Close to Death

1

Detective Superintendent Tariq Khan had realised straight away that the murder of Giles Kenworthy would be like nothing he had ever investigated and that it might threaten what had so far been an unblemished career.

The dead man had been waiting for him in the hallway of his home, covered with a sheet, and it wasn’t so much the multiple bloodstains – on the carpet, the walls, even a few specks on the ceiling – as the sheer incongruousness of it that struck Khan first. The white linen was clinging to the hips and shoulders so that most of the body was clearly visible in silhouette. But when it reached the neck, it rose up like a miniature tent. The effect was grotesque, almost comical. Khan had drawn the sheet back and looked at the crossbow bolt, still lodged in Giles Kenworthy’s throat. The deceased would have been unrecognisable even to his nearest and dearest. His eyes were still open in shock, his mouth twisted in a scream that death had turned into a grimace. The bolt had entered directly under his chin. If he had been wearing a tie, it would have gone through the knot.

Everything had been wrong from the start, and as the day progressed it only got worse.

First of all, there was the murder weapon: a crossbow, for heaven’s sake! Khan had never heard of anyone being the target of a crossbow, not since William Tell’s son – and that hadn’t hit him. The killer hadn’t even tried to get rid of it, simply leaving it on the gravel in front of the house as if he – or she – didn’t even care about being caught. The weapon had already been identified as the property of one Roderick Browne, the middle-aged dentist who lived next door. Then there was Riverview Close itself, an unlikely murder scene with its perfectly attractive houses and Alan Ayckbourn collection of characters: a GP, a jewellery designer and their twin daughters, a chess grandmaster, two little old ladies, a retired barrister, and the dentist.

He wouldn’t normally have thought of them as suspects, but he had to take the facts into consideration. First and foremost, they all had a motive. It was clear that they had disliked or even hated Giles Kenworthy, who, from the sound of it, had been one of those ‘neighbours from hell’, the sort who frequently turned up in sensationalist television documentaries. He had only arrived with his family eight months before, but he seemed to have gone out of his way to annoy everyone around him. Any one of them could have killed him – and for exactly the same reason. They wanted him out.

And then there was the physicality of Riverview Close itself: the electronic gate that automatically locked itself at seven o’clock in the evening, sealing them all in, and the crossbow stored in a garage that was locked and bolted and which nobody from the outside world could possibly have known was there. Khan was sure that other suspects would show up; you didn’t get to be as rich as Giles Kenworthy without making enemies. But he had been killed in the middle of the night. The gate hadn’t been forced and it would have been hard to climb over without leaving some sort of evidence. The entire set-up screamed ‘inside job’.

There was something else going on. Khan had spent most of the day talking to the residents, who had all been asked to stay at home. He was trying to keep things casual: not so much a formal interview as a general chat. It should have been easy. A nice neighbourhood like this, everyone would be eager to help the police with their inquiries. If nothing else, it would be a new experience, a break from routine, something to talk about at their next dinner party. But all along he had sensed there was something wrong. Each one of them had been evasive, reticent . . . even afraid.

The dentist, Roderick Browne, had been the worst of all, his eyes blinking as he spoke, his tongue darting across his lips. ‘Yes. I heard. I couldn’t believe it. Giles Kenworthy! Of course, he wasn’t an easy man to get on with, but none of us would ever have done such a thing. Certainly not me! I’m a dentist. I look after people. I mean, I know it was my crossbow. Tom Beresford called me and I went straight to the garage. It’s gone! I have no idea when it was taken. To be honest with you, I’d almost forgotten it was there. I haven’t fired it in years. Years and years. I hope you don’t think . . . My wife is upstairs. She’s not at all well. But she’ll tell you. I was asleep last night. We don’t share the same room any more . . . because of her illness. But she’d have heard . . .’

The words tumbled out of him almost incoherently, made worse by the idiotic smile he had pinned to his lips. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. In Khan’s opinion, all that was missing was the billboard mounted on his shoulders with GUILTY written on it and a hand with an outstretched finger pointing down.

The others were just as bad. The two old ladies had to be persuaded to let him into the house, preferring to address him from the other side of a half-open door. The barrister, Andrew Pennington, was so circumspect that he tied himself in knots, talking as much as he could without actually saying anything. By contrast, Adam Strauss, whom Khan remembered from a terrible quiz show his grandmother had liked to watch, was monosyllabic. Gemma Beresford, the doctor’s wife, was openly hostile.

Detective Superintendent Tariq Khan was something of a poster boy for the Metropolitan Police – and knew it. He was young, good-looking, Oxford-educated, a great communicator from a working-class background. His father had been employed as a hospital porter. With his prematurely silver hair, his slim physique, his Bollywood good looks and his easy manner, Khan was admired by everyone who knew him and was regularly put forward for press briefings and evening news slots. This was the first time he had ever felt out of his depth. He’d found himself in drug-ridden sink estates in the worst parts of south London that had been more open and accommodating than Riverview Close. So far, they hadn’t given him so much as a Mr Kipling cake.

Late in the afternoon, he stood in the sunlight, comparing notes with DC Ruth Goodwin, who had worked with him for the last five years. The two of them got on well even though they came from different worlds – in her case, Hampstead Garden Suburb and a well-to-do Jewish family who wouldn’t have objected if she’d married a police officer but were surprised when she announced she was going to become one. Short and dark, with a round face and close-cropped hair, she had recently given up smoking, much to Khan’s satisfaction. Unfortunately, she had replaced cigarettes with a series of brightly coloured vapes, each one with a more unlikely flavour. Today it was lemon and mint. Khan thought she looked ridiculous, like a child sucking a sweet.

‘What do you think’s going on here?’ he asked. They were both leaning against the car that had brought them here.

‘I don’t know, sir. They’re all hiding something. That much is obvious.’

‘Do you think one of them killed Giles Kenworthy?’

‘It seems unlikely. They’re all friends, living in each other’s back gardens. But this is murder and they don’t seem like the sort of people who would cover up anything as serious as that.’

‘Unless they were somehow involved.’

‘Well, they can’t all have done it.’

Khan nodded. ‘He’d have had nine crossbow bolts in him if they had.’ He watched as a cloud of steam from the vape formed in the air and then disappeared. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Ruth. If they’re covering for each other, it’s going to be hard to untangle.’

‘And they’ve all got the same motive. The neighbour from hell. That doesn’t make it any easier.’

There was a long silence. The police and forensic officers were moving around them like pieces on one of Adam Strauss’s chessboards.

‘I wonder if we could use some outside help?’ DC Goodwin suggested at length.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, don’t shout at me, but I was thinking. Maybe . . . Hawthorne?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘It can’t do any harm and this might be right up his street . . .’

Neither of them had met Hawthorne, but they both knew who he was: the detective inspector who had lost his job when a suspect he’d been interrogating had sustained life-changing injuries – although he’d had a reputation long before that. He was a hard-working, solitary, difficult man who somehow always managed to pull the guilty rabbit out of the blood-soaked hat. After he’d been thrown out, his reputation had grown. They had both heard DI Cara Grunshaw talking about him. She had come across him on two occasions and had a deep loathing for him, but even she admitted that he had helped her. He also had plenty of friends inside the force. DCI Ian Rutherford had been his superior officer and wouldn’t hear a word said against him.

‘We could bring him in as an outside consultant,’ DC Goodwin went on. ‘If you think this one is a special case.’

‘I don’t know.’ Khan shook his head doubtfully.

