Close to Death

1

Was this the ending that Hawthorne had warned me against?

Hawthorne hadn’t wanted me to write the book. He’d said he wasn’t happy about the way it had turned out – both the case and his relationship with John Dudley. Dudley was part of the fallout. I already knew that because, of course, I’d taken his place. Roland Hawthorne had also tried to get me to stop. And when I was at Fenchurch International, Morton had described the whole exercise as a mistake I would come to regret. He must have known that Hawthorne’s conclusions would be thrown out by the police and that Adam Strauss would never be arrested or brought to trial. In which case, all the work I’d done so far had been a complete waste of time. It was the one thing I’d always feared. That I’d get to the end of the book and realise that I didn’t have one.

I called Hawthorne three times once I’d listened to Dudley’s recording, but got no reply, not even a voice message. He must have deactivated his phone because he knew how I’d feel and didn’t want to talk to me. I sat at my desk, unable to concentrate on Riverview Close, James Bond or anything else. All I could think about was how much time I’d wasted on a book that was never going to be published. It was incredible to think that when I’d set out, I’d thought it was going to be easy!

Was it possible that I’d missed something, that there was some clue I’d overlooked? I went through everything I’d been given and everything I’d written so far. In particular, I examined what Hawthorne had said in front of Detective Superintendent Khan at The Stables. It had all sounded so credible – until the letters and New Year’s card had been produced. And then that FaceTime call! Could it be that Adam Strauss had committed the two murders, but for a different reason, that if Wendy Strauss wasn’t buried under the magnolia tree, something else was concealed there?

But then I had to remind myself that Strauss had never been brought to trial. He was a chess grandmaster and a television celebrity of sorts: it would have been a huge story if he had been. Instead, he had died in an accident, falling off a hotel balcony. I shuddered. Giles Kenworthy, Roderick Browne, Raymond Shaw, Ellery the dog, and then Adam Strauss . . . How could a quiet residential close in a nice part of London have been responsible for so much death?

Had it been an accident?

Adam Strauss, accused of murder, somehow plunging to his death. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but I knew it was too much of a coincidence. He had been murdered. There was no escaping it. And that led me to an inescapable thought.

I’ve often mentioned Derek Abbott, the suspect manhandled and badly injured by Hawthorne. I’m not sure if it was a criminal offence, but there could be no doubt that he had eventually talked Abbott into killing himself. Could he have gone one step further with Adam Strauss? I remembered something that Morton had said to me and searched through my own manuscript to find it. Yes. There it was: ‘You may discover things about Hawthorne that you wish you hadn’t known and once you uncover them, there’ll be no going back. It may end your friendship with him.’

No. Hawthorne was many things. He could be cruel. Many of his attitudes were seriously questionable. He was damaged. But he was basically decent.

He was not a killer. I refused to believe it.

And then my telephone rang.

I snatched it up without even looking at the caller ID. I was certain it would be Hawthorne. But when I put the phone to my ear, there was a voice I didn’t recognise.

‘Is that Anthony?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Detective Superintendent Khan.’ He was the last person I had expected to call. ‘I’m in London . . . at New Scotland Yard. I can give you ten minutes if you come over now.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘There’s a pub round the corner. The Red Lion in Parliament Street. I’ll be there at twelve.’

I looked at my watch. That gave me half an hour to get across town.

‘I’ll see you there,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

But he had cut me off before I’d reached those last two words.

2

The Red Lion was about as traditional as a pub can be: brass lamps and window boxes on the outside, polished wood and mirrored shelves within. It stood on a corner, a few minutes’ walk from New Scotland Yard, with Downing Street just across the road. I arrived there exactly on time and found the detective sitting at a table with a glass of Coke.

I recognised him at once, although he was older than I’d imagined and a little less of the film star. Once again, I had to remind myself that quite a few years had passed since the murders at Riverview Close. He was wearing a nondescript suit with his tie pulled down and his collar open. I had rather hoped that Ruth Goodwin would be with him – the more characters I met, the better – but he was alone. He looked tired and not particularly pleased to see me, even though he was the one who had rung.

I introduced myself and sat down. It was only now that I realised I had absolutely no idea why he had invited me here.

‘So, how’s the book going?’ he began.

