going travelling in Europe.’

‘Alone?’

‘With a friend.’

As if on cue, there was a movement at the door and the girl from the window appeared. She was in her twenties, fair-haired, wearing cut-off jeans and a shirt tied at the waist. ‘Claire and Lucy are watching Horrid Henry on TV,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to get them to quieten down before—’

She stopped, recognising Hawthorne and Dudley from the roof.

‘Those are the guys I saw,’ she said.

Gemma nodded. ‘It’s all right, Kylie. We know them.’

‘We haven’t met,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I’m Kylie Jane.’ She looked wary, keeping her distance.

‘Kylie’s coming with me,’ Damien said.

In fact, it had been obvious that they were together the moment Kylie had walked in. Hawthorne could tell from the way they looked at each other. They made an attractive couple.

‘You’re leaving Richmond?’ Hawthorne asked.

Kylie nodded. ‘I handed in my notice last week.’

‘We’re going to miss her terribly,’ Gemma said. ‘We still haven’t broken it to the girls. But it’s hardly surprising, given everything that’s happened. They’re both better off out of it.’ She glared at Hawthorne as if it was all his fault.

‘Well, before you go, I’d like to ask you a couple of things,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I don’t know anything about Giles Kenworthy,’ Kylie protested.

‘But you know a lady called Marsha Clarke who lives in Hampton Wick.’

Kylie stared. ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘How is she?’

Kylie looked from Gemma to Tom, as if asking permission to speak. They were as puzzled as she was. ‘She’s better,’ she said. ‘They’ve allowed her to go home now. She was very worried about her cats.’

‘I’m sure she’ll miss you when you’re in Europe.’

If there was an implied accusation, Kylie ignored it. ‘I won’t be away for ever. And I’ve spoken to the charity. They’re going to make sure another volunteer goes round.’

‘What exactly are you on about?’ Tom asked.

Hawthorne ignored him. ‘Can you tell us what happened to her?’

‘She was attacked.’

‘You must know more than that, love.’

‘Sure.’ Kylie was annoyed by the way she’d been addressed but went on anyway. ‘I’ve been visiting Marsha for three years . . . ever since her husband died. She’s well into her eighties and she’s on her own. She’s a sweet old lady and she’s never done anyone any harm.

‘Every evening, during the summer, she walks down to the river and feeds the ducks. I used to take her lots of stale bread from the close when I went to visit her. She’s not the sort of person to ask for anything, but that’s something that gives her real pleasure.

‘So, a week ago, at around seven thirty, she was walking back to her house. She has a little terraced cottage at the end of Milton Gardens, which is near the park. She let herself in through the gate and someone hit her on the back of the head. They must have been waiting for her. The police say she was lucky her skull wasn’t fractured. She could have been killed!’

‘Do they know why she was attacked?’

‘It wasn’t a mugging. She had her handbag with her and the keys to her front door were inside, so it wasn’t a burglary either. They found a flyer from a political party stuffed through her letter box – the UK Independence Party. The strange thing is that nobody else in Milton Gardens got one and the party hasn’t been campaigning in Hampton Wick. And Marsha just happens to be the only black woman in Milton Gardens.’

‘It was a racist attack,’ Dudley said.

‘This happened the night before Giles Kenworthy was killed,’ Hawthorne added. ‘And he was a member of the same party.’

‘I don’t know anything about that, Mr Hawthorne,’ Kylie said. ‘The police called me and I spent half the night in the hospital. After that, I stayed in her home to look after the cats.’

‘It’s funny,’ Dudley muttered, almost to himself. ‘But why do I get the feeling that everyone in this room had a good reason to hate Giles Kenworthy?’

Damien stood up and went over to Kylie. He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘We don’t hate anyone,’ he said. ‘And Tom and Gemma have been nothing but kind to us. You’re the one who seems to know a lot about hate, Mr Hawthorne.’

Hawthorne smiled. ‘Well, I’ve met a lot of murderers,’ he said.

7

The taxi took them across Richmond Bridge and into St Margaret’s. Then it looped round, following the river back towards Petersham but on the other side. Dudley watched the scenery go past, but Hawthorne’s attention was fixed on his iPhone, which he was holding in both hands, watching a pulsating blue dot in the centre of the screen.

‘Turn left on Orleans Road,’ he instructed.

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.

‘I told you, I never touched that dog. I know Lynda was complaining about him, but if there was anyone who was cruel enough to do something like that, it was Giles Kenworthy, and maybe that was what got him killed. As for me, I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘You’ve done quite a lot wrong, darling.’ Hawthorne slipped the phone into his pocket. ‘You got any idea who killed Roderick Browne?’

‘He killed himself.’

‘You really think that? You seem a smart girl . . . in and out of everyone’s houses. I was just wondering if you’d seen anything and maybe worked it out.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing if it will get you off my back.’ Hawthorne looked at her enquiringly. ‘Those flowers of Mr Pennington. The ones in the roundabout. They were trashed deliberately – and it wasn’t the kids.’

This time, Hawthorne smiled. ‘How do you know?’

‘Wheel marks in the soil. But no mud tracks on the drive. How is that possible?’

‘I’d worked that one out, too, Sarah. But you’re right, and I’m grateful.’ Hawthorne stood up, being careful not to hit his head on the ceiling. ‘If you’ll take my advice, you’ll move on. Maybe it’s time to find another river.’

‘Me and Bella have got nowhere to go.’

Hawthorne opened the door.

‘Do me a favour, Mr Hawthorne. Don’t show anyone those photos. People like me don’t get a lot of choice in what we do. I wasn’t brought up in no Riverview Close. My whole life has been just one thing after another, but I’ve still got some pride.’

Hawthorne didn’t answer. He and Dudley returned to the bank and walked away from the barge, watching as a couple of late canoeists slid past. It was going to be one of those perfect evenings with the light soft and painted and a stillness in the air. The sort of evening that’s unique to the Thames in the summer months.

Hawthorne suddenly stopped, took Roderick’s iPhone and weighed it in his hand. Then he threw it into the air and watched it splash down, leaving just a few ripples behind.