‘It’s a crossbow, sir. In a private close in Richmond. We’ve already got the local hacks outside. They’re going to lap it up.’

‘But how do we even reach him? And who authorises payment?’

‘I can ask DCI Rutherford.’ Goodwin inhaled on her bright yellow vape. The light at the end blinked on. A smell of something like candyfloss shimmered in the air between them. ‘From what I hear, Hawthorne never takes any of the credit.’

This mattered to Khan. He didn’t want anyone to think that he was already giving up on such a shocking crime.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we give him a call?’

2

Hawthorne arrived the following morning, a Wednesday.

A taxi pulled up at the archway just after nine o’clock and two men got out. Khan was waiting on the other side, holding a cardboard file. He was glad to see that the press people had disappeared. There was still something about getting outside help that troubled him, as did the sight of the taxi. Was that going to be charged to expenses? Khan had called Hawthorne the night before and had been surprised how cheerful he had sounded at his end of the line, as if he had been expecting the call. Khan had quickly gone through what had happened in Riverview Close. In broad strokes, he had described the various residents: age, profession, ethnicity, what they had told him, what he believed. So far, it didn’t add up to very much. Now that Hawthorne was here, would he be able to do any better?

Quickly, he made his assessment of the man he’d called in to help.

Hawthorne was a diminutive figure, oddly dressed in a suit and a loose raincoat despite the warm July weather, looking around him with eyes that seemed to absorb and analyse every detail, a face that gave nothing away. His hair was short, neatly brushed, of no particular colour. He was in his mid to late thirties, although it was difficult to be sure as there was something childlike about his appearance. Khan had begun his career as a juvenile protection officer and in some strange way Hawthorne reminded him of some of the victims he had met.

The person he had brought with him was equally puzzling. He seemed an unlikely partner for Hawthorne, keeping his distance and taking less interest in his surroundings – as if he was bored by it all. He was about the same age, with sloping shoulders and long, lank hair, untidily dressed in ill-fitting corduroy trousers, a jacket with patches on the elbows and scuffed shoes. He hadn’t shaved that morning and the lower part of his pale, oblong face was covered with stubble. Everything about him had an air of carelessness. He had the appearance of a man who didn’t know how to look after himself or who couldn’t be bothered, and Khan thought that if he hadn’t been in the company of Hawthorne, he wouldn’t have allowed him anywhere near a crime scene.

Hawthorne saw the detective superintendent and walked over, his companion a few steps behind. Already, Khan was wondering if he hadn’t made a mistake. He took Hawthorne’s outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

‘Thank you for inviting me. This is John Dudley.’

The other man nodded vaguely.

‘I take it that’s the house where Giles Kenworthy lived.’ Hawthorne pointed at Riverview Lodge.

‘Yes. That’s right.’ For a brief moment, Khan allowed his irritation to get the better of him. ‘I need to get one thing straight before we go in,’ he said. ‘You’re working for me. I hope you understand. The moment you find anything, I want to know. And you’re to hold nothing back.’

‘Don’t worry, mate. That’s my job – to tell you what you’ve missed.’

‘I don’t think I’ve missed anything so far. And I’d prefer it if you addressed me as Detective Superintendent.’

They began to walk towards the house.

‘Mr Kenworthy was killed on Monday night at around eleven o’clock,’ Khan began. ‘I’ll send you a copy of the pathologist’s report. A single crossbow bolt, fired at close range, penetrated his cricoid cartilage and buried itself in his throat. They took the body yesterday, but I’ve got some of the photographs here. Death was caused by haemorrhagic shock.’

‘Were the cricothyroid or cricotracheal ligaments severed?’ Dudley asked.

‘No.’

‘Then it wasn’t his kids who killed him!’

Khan wondered if he was joking. ‘How do you work that one out?’

‘The bolt didn’t slant up or down. It must have been fired by someone of about his own height.’

‘The kids aren’t suspects.’ Khan scowled. ‘In fact, they’ve got a rock-solid alibi. They’re at a local prep school which does a couple of nights’ boarding each week. They weren’t at home. Probably just as well.’

‘Was Kenworthy on his own?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Yes. His wife was having dinner with a friend. She was the one who discovered the body. She’s upstairs now . . . and not in a good way. They also have a Filipino housekeeper, but she’s on annual leave, in her own country. She’s not expected back for another week. Then there’s a part-time chauffeur. We’re talking to him and we’ll let you know if he’s got anything to say.’

‘When did the wife get in?’

‘Twenty past eleven on Monday night. The door was half-open, which puzzled her. Her husband was on the other side, blood everywhere. She screamed the house down and that woke up the neighbours. Must have made a change from the parties and the car stereo and all the other things they were complaining about.’

They had reached the front door, where a uniformed policeman stood to one side. But before they went in, Khan stopped. ‘We haven’t talked money,’ he said.

Hawthorne looked offended. ‘We don’t need to, Detective Superintendent.’

John Dudley drew an envelope out of his jacket pocket and offered it to Khan. ‘Terms and conditions,’ he explained. ‘I take it you got clearance from Special Grant Funding?’

‘I spoke to them yesterday.’ Khan took the envelope and folded it away without looking at it. ‘Someone will get back to you,’ he said.

They went in. As they entered the hallway, Dudley took out his iPhone, found the Voice Memos app in the Utilities folder and turned it on. At the end of the day he would save the file, transfer it to his laptop and share it with Hawthorne. He also took several photographs, focusing on the extensive bloodstain on the once beige carpet and the splatter on the walls.

‘What was Giles Kenworthy wearing when he answered the door?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘He hadn’t got ready for bed, if that’s what you mean. He had a white shirt, suit trousers. The jacket and tie were in his office.’ Khan pointed towards an open door. ‘He had his slippers on. Prada – mauve cashmere. And he’d drunk a couple of glasses of Hakushu single malt whisky. Expensive stuff and not small measures.’

‘So he was working late. The doorbell rang. He answered and the weapon was fired over the threshold.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘It was just dropped on the ground, outside. Mrs Kenworthy didn’t notice it in the darkness. The crossbow belongs to Roderick Browne, who lives next door in the house at the end of the terrace . . . Woodlands, it’s called. No fingerprints – apart from his. It’s always possible that the killer wore gloves.’

‘They just left it?’ Dudley was surprised. ‘You’d have thought they’d have got rid of it. Chucked it in the Thames.’

‘Funnily enough, it was pointing at Roderick Browne’s home. It was almost as if the killer wanted us to know who it belonged to.’

Khan opened the file he had been carrying and took out several photographs, which he handed to Hawthorne. They had been taken from different angles and showed Giles Kenworthy’s body as it had been found. Half of them were in black and white. The ones in colour were more horrible. Hawthorne stopped on a close-up shot of the dead man’s head. He said nothing and his face gave nothing away, but somehow Khan was aware of an extraordinary intensity, a sense that at that moment nothing else in the world mattered.

‘It’s a standard bolt,’ Khan explained. ‘Twenty inches long, aluminium shaft, plastic vanes. We found five more, identical, in the Brownes’ garage.’

‘Has Browne confessed to the killing?’ Dudley asked.

The question took Khan by surprise. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘If he’d used his own weapon and his own bolt and he just left it all there for you to find, you’d think maybe he didn’t care if he was caught.’

‘Well, he’s a nervous wreck,’ Khan said. ‘But he hasn’t confessed to anything. Quite the contrary. The first time I met him, all he would say was how shocked he was, how upset, how it couldn’t have had anything to do with him because he was asleep, in bed, with his wife in the next room . . . I wasn’t even accusing him!’