‘It’s finished,’ I said and I didn’t mean I’d finished writing it.

‘Am I in it?’

‘Of course.’

‘My son seems to think that’s pretty cool. His words, not mine.’ He had an eleven-year-old son, who’d been mentioned in one of his many newspaper profiles. ‘You should be careful,’ he went on. ‘You write crap about me, you won’t hear the end of it.’

His language surprised me. He’d sounded more polite on the tapes I’d listened to, but then, I suppose, he’d been presenting himself in a more official capacity. A couple of phrases I’d used to describe him flashed through my mind. Slow and unimaginative. Too pleased with himself. I made a mental note to take them out.

I was carrying a backpack and I opened it and took out a book . . . the latest Alex Rider. ‘I brought this for your son,’ I said. ‘I thought he might enjoy it.’

Khan glanced at it. ‘He’s already got that one.’ He took it anyway. ‘But thanks. You can sign it for him.’

‘So why did you call me?’ I asked.

‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve just been interviewed. I’m up for chief superintendent.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I don’t need your support, thanks all the same. I’m only telling you that because it would be very unhelpful to have you writing about me at the moment, particularly if Hawthorne is your first source of information. I want you to understand that my lawyers will be looking very closely at anything you publish, particularly with respect to how it ends.’

‘I’m not sure about that part myself,’ I admitted. ‘What happened at The Stables, what Hawthorne said – it all seemed so sensible.’ Khan said nothing, so I added: ‘Did you ever dig up the garden?’

‘Of course I didn’t dig up the bloody garden. It all checked out. There is a Wendy Yeung working at the Maritime Museum in Hong Kong. She did leave Heathrow on the date Strauss said. I spoke to her! You think I was going to get the bulldozers in after that?’

‘It’s unusual for Hawthorne to get things wrong.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘Including you?’

He shook his head. ‘Not this time – and it would be a mistake to suggest otherwise. The case is closed. It’s been closed a long time. You start raking up the past, you’re going to cause a lot of grief, and I should warn you that wasting police time is an offence that can land you in jail.’

This wasn’t the first time I’d been threatened by a detective.

‘What happened to Adam Strauss?’ I asked.

That threw him. ‘The official story is that he was staying at a hotel in Park Lane, taking part in a chess tournament. He went to his room between games and somehow fell off the balcony. His wife wasn’t with him at the time. There was evidence that he’d been drinking.’

‘Do you believe that?’

He smiled, but not pleasantly. ‘According to Teri Strauss, he never drank when he was playing chess. He needed to keep a clear mind. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing well. He was losing. That might have had a part to play.’

‘Presumably, you investigated.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was called in – because of my prior acquaintance with Mr Strauss. It wasn’t my investigation, though.’

‘And?’

‘Do you want to know because of your concern for the deceased?’ He paused. ‘Or is it because you think your friend ex-Detective Inspector Hawthorne might have had something to do with it?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That thought never crossed my mind.’

‘Well, it crossed mine. He’s got a bit of a reputation for this sort of thing.’

‘He would never kill anyone.’

‘We looked at CCTV footage, but that was a waste of time. Lots of people going in and out of the reception area, but these days it’s all baseball caps, sunglasses and hoodies. Anyway, if someone did want to sneak into the room, they could have got in through the service area and up the backstairs. Security at the hotel was pathetic. You might like to know that we pulled Hawthorne in and we talked to him at length. Of course he played wide-eyed and innocent. But there was no one who could tell us where he was when the supposed accident happened. Home alone, he said. Strange that he didn’t make or receive any calls either. Total radio silence. He said he was assembling an Airfix Supermarine Spitfire Mark One. Makes you wonder what sort of man spends an entire day on his own with a model kit.’

‘I refuse to believe he went anywhere near Adam Strauss.’

‘You can believe what you like. But he’d still concluded, against all the evidence, that Adam Strauss was a killer, and given his past record, it’s hardly a surprise that he decided to take things into his own hands . . .’

‘I think you should leave him alone.’

‘You leave me alone and that’ll make us quits.’

He opened the book I had given him and twisted it round for me to sign. ‘My boy’s name is Nadeem,’ he said.

I dedicated the book and he closed it without looking at what I’d written.

‘Are you still interested in John Dudley?’ he asked, almost as an afterthought.

‘Very much so. Can you tell me anything about him?’

Khan nodded. ‘In a way, he and Hawthorne were made for each other. He’s a sad act – a bright, up-and-coming DC down in Bristol. A lot of people spoke very highly of him. But it all went wrong when his fiancée was killed in an accident. It happened just before Christmas. The driver was a man called Terence Stagg. He was the bar manager at a hotel in Cardiff and not a nice piece of work. He knocked her down on the way to work. The thing is, though, he was on his mobile at the time.’

‘Is he in jail?’

‘He should have got ten to twelve years, but he had smart lawyers and they managed to get him off scot-free. They couldn’t prove he was speeding. He was seen holding the phone, but he claimed he was using it hands-free. And one of the street lights was broken – that was the key to the defence. Anyway, it was enough. He walked away without even paying a fine.

‘These things happen from time to time and you have to live with them, but it didn’t work out that way. Stagg had some mates meet him outside the court and they were all having a laugh, celebrating his release. One of them had even brought a bottle of champagne. Dudley came out and saw them and went berserk. Punched the lights out of one of them and put Stagg in hospital with a broken jaw. He was lucky not to get prosecuted himself, but his work went to pieces after that. He started drinking. There were a couple of other incidents and he was out of the force within a year. He’s spent the last four years working as a security guard . . . something like that. Bit pathetic, really.’

Khan took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He laid it on the table in front of me.

‘Anyway, I managed to track him down for you. This is where he lives – not so far from here. If you visit him, don’t say you got this from me.’

He walked away. I opened the piece of paper and glanced at the address. I recognised it immediately. I knew exactly where it was. I should have known all along.

3

Nineteen B, River Court.

Another address with a river in the name – but this was a building I had been to many times. Hawthorne lived here on the twelfth floor and now it turned out that Dudley had a flat on the first. Had Hawthorne arranged it for him or did he have Morton to thank for his accommodation? I would have been really interested to know just how many of the flats belonged to Fenchurch International and what other refugees, criminals or aliens of one sort or another they had hiding out here.

As I arrived at the front door, I was in two minds. Who should I call on: Hawthorne or his former assistant? It was a decision easily made. Neither of them wanted to see me, but there was more chance that Dudley would open the door. What did he have to lose?

I rang the bell.

Silence.

Then . . .

‘Hello?’ It was quite something to hear his voice. A lot of writers say that their characters talk to them but very few of them mean it literally.

‘John Dudley?’

‘Yes.’

I told him who I was. ‘I work with Hawthorne,’ I explained. ‘Can I come in?’

There was another long pause and I wondered whether he was going to ignore me. He might be calling Hawthorne. He might have gone out a back way. Then I heard a buzzing sound. I pushed the door and it opened. He had let me in.

I walked up to the first floor. Dudley was waiting for me outside an open door, about halfway down a corridor that was identical to Hawthorne’s: the same neutral colours and discreet lights. Everything was very quiet. I walked up to him.

‘Does Hawthorne know you’re here?’ he asked.

It was interesting that this should be his first question. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Probably just as well. Did Detective Superintendent Khan give you my address?’

How did he even know we’d met? I decided to tell him the truth. ‘Yes. I gave him a signed book.’

‘I’m surprised he’s so cheap.’ He examined me for a few moments. Then he came to a decision. ‘Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in.’

I walked into a flat that was as empty as Hawthorne’s – but for a different reason. There were three suitcases by the door, a pile of cardboard boxes over by the window, the sort removal men use to pack up your life. A single plate, a knife and a fork sat beside the sink in the open-plan kitchen. The furniture had been reduced to the bare necessities. This wasn’t how he always lived. He was leaving.

‘You’ve just caught me,’ he said.

‘Where are you going?’

‘The Cayman Islands. Tomorrow.’

That made me think of Lady Barraclough. ‘Will you be gone for long?’ I asked.

‘It may be a one-way ticket.’ I felt him examining me, although his face gave nothing away. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked.

‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

He opened a cupboard that contained a jar of instant coffee, two mugs, a bag of sugar. He put the kettle on and took a carton of milk out of the fridge. And all the time I watched him with the uncanny feeling that in a strange way I was watching myself. I had taken his place! And looking at his brown eyes, his dark – definitely lank – hair, it occurred to me that in some ways he looked rather like me, although I was older and perhaps more smartly dressed. Neither of us spoke while he made the coffee. Maybe he was waiting for me to go first.

‘You know I’m writing about Hawthorne,’ I said as he sat down.

‘I’ve read the first two books,’ he said. ‘I hear they’ve done quite well.’

I got a faint sense of disapproval. ‘I feel I’ve stepped into your shoes,’ I suggested.

‘I don’t agree.’ Dudley added three teaspoons of sugar to his coffee. ‘You’re writing about him. I worked for him. I’d say we had very different roles.’

‘Did he tell you that I’m writing about Riverview Close?’

Dudley paused, mid-stir. ‘No. I heard about that – but not from him.’

‘Then who?’

‘From Alastair Morton.’ He looked around him at the empty flat. ‘In case you’re wondering, it’s no coincidence that I’m packing up and I’m on my way. It’s thanks to you.’

‘How come?’

‘You talked to Khan.’ That made no sense to me so he continued. ‘You’ve been asking questions about me. You’ve found your way to my home. Did you know that Fenchurch International owns half the flats in this building? It’s meant to be a safe space – but not any more. Morton wants me out of the way. And so I’ve got to go.’

He had spoken without malice but I still felt terrible. ‘Does he really have such a hold over you?’ I asked.

‘He employs me. Hawthorne got me the job, but Morton signs the cheques.’

‘I’m very sorry . . .’ I didn’t know what to say.

‘Don’t be. I don’t mind a bit of sunshine and I’ve always fancied trying my hand at fraud – white-collar crime. It’ll be an experience.’

There was a brief silence.

‘You must see quite a lot of Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘Living in the same building.’

‘I used to – but you could say we had a difference of opinion. Sometimes we see each other coming in, going out. But we tend to keep our distance.’

‘Where did the two of you meet?’

I hadn’t expected him to answer and I was surprised when he did.

‘In Reeth.’

‘You grew up there?’

‘We were at school together.’ Dudley smiled. ‘We knew each other when we were eight years old. We were best friends in the way that only eight-year-olds can be. He was like a brother to me.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what happened in Reeth?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not my story to tell.’ He deliberately changed the subject. ‘You know, he speaks very highly of you.’

‘Does he?’

‘That’s why I let you in. I’ve wanted to meet you for quite a while now, although if you’ll do me a favour, I wouldn’t mention any of this to Hawthorne.’

‘Or Morton.’

‘He already knows. He knows everyone who comes in and out of this building.’

‘I hope I’m not going to get you into more trouble.’

I meant it. It was strange, but I felt completely relaxed with John Dudley, as if I’d known him a long time. There was some sort of affinity between us. Despite what he’d said about our different roles, we had both come into Hawthorne’s orbit and that connected us.

He shook his head. ‘It’s too late now. Anyway, I’ll be gone by tomorrow evening, so we can just pretend it never happened.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ I said.

‘He’s not an easy man. I know that. But it’s good that you’re helping him. I think you’re what he needs.’

We lifted our coffee cups at the same moment. Again, I got that weird sense of reflection.

‘There’s one thing I really want to know,’ I said. ‘It’s the one thing that’s been really bothering me and I hope you can tell me. Why did the two of you part company?’ He didn’t answer, so I leapt in. ‘Was it because you discovered that he’d pushed Adam Strauss off a hotel balcony?’

He smiled at me. ‘That’s very direct.’

‘Well, as you say, you’re about to leave for the other side of the world. You might as well tell me the truth.’

‘It was something like that,’ he admitted.

He didn’t need to say any more. Khan had known Hawthorne was responsible, although he hadn’t been able to prove it. Morton was afraid of the truth coming out. Dudley must have worked it out for himself and that was why the two of them had gone their separate ways.

‘I was sorry the investigation didn’t have a better outcome,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘It ended the way it ended. I’m not sure it’s going to be very helpful for your book.’

‘Who do you think killed Roderick Browne?’

He gazed at me and I saw the puzzlement in his eyes. ‘I know who killed him. It was Adam Strauss.’