Hawthorne handed the photographs back. ‘You said we could talk to Mr Kenworthy’s widow.’

‘She’s upstairs.’

The Kenworthys’ home was expensive and wanted you to know it. The furniture was Scandinavian, the lights ultra-modern, the carpets ankle-deep and the paintings straight out of some smart auction-house catalogue. Two young boys lived here with their parents, but there was no mess, no scattered clothes or toys, as if their very existence had been wiped away. A plate-glass window at the back, rising almost the full height of the stairs, looked out over the new patio with a Union Jack fluttering on the other side of a chrome-plated beast of a gas barbecue.

Lynda Kenworthy was lying on a bed so large that her entire family could have joined her with room to spare. She seemed to be sinking into the duvet and pillows, her blonde hair hanging loose, her silk dressing gown rising and falling over the folds of her body, her face, with its once perfect make-up, streaked by tears. The room smelled of cigarette smoke. There was an ashtray next to her filled with cigarette butts, each one signed off with a smear of bright red lipstick. None of the windows was open and even if they had been they’d have been helpless behind the great swathes of silk curtains, pelmets, gold cords and tassels.

‘How are you feeling, love?’ Hawthorne asked. From the way he spoke, she could have been recovering from a bad cold.

‘Who are you?’ Lynda asked – her voice little more than a whisper.

‘We’re helping the police,’ Dudley said. ‘We want to find out who killed your husband.’

‘They all hated him!’ Fresh tears followed in the tracks of the old ones. ‘I told him it was a mistake, the moment we came here. They were stuck-up and snobby, the whole lot of them.’

‘So you didn’t get on with the neighbours,’ Dudley remarked.

‘It wasn’t our fault!’ She reached for a tissue, pulling it out of a box embroidered with a gondola on a Venetian canal. ‘We never did anything wrong. They were always trying to find fault. Everything we did! Nothing was ever right.’

Hawthorne and Dudley waited until she had calmed down.

‘Would you say there was anyone in Riverview Close who had a particular animus towards your husband?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’ve just told you. They were all the same. They’d made up their minds about us before we even moved in.’

‘Had there been any recent incidents that you might want to tell us about?’

Lynda used the tissue to dry her eyes, at the same time wiping away some of the blusher on her cheekbones. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘Had anyone threatened your husband with violence?’

‘Well . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Giles was always fighting with Dr Beresford,’ she said. ‘He and his wife live next door and they never stopped complaining about our cars. Why can’t we park our cars outside? It’s our drive, our house, and it wasn’t as if we were deliberately blocking the way. If Dr Beresford hadn’t been such a bad driver, he could easily have got past.’ She stopped herself as she remembered what had happened. ‘The two of them had a proper set-to about a week ago and Dr Beresford threatened to kill Giles!’ Her eyes widened. ‘He used those very words!’

‘What did he say, exactly?’

‘I’m going to kill you!’

‘You heard him?’

‘No. Giles told me.’

Hawthorne and Dudley exchanged glances. They both knew that a lot of people argued about parking rights; it was one of the things that always came close to the top of neighbourhood disputes. But even if Dr Beresford had made the threat, a parking dispute would be an unusual motive for murder. ‘Anything else?’ Dudley asked.

Lynda gazed into the distance. ‘I already told him all this,’ she said, referring to Detective Superintendent Khan, who had been listening to the conversation from a distance.

‘Tell us.’

She swallowed. ‘Well, he had a falling-out with Sarah.’

‘Who’s Sarah?’

‘She’s the gardener. That was on Friday,’ she added.

‘And what happened on Friday?’

‘Giles went into his study and there she was, standing in front of his desk. She had no right to be there. She’d come in through the French windows. And she was looking at his computers. Giles was very sensitive about that. He’d had a hack at his office just a few weeks before – someone trying to get into his database. It was the reason we couldn’t go to that drinks do at The Stables. It hadn’t worked that time, but he didn’t have the same security at home so he had every right to ask her what she was doing. Sarah was just horrible and abusive and he fired her on the spot – and quite right too. I said he ought to report her to the police.’

‘What for, exactly?’

‘What do you think?’ It was remarkable how quickly Lynda could switch between desolation, indignation and malice. ‘Do you know how much information there was on those screens about money markets and investments and all that stuff? She could have been working for someone!’ Lynda drew herself up against the pillows. ‘Giles wouldn’t even let me into his office because of all the sensitive stuff he had in there and I wouldn’t have understood a word of it if he had. So what did Sarah think she was doing in there?’

‘You think your gardener was involved in . . . what? Financial espionage?’

‘She might have been. She was certainly a thief. All sorts of things had gone missing. Giles lost a Rolex watch. I’d bought it for him myself when we were in Dubai. And I had fifty pounds taken from my bag. Giles said I left it at the hairdresser, but I know it was Sarah. We only gave her the job in the first place because she was doing the gardens for everyone else in the close. I always said she was trouble. We should have found someone of our own.’

She fell silent, dabbing her eyes.

‘Is there anyone else you employ in the house?’ Dudley asked. ‘I understand you’ve got a Filipino cleaner. I bet she’s a treasure!’

‘She’s lazy and she’s never there when you need her. In fact, she’s away right now. Every summer we have to give her the whole month off so she can see her family, but getting any sort of help is so difficult these days. Jasmine hardly speaks a word of English and getting her to do anything is always an uphill struggle.’ She paused. ‘And there’s Gary. He’s Giles’s driver, but he’s only part-time. He doesn’t live here.’

‘How did you meet your husband?’ Dudley had changed the subject, perhaps hoping the question would cheer her up.

Instead, it brought fresh tears. ‘On a British Airways flight to New York. He was in first class. I was one of the cabin crew. I served him a mai tai and we hit it off immediately. He was so kind to me. He invited me to his hotel next to Central Park. We had so many laughs!’

‘So where were you last night?’ Hawthorne cut in.

That stopped her. ‘I was seeing a friend.’

‘Can we have his name?’ Dudley had produced a small notebook, which he was holding in front of him. He had somehow assumed that the friend was male and Lynda didn’t disappoint him.

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘You’re going to have to tell us sooner or later, love.’ It was always a mistake taking on Hawthorne. When he was at his sweetest and most reasonable, that was when he was most dangerous. ‘You got back after eleven o’clock. That’s time for a lot of laughs.’

‘It was horrible! The door was open. And he was lying there . . . !’

‘Who were you with?’ Hawthorne insisted.

Lynda reached for another tissue. ‘His name is Jean-François. He’s my French teacher.’

‘You’re learning French?’

‘Giles was talking about buying a place in Antibes.’

‘Mais malhereusement, cela n’arrivera pas,’ Dudley muttered.

Lynda stared at him. ‘What?’

3

Khan was unimpressed with the interrogation he had just witnessed. It seemed to him that Hawthorne had been unnecessarily hostile and had learned very little that Khan didn’t already know.

‘I’ve got things to do, so I’m going to let you get on with it,’ he said as they left the Kenworthys’ house. ‘We allowed Dr Beresford to leave for work . . . NHS doctor and all that. And the two old ladies – May Winslow and Phyllis Moore – own some sort of gift shop in Richmond. I thought they were better off out of it too.’

‘Not on your suspect list?’ Hawthorne asked.

Khan ignored him. ‘All the others are at home and you can talk to the whole lot of them, but I think it would be better if you didn’t mention you’re freelance. Just say you’re part of my support team or something. And maybe you could try to be a little more sympathetic? These people are in shock.’

‘One of them may not be,’ Dudley said.

But Khan was already walking away, catching up with DC Goodwin, who had just arrived in a police car.

Dudley watched him go. ‘Where do you want to start?’ he asked.

‘The murder weapon belonged to Roderick Browne,’ Hawthorne replied.

‘I don’t like dentists,’ Dudley sighed.

They walked the short distance across the courtyard and rang the bell of Woodlands, the last house in the terrace of three. The door opened almost at once, as if Roderick Browne had been waiting for them on the other side. He looked ill. He clearly wasn’t going into work today and had forsaken his morning routine, not shaving, not picking out the right tie, not even flossing. He had pulled on a crumpled shirt that ballooned over his trousers. Looking at him, with his pink face and cloud of white hair, Dudley was reminded of something you might win at a funfair. At the same time, the way he was gazing at them, he could have just stepped off the ghost train.

He had been expecting Khan and looked at Hawthorne with bewilderment. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Browne?’

‘Yes. Yes . . . That’s me.’

‘My name’s Hawthorne. I’m helping the police with this inquiry. This is my assistant, John Dudley. Can we come in?’

‘Of course you can. I spoke to the police yesterday, but if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

He stood back and allowed them to enter a hallway which had an elegance and formality that might have mirrored the reception area of his clinic in Cadogan Square. Everything was very neat. A faux-antique chest of drawers stood against the back wall, with a small pile of magazines next to an art deco lamp. A photograph in a silver frame had been carefully placed to one side so that it was hard to miss. It showed Roderick standing next to Ewan McGregor, presumably one of his celebrity clients. Two wooden chairs had been positioned symmetrically, one on either side of the front door, and Hawthorne noticed a suitcase perched on one of them, with a woman’s light raincoat draped over the top. Roderick led them into the kitchen, which provided a complete contrast to the entrance: everything modern, white and silver, too brightly lit, and so clean it might never have been used. A true dentist’s kitchen. There was a window at the far end with views towards the Kenworthys’ garden.

‘Has anyone said anything?’ Roderick asked before they had even sat down. He hadn’t offered either of them a coffee. He didn’t look in any fit state to make it.

‘Are you talking about your neighbours?’ Hawthorne took a seat at the head of the table that stretched out in front of the window.

‘Yes.’

‘That seems a very strange question to ask, Mr Browne.’

‘Do you think so? I was just wondering if you’d talked to any of them and if they’d said anything . . .’

‘About you?’

‘No! About Giles Kenworthy. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Hawthorne. For something like this to happen, not just in the close but right next door to me . . . and with my crossbow! As you can imagine, the whole thing is a complete nightmare and I find it hard to know what to think. Do you have any suspects?’

‘I would say that everyone who lives here is a suspect, Mr Browne.’ Hawthorne paused. ‘Including you.’

‘Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m a highly respected dental practitioner. I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket in my life. Do I really look like a murderer to you?’

‘Well, actually . . .’ Dudley began.

‘It’s outrageous. We certainly had our issues with Giles Kenworthy. I’m not making any secret of that. But to come here, into my house, asking me all these questions . . .’

‘We haven’t asked you very much yet,’ Hawthorne said reasonably. ‘And we will be talking to everyone in Riverview Close.’

‘I’m sure you know who lives in this community. We’re very respectable people. A doctor. A barrister. Two ladies who used to be nuns. This is Richmond, for heaven’s sake! I feel as if I’ve woken up in Mexico City.’

Hawthorne waited for him to finish. ‘Why don’t you start by telling us when you came here?’ he suggested. ‘You and your wife?’

‘You haven’t told us her name,’ Dudley said.

‘Felicity. She’s upstairs in bed. She has ME.’ He leaned forward, confidentially. ‘That’s why this business with the swimming pool mattered so much to us. If you take away the view from her, you take away everything. And the noise! Their children are bad enough anyway, but with all their friends, shouting and screaming . . . We’d have had to move. And that’s not fair. We love it here.’

‘So when did you move in?’ Hawthorne repeated the question he’d asked earlier.

‘Fourteen years ago, just after the close had been developed. We arrived about a month after our neighbours, May Winslow and Phyllis Moore. They’re next door.’

‘Like most neighbours,’ Dudley said.

‘Yes. They’re quite elderly and they have a bookshop in the town centre. They sell crime novels. Then there’s Andrew Pennington next to them, Adam Strauss and his wife in The Stables and Dr Beresford and his family across the way. We’re all good friends – in a neighbourly sort of way. We like to have a drink together now and then. Nothing wrong with that! We look out for each other.’

‘When did the Kenworthys arrive?’

‘At the end of last year.’ Roderick Browne was speaking more confidently now. ‘Jon Emin and his wife were living in The Stables . . . a very nice couple. At that time, Adam was living in Riverview Lodge with his second wife, Teri, but she persuaded him that they would be more comfortable with something smaller. So they moved into The Stables when the Emins sold and that was when Giles Kenworthy bought the Lodge. We were all looking forward to meeting him. We really were. We’re not stand-offish here. Don’t let anyone tell you that.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘Everything!’ Roderick Browne shook his head in dismay. ‘Nobody liked him,’ he went on. ‘Nobody! It wasn’t just me. Mr Kenworthy was a horrible man – not that he deserved what happened to him. He didn’t deserve that at all, and whatever I may have said in the heat of the moment, I never wished him any harm. None of us did. The fact is, he seemed to take a delight in putting our noses out of joint. He and his wife and his children. There were so many incidents, and they just got worse and worse until they were making all our lives unbearable.’

‘What sort of incidents?’

‘Well . . .’ Roderick already seemed to be regretting that he had volunteered so much, but now that he had started it was hard to stop. ‘There were lots of things. They may seem petty, describing them to you now, but they added up. The parking, the loud music, cricket and skateboards . . . The children were out of control. I said to Felicity things were going from bad to worse when he just dumped his Christmas tree in the drive as if it was up to us to get rid of it. No consideration! And then there were the parties. He never stopped having parties, although he never invited any of us. The swimming pool was the final straw. We never thought the council would give them permission, but it did and maybe that’s something you should look into. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t some sort of backhander involved. I mean . . . see for yourself.’ He pointed out of the window. ‘He was going to rip up the lawn – right there! You see that lovely magnolia? It attracts so many wild birds. Adam planted it, but they were going to chop it down . . . just like they did his yew trees when they moved in.’

Hawthorne glanced at John Dudley. ‘You put all that together, it does sound like a motive for murder,’ he said.

‘I agree.’ Dudley nodded. ‘If it was me, once the pool was finished, I’d have drowned him in it.’

‘No, no, no. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.’ Roderick got up and grabbed a roll of paper towel. ‘It was just very upsetting. I’ve already told you. Fee and I might have had to move. We weren’t going to stay here with the noise, the chemicals, the disruption. And everyone agreed. We had a meeting!’ Something close to panic flitted across his eyes, as if he had inadvertently told Hawthorne something he had meant to keep back. ‘It was a while ago. Six weeks! A Monday evening. We all of us had complaints – not just about the pool. We invited Giles Kenworthy to meet us, to try and iron out our differences in a civilised way.’

‘Did he come?’ Hawthorne asked.