‘But you never found out why?’

‘I know exactly why. Hawthorne got it all right. Everything he said was correct!’

I was puzzled. ‘That last meeting at The Stables . . .’

‘That’s what I’m talking about. The last meeting: Hawthorne and me, the Strausses. Have you heard the recording?’

‘I’ve heard all your recordings. I’m grateful to you for making them. I couldn’t have written the book without them.’

‘Everything that Hawthorne said that day was bang on the money. I knew it before we went in. Adam Strauss murdered his first wife when he was living at Riverview Lodge and buried her in his back garden. If Detective Superintendent Khan was too stupid to see it or too up his own arse to accept it, that was his problem. I will admit, though, that Strauss completely tricked him. But that was what was so brilliant about him. He was a chess grandmaster and he was always ten moves ahead.’

I’d heard that quite a few times.

‘He’d boasted about it when we first met him,’ Dudley went on. ‘But the act he put on in that room . . . that was something else.’

‘What do you mean?’

Just for a moment, Dudley looked irritated. ‘He’d planned it all a long time ago, exactly the same way he’d planned the murder and the so-called suicide. He’d left nothing to chance. What was he going to do if a police officer walked into his house and tried to arrest him? He’d thought of that before he even killed his wife and he always made sure he had postcards, stashed away, ready to be brought out if anyone started asking awkward questions. Plus, every year a New Year’s card sent from Hong Kong: 2013, the Year of the Snake; 2014, the Year of the Horse. Photos of Wendy that he could show off on his phone. Don’t make any mistake. She was rotting away underneath that magnolia tree, but he’d built up a whole legend to keep her alive.

‘I have no doubt that it was Teri and not Wendy who took that flight to New York after the divorce. Planning ahead! They must have looked quite similar, even without the racial stereotypes. They were family! And anyway, a single woman travelling business class to New York would barely have got a second glance from a border control guard at either end of the journey. Strauss could probably have done it in drag!’

‘He told you there was a Wendy Yeung working at the Maritime Museum in Hong Kong.’

‘If DS Khan had bothered to check, which he didn’t, he would have found that there is – but not the same Wendy Yeung. It’s a common name. It would have been easy enough for Strauss to find someone who shared it.’ He paused. ‘It’s like when a magician tells you to pick a card and then says you can change your mind. You very seldom do. Just the fact that he gives you the opportunity is enough. It makes you believe he’s playing fair and square.’

‘You called her from the room.’

He sighed.

‘No. Adam Strauss dialled the number and passed the phone across. He made a point of announcing that he wasn’t going to say a word. Again, the magician! Khan was the one who did the talking and what was the first thing he said? “My name is Detective Superintendent Khan.” That was the stupidest thing he could have done. That was the trigger! Whoever it was in Hong Kong, it wasn’t Wendy. It was a friend, a relation, an actress, someone who had been paid to play a part years ago. And he’d tipped them off. There was no hesitation, no need for any explanation. When the woman heard who she was speaking to, she simply did what she and Strauss had rehearsed.’

‘He said he was paying her money. Was that a lie too?’

‘It’s probably true. One thousand pounds a month into an account in Hong Kong would be easy enough to arrange. He pays it in. It gets passed across to a second account and then it gets paid back again.’ He drank his coffee. ‘You’ve got to understand, Anthony. Nobody has ever planned a murder so far in advance. That was what made Strauss so unique. And why he was so dangerous. In a way, he was the most obvious suspect from the start. Only a chess grandmaster could have dreamt up anything as elaborate.’

I took this all in.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘You needed to know.’

‘Yes. And you didn’t call me Tony.’

I wondered at what point he’d worked out the truth – before or after Hawthorne? But I didn’t ask him that. Hawthorne had mocked me once, telling me how much smarter Dudley was out of the two of us. Well, he was right. For what it’s worth, I’d come to the conclusion that the killer was Damien Shaw, possibly working with Tom Beresford. I didn’t tell him that either.

‘What did you think when you heard that Adam Strauss was dead?’ I asked.

Dudley smiled, but for a brief moment all the sadness in the world caught up with him: the loss of his fiancée, his loneliness and alcoholism, sessions with a therapist called Dr Suzmann, his broken friendship with Hawthorne, his exile to the Cayman Islands. I saw his whole history flicker through his eyes.