Roderick shook his head. ‘He was coming. He said he was coming. But at the last minute, he sent a text saying he was too busy.’ He paused. ‘It was absolutely bloody typical of him – and it was after that that things got really bad.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well . . .’ Roderick was sweating. He used the paper towel to wipe his face. ‘Ask May and Phyllis about their dog. Adam Strauss lost a beautiful chess set, smashed by a cricket ball. That was the two boys’ fault – Hugo and Tristram Kenworthy. They also ruined the flowers in the courtyard. That really upset Andrew. But the worst thing – by far the worst thing – was what happened to Tom.’

‘Tom?’

‘Dr Beresford. Giles Kenworthy blocked his driveway.’

‘What was so bad about that?’ Dudley asked.

‘He wasn’t able to get to his surgery and as a result, a patient died. He was extremely upset about it. You should talk to him.’

‘What can you tell us about the crossbow?’

‘I already told the police. I wish I hadn’t kept the bloody thing. I hadn’t fired it in years.’ Roderick sat down heavily. Perhaps he had been hoping that Hawthorne might have forgotten about the murder weapon.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I was given it when I was at university. A Barnett Wildcat recurve. It’s quite old now. I’m surprised it was even working.’

‘It certainly worked two nights ago,’ Dudley observed.

‘Well, obviously, yes. But I wasn’t to know.’ From the look of him, Roderick was almost begging them to believe him. ‘For a short while, after I moved to Richmond, I belonged to the London School of Archery. We both did. But when Felicity became ill, it was one of the first things she had to give up, and as for me, I had less and less time. Fee has a carer now. Damien comes in three times a week but he’s not here today, so, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I’ll have to go upstairs in a minute. Fee may need help getting dressed.’

‘Where did you keep the crossbow?’ Hawthorne wasn’t interested in Felicity’s needs.

‘In the garage.’

‘Locked?’ Dudley asked.

‘The garage is usually kept locked. Not because of the crossbow. Fee insists. If a burglar broke in, the garage is connected directly to the house and they could easily come through to us.’

‘How many keys do you have?’

Roderick had to think for a moment. ‘Three,’ he announced. ‘There’s one in the door, which I suppose is mine. Fee has a spare on her keyring. And our neighbour, May Winslow, keeps a set in case of emergencies.’

‘What about the carer?’

‘He has a key to the front door. Not to the garage.’

‘Can we see inside?’ Hawthorne made it sound like a question but he was only expecting one response.

‘Of course.’

Roderick got up and the two detectives followed him out of the kitchen, through an archway and into a narrow corridor with a solid-looking door at the end. Just as he said, there was a key in the lock and Roderick turned it and opened the door, leading them into a small garage that jutted out of the back of the house. Much of the space was taken up by a navy-blue Skoda Octavia Mark 3. It was Roderick’s pride and joy and he had loaded it with enough extras to make it top of the range: tinted windows, rain sensors, satnav and more besides. An up-and-over door – manual, not electric – closed off the far end of the garage, with metal bolts on either side locking into the framework. The sun was streaming in through a square skylight set in the roof and they could see the upper floor of the house and what looked like a bathroom window. A single shelf ran down both of the long walls, with an array of tools, paint pots and brushes, gardening equipment and bits of old machinery that might have been there for years. There was an electric mower plugged into a socket and, on the opposite wall, a tap with water dripping into a plastic bucket. A spade, a fork and a rake hung on hooks, with a sack of compost slumped beneath. That hardly left enough room to reach the car.

Roderick pointed at an empty space in the middle of a shelf. ‘That’s where it was kept,’ he said.

‘The crossbow?’

‘And the bolts. The police took them all.’

‘You said you weren’t using it any more, so why did you keep it?’ Dudley asked.

Roderick shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sell it and why would I want to throw it away?’

‘Who apart from you came into this garage?’ This time it was Hawthorne who had posed the question.

‘Well, Sarah, I suppose. She does all the gardens in the close and she’s also a general handyman – or handywoman, I should say. She’s a fine young woman, very hard-working and always helpful. I suppose Damien could have come in if he’d wanted to. He has his key to the house and we trust him one hundred per cent. Felicity will come through the kitchen when I’m driving her to a doctor’s appointment or whatever. Look, I really have told the police everything I know. To be honest with you, a complete stranger could have taken the crossbow when I was upstairs and I’m not sure I’d have noticed. They could have come through the house or through the garden. I leave the garage open sometimes when I drive to work.’ He looked exhausted. ‘I don’t think I can help you any more.’

‘I have one more question,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Are you planning on going somewhere?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I noticed a suitcase in your hall.’

‘That’s for Felicity. We’ve spoken about it and I just don’t think it’s good for her being here. I have to think of her. All my life, that’s all I’ve ever done.’ Roderick blinked, as if holding back tears. ‘I’m sending her off to her sister in Woking . . . just for a few days. I’ve already told Superintendent Khan.’ He had seemed more at ease in the garage, but mentioning the suitcase had upset him again. ‘You have no idea what it’s like for her,’ he continued. ‘It’s very upsetting. She has no part in this terrible murder and I want to get her far away. I have to protect her!’

As he finished speaking, his phone rang. Roderick fished it out and glanced at the screen, tilting it away from Dudley, who was standing behind him. Quickly, he flicked it off and slid it back into his pocket.

‘Anyone important?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘No. Nothing at all.’

‘Well, we’ve seen enough. Can we leave this way?’

‘Of course. I’ll open the door for you.’

The bolts on the garage door didn’t need keys. They simply drew back. Roderick pulled the door up and the two men stepped out into the fresh air. Roderick looked at them as if trying to find one last thing to say to persuade them of his innocence. Then he slid the door back down.

Hawthorne and Dudley found themselves standing in the driveway that led back to the main courtyard. But Hawthorne hadn’t quite finished. There was a gate beside the garage, opening into the Brownes’ garden, and he walked through it, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as he went. He stopped on the other side, taking in his surroundings.

The garden was long and rectangular, with a fence on one side and a line of shrubs at the end. It hadn’t rained for a while and the lawn was covered with brown patches. Many of the flowers were wilting in their beds. At the same time, the fruit trees had been left to look after themselves and the branches were spreading out, fighting each other for space. Looking over the shrubs, Hawthorne could see that the garden belonging to the Brownes’ elderly neighbours was in much the same state.

‘Did you get the caller’s number?’ Hawthorne asked.

Dudley nodded. ‘The name came up on the screen. Sarah Baines.’

‘Sarah the gardener?’

‘Must be. He didn’t want me to see.’

Hawthorne examined the garden. ‘Funny, isn’t it. He described her as hard-working and helpful . . .’

‘Yeah. I thought that. It doesn’t look as if she’s done anything hard or helpful here!’

Meanwhile, on the other side of the folding garage door, Roderick Browne had taken his phone out again. He listened carefully to make sure that Hawthorne was nowhere close.

Then he opened his phone to see what he had missed.

4

The Tea Cosy bookshop was open for business, but neither May Winslow nor Phyllis Moore was in any mood to sell books.

They were sitting at one of the empty tables close to the main door. In fact, all the tables were empty. Nobody had come in yet and although they often passed the time reading, knitting or playing gin rummy together when they had no business, today they were just sitting in silence. They had already given full statements to Detective Superintendent Khan and, after they had been forced to take the whole of Tuesday off, he had allowed them to leave for work – so long as they promised not to discuss the murder with any of their customers. Well, there was no chance of that today.

Phyllis had been agitated all morning. ‘I need a burner!’ she announced, suddenly.

May stared at her. ‘A cigarette?’

‘I can’t just sit here thinking about it all. I’m going outside.’ She reached down for her handbag, then rummaged in it for a pouch of Golden Virginia tobacco.

But before she could get up, May reached out and laid a hand on her companion’s arm. ‘I think we should talk,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘You know very well.’

‘You’ve been sitting here all morning. You haven’t said a word.’

It wasn’t very often that there was any friction between the two women, but just for a moment they glared at each other like old enemies. May released her grip. ‘We have to be very careful,’ she said. ‘We’ve got the police all over Riverview Close and my guess is they’ll be there for quite a while.’

‘We’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’

‘We have everything to be afraid of. You know the way it works. They’ll be investigating us even now. Do you want to stay in Richmond?’

‘I like it here.’

‘So do I. But we won’t be able to. Not if they start digging.’

There was another silence. Phyllis opened the packet and began to roll herself a cigarette. ‘We should tell them about what happened,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The night before the murder! When Roderick told us what he was going to do. He said it in front of us all.’

‘He’d been drinking.’

‘It doesn’t mean it wasn’t true . . .’

May thought for a moment. ‘We could tell the police. But what good do you think it would do?’

‘If they arrest him, they’ll leave the rest of us alone.’

‘I only wish that was the case.’ May was breathing heavily. ‘We were all there, Phyllis. We were all part of it. And we’ve all agreed to keep our mouths shut. You know what that is? That’s conspiracy.’ She paused, forcing herself to calm down. ‘I wish the whole thing had never happened. It was stupid. Madness!’ She drew a breath. ‘You go to the police, you could find yourself under arrest. And me with you.’

Phyllis had finished making her roll-up. It contained so little tobacco that when she lit it, she would mainly be inhaling burnt paper. ‘We could send the police a note,’ she said. ‘Anonymously.’

May shook her head. ‘It won’t do any good. There’s no proof Roderick killed Mr Kenworthy. Do you really think he had it in him? I’ve met women older than us who’ve been more violent than him. And anyway, what was his motive?’

‘The swimming pool.’

‘We were all against the swimming pool. And you must remember, dear, that the police are dreadfully unimaginative. They’re unlikely to conclude that Mr Browne committed murder because the Kenworthys were going to spoil his view, even if that’s exactly what we want them to think!’

The shop door opened and a customer came in, a middle-aged man with a bag of groceries hanging from his arm. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Do you by any chance have any Jo Nesbø?’

‘Try Waterstones!’ May snapped, not even looking at him.

‘Oh . . . All right.’

He left. The door closed.

‘And since we’re talking about motives . . .’ May continued as if the interruption had never happened. ‘Detective Superintendent Khan could well come to the conclusion that you and I are much more likely suspects than Mr Browne.’

Phyllis knew exactly what she meant. She glanced at the corner of the room where Ellery’s basket had always been, at the far end of the non-fiction section. It was no longer there. Her eyes filled with tears and for a moment she couldn’t speak.

They had loved that dog since he was a puppy and now he was gone. In the past two weeks, the two women’s lives had changed irrevocably for the worse. As far as they were concerned, the death of Giles Kenworthy had been by far the lesser of two evils.

They both knew who was responsible. Lynda Kenworthy had threatened them. She couldn’t have been clearer. ‘If your animal strays into our garden one more time, I’m going to ask my husband to deal with it.’ May and Phyllis hadn’t really listened to her at the time. Now they dearly wished they had.

For it seemed that Ellery had done exactly that, slipping out of the house and once again burrowing under the Brownes’ fence. Worse than that, he had left behind evidence of his visit. They’d had no idea what had happened until they were leaving to catch the bus into Richmond and had discovered another plastic bag of dog waste clipped into the letter box of their front door. There was no message. No further warning. Of course, both women knew perfectly well what Lynda had said, but they weren’t entirely sure what she’d meant by ‘dealing’ with it and so once again they’d put the whole thing out of their minds. Neither of them believed for a moment that she or her husband would do anything vindictive.

That evening, they’d got home from the shop in time for supper, fed Ellery and let him out to make himself comfortable before bed. Meanwhile, they’d settled down to watch an episode of Bergerac on television (they had all nine seasons on DVD). It was only when they realised it had grown dark and Ellery hadn’t returned that they went out looking for him.

He wasn’t in the garden. They went past the Brownes’ house and called out for him, but he didn’t seem to have wandered into the grounds of Riverview Lodge either. By now, both of them were getting nervous. Ellery had never been out so late and for so long on his own. May walked round the entire close, calling out his name. Then she knocked on the door of Woodlands. If Ellery had strayed back into the grounds of Riverview Lodge, he would have had to pass through the next-door garden and there was always a chance that Roderick Browne might have seen him. A light came on in the hall, visible on the other side of the window, and the dentist appeared a few moments later, wearing a red striped apron. He had just done the washing-up and was taking a cup of camomile tea up to Felicity.

‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, Mr Browne. Ellery seems to have gone missing and we were wondering if you’d seen him.’

‘No. I’m afraid not. How long has he been gone?’

‘We don’t really know. He came home with us, then went out while we were watching TV.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen anything, but I’ll keep an eye out for him. I’m sure he’ll turn up . . .’

May already had a knotted feeling in her stomach. Ellery had never done this before. It was true that he treated the entire close as his personal domain, but he was still a nervous creature and never strayed for very long.

‘Maybe you should ask at the Lodge,’ Roderick suggested.

‘Yes. I’ll do that.’

May didn’t want to go anywhere near the Kenworthys’ home, not on her own, not even with Phyllis beside her. She hated the idea of prostrating herself before them, asking for their help. Not that they’d listen anyway. ‘I’m going to ask my husband to deal with it.’ The words were drumming themselves over and over in her ears.

Phyllis knew what her companion was thinking. ‘Maybe Mr Pennington has seen Ellery,’ she suggested.

They went back towards Well House and it was as they approached the front door that they heard it: the unmistakable sound of an animal in pain . . . a faint whimpering. Could it be Ellery? It didn’t sound like him. And the cries were coming from somewhere further away, perhaps behind the house.

May was really panicking now. Forgetting the bell, she rapped on the door so hard that she would feel the pain in her knuckles for days to come. The whimpering had stopped. Had she imagined it? She hoped so. There were plenty of foxes in Richmond, semi-domesticated, prowling the streets in search of open dustbins. It must have been one of them.

The door opened. Andrew Pennington peered out at them. He had been reading Anthony Trollope in bed when he heard the knocking on the door.

‘Please, Mr Pennington. Can you help us? We’ve been looking for Ellery. He’s disappeared. And just now we thought we heard something in your garden.’ The words poured out. May’s chest was rising and falling. She had been wearing her glasses when she was watching television. They were still hanging around her neck and rose and fell as if they too were trying to join in the search.

Andrew stepped outside and listened. ‘I can’t hear anything,’ he said.

All three of them fell silent and for a brief moment it seemed to be true. Perhaps they had imagined it after all. But then it came again from behind the house, or from somewhere nearby. It was a sound that carried with it all the pain in the world and May knew for certain that it was not a fox.

‘He’s in your garden,’ Phyllis said.

‘I don’t think so.’ Pennington cocked his head, trying to work out where the sound was coming from. ‘The sound’s coming from over there,’ he said. And then, with a sense of dread, ‘In the well.’

He was pointing towards the medieval well that stood between the house and the archway. It was one of the unique features of Riverview Close. His home was named after it. On the day that he and Iris moved in, they had both tossed a coin in for good luck.

‘Wait a minute. I’ll get some light,’ he said.