‘I suppose there are some people who might say that he deserved it, but I can’t celebrate anyone’s death. Not even his. Hawthorne saw things differently to me and maybe that was what drove us apart. I’ll miss him when I go, but I think it’s for the best. As for your book, you know the truth now and I’m sure you’ll agree that the world is a better place without Adam Strauss, so that gives you a happy ending of sorts. I’m not sure what happened to his wife. She was in it all along, of course . . .’

‘How can you be so sure?’

He put down his coffee cup. ‘I saw it, just as we were leaving The Stables. DS Khan and DC Goodwin went out first. Then Hawthorne. But as I approached the door, I happened to notice their reflections in a mirror in a gold frame on the wall. Strauss and his wife were holding hands, and their faces . . . it was extraordinary to see. The triumph! They were celebrating. They had got away with it. And in that one brief glance, I realised they were monsters. They were evil. And if Hawthorne was the one who pushed Strauss off that balcony, I’m not the one to pass judgement.’

He looked at his watch.

‘Despite everything, I’m glad I met you, Anthony. Do you sell many books in Grand Cayman?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Well, I’ll look out for the new one.’

He stood up. It was time for me to go.

‘No need to come with me,’ I said. ‘I’ll find my way out.’

4

All along, while I’d been talking to Dudley, I’d been thinking that once we’d finished, I’d head up to the twelfth floor. I wouldn’t repeat what he’d said to me. I wouldn’t even say we’d met. That would have been like betraying myself! But I would knock on Hawthorne’s door and go in and see him. I’d explain why I’d gone to Fenchurch International and I’d apologise – to him and to Roland. I was afraid that the damage had already been done, but I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d let him down and that I might not work with him again.

Something stopped me. I was thinking about what Dudley had said. I went back downstairs and let myself out into the autumn sunshine. Eight weeks had passed since Hawthorne and I had first discussed the book that I was now calling Close to Death and the new season had crept up on me, as it does for so many writers, without being noticed. There were leaves blowing in the street and a metallic quality to the sky: all too soon the Christmas lights would be going up. I found a bench on the other side of the road with a good view of River Court and sat down, half hoping that I might catch sight of Hawthorne going in or out. I didn’t want to speak to him. There was no need. I knew now that we did, after all, have a book. I knew how it ended.

Dudley had turned out to be central to everything that had happened. I hadn’t realised quite what part he’d play when I’d first introduced him, arriving with Hawthorne at Riverview Close. When I was writing those pages, I’d thought he was just the sidekick. Like me.

But now I remembered the way he had looked at me when I asked him about the death of Adam Strauss, the story he’d told me about the reflections he’d glimpsed in the mirror, Strauss and his wife. Monsters. Evil. That was how he had described them.

I know that I’m not much of a detective. Time after time, I’ve followed in Hawthorne’s footsteps, getting everything wrong. I’ve made stupid mistakes and even put my own life in danger. I’ll be the first to admit that Hawthorne was right and that Dudley was in every way sharper than me. But this time, just for once, I’d guessed the truth all on my own and I knew that I was right.

The triumph. They were celebrating. They had got away with it.

Just like Terence Stagg.

Even before I’d walked out of the flat, I’d realised that it wasn’t Dudley who had found out what Hawthorne had done and who had chosen to walk away from him, but the other way round. It wasn’t Hawthorne who had pushed Adam Strauss off that balcony. It was Dudley – and Morton had known it all along. The moment I had started asking questions, Morton had decided to send Dudley as far away as possible. As for Hawthorne, he knew it too, but he had kept silent even when he had become the subject of a police investigation and still remained the number-one suspect in Adam Strauss’s murder. Even I had thought the worst of him, but Hawthorne would go on protecting Dudley because they had been eight-years-olds together, sharing a life about which I still knew almost nothing. Because they were friends.

I sat there for perhaps an hour before a taxi pulled up opposite me. I saw Hawthorne get out. He paid the driver and walked slowly towards the front door of River Court, found his keys and let himself in. I didn’t call out to him. I waited until he had disappeared.

Then I got up and walked away.