It was dark by now. Andrew’s night vision had deteriorated in recent years and he always kept a torch close to the front door. He went in and retrieved it, then led the two women round the side of the house. As they approached the well, the whimpering began again, more forlorn, more desperate.

Andrew directed the beam of the torch into the circular opening.

Ellery was about five metres down, curled up at the bottom, straining with his neck as if searching for salvation. He struggled to get to his feet, but it was clear he could no longer stand. Andrew heard May let out a moan beside him. Phyllis called out the dog’s name.

‘Don’t worry!’ Andrew found himself saying. ‘We’ll get him out of there. We’ll get help.’

But what sort of help were they going to find at ten o’clock at night and how long would it take to get there? It wasn’t important enough to trouble the police. The RSPCA, perhaps? Did they even have an office anywhere near Richmond?

‘Can you do anything? Can you get him out?’ Phyllis asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘I don’t know . . .’

It was impossible. The shaft of the well was too narrow and he wasn’t sure he would be able to climb back out again. A ladder was needed and someone thin enough to fit inside.

‘I’ll call the RSPCA,’ he said.

‘Oh, Ellery! Poor Ellery!’ May was also crying.

Ellery had fallen silent. He was no longer moving. Later on, May would say he had heard their voices, had known they were there, and that perhaps there was some crumb of comfort in the knowledge that he had not died alone.

‘He must have fallen in,’ Pennington said. But he knew it wasn’t true. Ellery wouldn’t have been able to jump in. The brick well head was far too high for the little French bulldog with its stubby legs, and why would he even have tried? There was only one solution. Ellery must have been picked up and deliberately dropped in. Pennington knew it, but he didn’t say it. His years at the bar had taught him never to make an accusation without proper evidence, and anyway, what would be the point? He flicked off the torch, sparing the two women the sight of their dead pet.

May had reached the same conclusion. Her face was set in stone. ‘This was them!’ she whispered. ‘They did it!’

‘What do you mean, Mrs Winslow?’

‘You know what I mean. Giles Kenworthy. She asked him to do something – to sort it out – and this is what happened. He was responsible and I’ll never forgive him. I’m not going to allow him to get away with it . . .’

May and Phyllis were still sitting at the table in The Tea Cosy, Phyllis rolling her cigarette between her fingers like a very old pianist warming up before a performance. They were both haunted by the empty space where Ellery’s basket had been. They knew they would never have another dog. Even if they had wanted one, it was too late for them.

It had been Sarah, the gardener, who had retrieved Ellery’s body from the well in the end. They’d had to wait until the next day for it to happen and once again the sun had been shining. Sarah was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and as she had lowered a ladder into the opening, they had both seen it.

Fresh, livid scratches on both her arms.

5

After they had left Roderick Browne’s garden, Hawthorne and Dudley walked back round to the close and stood in the centre, enjoying the sunshine and the smell of the flowers. If it hadn’t been for the parked police vehicles, it could have been just another pleasant July day.

‘Look at it!’ Hawthorne muttered. ‘A private close in one of the nicest suburbs in London. Designer houses. What do you think they’re worth? Millions! And yet all these people at each other’s throats . . .’

‘Quite literally in the case of Giles Kenworthy,’ Dudley agreed. He had a strange sense of humour, a way of joking that always made him sound sad. ‘Although, I suppose it could have been an outsider,’ he added.

‘I doubt it,’ Hawthorne said. He pointed to the archway. ‘First of all, there’s the automatic gate. Closed at night and you need an electronic key to get in. The crossbow was tucked away in Roderick Browne’s garage. Someone must have known it was there. And then there’s the opportunity. Kenworthy on his own in the house, his wife having it away with her French teacher, the kids at boarding school, the Filipino cleaner out of the country. It had to be someone close by.’

‘Nightmare neighbours,’ Dudley agreed. ‘When I was in Bristol, we were always getting called out to local estates. Loud music, parties, dustbins and parking. It was the most miserable part of the job, the sheer futility of it all. Makes it a bit tricky, though, when you add murder into the mix. I mean, basically they’ve all got the same motive. They all hated Giles Kenworthy. That’s all it comes down to.’

‘Parking . . .’ Hawthorne said.

A woman had appeared in the doorway of Gardener’s Cottage and was leaning forward, examining the driveway as if she was afraid of what she was going to find. From a distance, she presented herself as healthy and attractive, dressed in a loose shirt, designer jeans and sandals, with a silver necklace and earrings. She had jet-black hair, parted in the centre, framing a serious face. However, as Hawthorne and Dudley walked towards her, it was as if the sky had clouded over and a shadow had fallen. The woman hadn’t slept. There were dark worry lines tugging at the corners of her eyes and lips. She had put on too much make-up, trying to disguise her malaise. It was striking that all the jewellery she was wearing seemed to have been inspired by poisonous creatures.

Hawthorne stopped in front of her. ‘Mrs Beresford?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can we talk to you?’

‘Now?’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Are you journalists?’

‘What makes you think that?’

So far it had been a conversation made up entirely of questions. ‘You don’t look like police officers,’ she said.

‘As a matter of fact, we’re helping the police with their inquiries.’

Gemma Beresford examined Hawthorne with suspicion. She seemed even more undecided about his assistant. ‘You could be anyone,’ she said. ‘Why should I believe you?’

‘Well, you could ask DS Khan. He’s got to be somewhere around – or maybe you can call him.’ Hawthorne tried to look sympathetic. ‘We’ve already spoken to Lynda Kenworthy and to your neighbour, Roderick Browne.’

Hawthorne had mentioned enough names to persuade her. ‘I can only give you ten minutes,’ she said. ‘I have to pick up my children from playgroup at two.’

‘We won’t need any more time with you than that,’ Hawthorne assured her.

Gardener’s Cottage was misnamed. There might have been a cottage here in the eighteenth century when a gardener had been employed to look after the extensive grounds of Rievaulx Hall, but what had replaced it was hardly a cottage, more a sizeable family house. The front door opened into a hallway that had almost too much space, with a high ceiling and a cantilevered staircase leading up to a galleried landing. The style was a tasteful mix of modern and traditional: glass panels hemming in the stairs, exposed beams in the walls. Everything seemed neat and ordered until she led them into the kitchen, which told the real story of the Beresfords’ home with its piles of unwashed dishes, the toys, dolls and children’s clothes everywhere, the Marks & Spencer ready meals defrosting on the counter, the unwatered plants flopping in their pots and unpaid bills stacked up beside the toaster.

Gemma Beresford waved them both to a solid farmhouse table. Dudley rested his elbows in front of him, then removed them when he realised they had lightly stuck themselves to the surface.

‘You’ll have to forgive the mess,’ she said. Her voice was low and husky. ‘This has been quite a week and I’m not even talking about the murder. Our cleaning lady hasn’t been in. She says she’s depressed. Honestly! You’re not allowed to question mental health issues these days, but it’s getting beyond a joke. And we don’t have our nanny either.’

‘What’s happened to her?’ Dudley asked.

‘Nothing. Kylie’s a wonderful girl and she keeps the whole ship running. That’s what the children call her. Captain Kylie! Her room’s at the top of the house . . . like a crow’s-nest.’ She looked at the mess all around her. ‘You can see for yourself what it’s like when she’s not here. She was called away at the weekend.’

‘What happened?’

‘When she joined us – that was two years ago – she was doing part-time work for a charity and she didn’t want to leave it. Age UK.’

‘Old people,’ Hawthorne muttered helpfully.

‘Yes. She’s one of their volunteers and she’s befriended a very elderly lady in Hampton Wick. That’s just a few miles from here. Anyway – would you believe it – on Sunday evening, Marsha was attacked. That’s her name. Marsha Clarke. It’s absolutely shocking. She’s eighty-five years old, but someone was waiting outside her house and hit her with a baton or something and now she’s in Kingston Hospital. But the thing is, she has three cats and absolutely nobody to support her. Social services were no use, so Kylie agreed to stay in her house and look after the animals until Marsha is well enough to come home. Goodness knows how long that will be. But that’s typical of Kylie. She’s from Australia and has no relatives over here. I suppose she sees Marsha as a sort of grandmother figure.’

All of this had come out in a rush, as if Gemma had been desperately waiting to tell someone – anyone – about her misfortunes.

‘That’s why I have to collect the children,’ she added, glancing at her watch. ‘They hate it when we’re late.’

‘How old are your kids?’ Dudley asked.

‘They’re twins. Claire and Lucy. They’re four.’

‘Did Marsha Clarke have money on her when she was attacked?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Gemma was puzzled by the question.

‘I was just wondering about the motive.’

‘I don’t think she had any money taken from her. The police think it may have been racially motivated. Marsha is a woman of colour.’

Dudley scribbled the information into his notebook. ‘So right now you’re on your own,’ he said.

‘Well, my husband, Tom, will be back this evening. He’s a GP. He works in Richmond.’

‘How is your husband?’ Hawthorne asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.

‘He’s very tired. He’s overworked. But he’s well. He’s fine.’

‘I understand he often argued with Giles Kenworthy. In fact, I’ve been told that just a short while ago, he threatened to kill him.’

Gemma Beresford blushed, the colour visible even under her make-up. ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded.

‘Is it true?’ Hawthorne countered.

‘It’s true about the parking. Giles Kenworthy was extraordinarily inconsiderate. Quite apart from his camper van, which is an eyesore and never goes anywhere, he had four cars: a Porsche, a Mercedes, some sort of American thing and a Mini Cooper. Who needs four cars in this day and age? His garage only had space for two of them, so he often parked outside, blocking us in. When I came out just now, I was checking to make sure the driveway was clear. He may not be here any more, but I’ve got into the habit.’

‘Did it make your husband very angry?’

‘If you’re asking me if Tom killed Giles Kenworthy, that’s ridiculous. Of course not. Tom’s not like that. He saves lives, and you have no idea the pressure he’s under, Mr Hawthorne – like everyone in the NHS. In fact, if you really want to know, that was what the argument was about two weeks ago. A man died. It was Giles Kenworthy’s fault.’

‘How did that happen?’

Gemma Beresford was still angry. She had one eye on the clock. She had to pick up her children. But she wasn’t going to leave without telling Hawthorne the truth about what had occurred.

‘Tom was leaving for work. It was just another day, but he had to get in on time because the surgery was short-staffed. Also, he had a patient coming in at nine o’clock, a man he’d been treating for several months. His name was Raymond Shaw. He wasn’t particularly old – in his forties, I think – but he was overweight, with high cholesterol, high blood pressure . . . a heart attack waiting to happen. And it did happen that morning. Tom got held up because the driveway was blocked and Mr Shaw was waiting for him in the surgery. He waited twenty minutes and he kept asking the receptionist when Tom was going to arrive and he got more and more angry and then it happened. He had what’s called an SCA. A sudden cardiac arrest. By the time Tom arrived, he was already dead. Of course, the surgery had done everything they could to revive him. Nobody blamed Tom, and as I said, Mr Shaw could have had the heart attack at any time. Anyone can be held up in traffic or whatever, and twenty minutes late is hardly negligence.

‘But Tom blamed himself. That’s the sort of man he is. And that’s why he lost his temper and may have said some stupid things to Giles Kenworthy. We all say stupid things from time to time, things we don’t mean. The idea that he crept out, stole a crossbow and put a bolt into him is out of the question. You don’t know Tom! Anyway, it’s impossible. He was here all night in bed, next to me, so if you’ve got him on your list of suspects, you’ll have to add me to it too.’

She took another look at her watch.

‘And now I really have to go.’

‘Just one last thing,’ Hawthorne said. ‘If your husband didn’t kill Giles Kenworthy, who do you think did?’

‘How can I possibly answer that?’

‘The police seem to think that it may have been one of the residents living in Riverview Close,’ Dudley chipped in. ‘You probably know them as well as anyone.’

‘I know them well enough to know that none of them would be capable of such a thing.’

‘You’d be surprised who’s capable of murder, Mrs Beresford,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Is there someone you’re trying to protect?’

Her eyes flared. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘You live with these people. Maybe you’ve seen something. I understand! You want to play nice neighbours. But you all hated Giles Kenworthy.’

‘I didn’t hate him.’

‘There was something about a dog . . .’

Gemma looked scornful. ‘That was dreadful. Poor May and Phyllis! Their dog fell into the well and they blamed him. But they’re both in their eighties. They’re completely harmless! I certainly can’t see them creeping around with a crossbow in the middle of the night.’

‘Did you ever hear anyone else talking about killing Giles Kenworthy, Mrs Beresford?’ Dudley asked.

For just a brief moment, Gemma was unsure of herself. ‘No. Of course not. When would anyone ever say something like that? I never heard anything!’ She stopped herself. ‘You won’t turn me against my neighbours,’ she went on. ‘Just as you’ll never turn them against Tom and me.’

‘Is that what you’ve all agreed?’

‘It’s how we are.’

She stood up, signalling that she wanted Hawthorne and Dudley to leave.

‘I like the jewellery,’ Dudley said. ‘Is that a snake around your neck?’

‘As a matter of fact, I designed it. I have a jewellery business. And it’s part of my Rare Poison collection.’

‘Sounds unusual.’

‘The necklace is shaped like the butterfly viper that lives in Central Africa. The creature is really quite wonderful with its brilliant blue-green markings and bright red triangles. It’s also venomous. The earrings are inspired by the webs of the orb-weaver spider from Madagascar, which turn gold in sunlight. I’m exploring the correlation between beauty and death in nature.’

‘They look lovely but they kill you,’ Hawthorne said.

Gemma Beresford smiled for the first time. ‘Exactly.’

6

‘Well, she was nice,’ Dudley said as they watched Gemma Beresford drive out of the close, on her way to her children’s playgroup.

‘Interesting woman,’ Hawthorne agreed. ‘What’s she hiding?’

Dudley raised his eyebrows. ‘The truth? She’d certainly heard someone talking about the death of Mr Kenworthy. Before it happened.’

There were fewer police around, but this was the second day of their inquiry and they had things wrapped up – quite literally in the case of the forensic teams, who were carrying out the last pieces of evidence concealed in white plastic. Everything else would have gone the day before: clothing, computers, documents and files, anything that might have a story to tell. Hawthorne and Dudley had both been in this world once, following the procedures set out in Blackstone’s Police Investigators’ Manual, volumes 1–4. Now, for different reasons, they had been cast adrift, unnoticed on the edge of the crime scene.

Dudley watched the slightly listless activity in silence. With the afternoon sun shining and everything so perfect, surrounded by designer houses with their stock-brick chimneys, Dutch gables and flowering jasmine, there was an unreality to the scene.

‘Look at them,’ he muttered. ‘This has got to be the unlikeliest place in the world for a murder. When you think about it, the worst crime you could imagine happening here would be someone borrowing someone else’s lawnmower without asking permission.’

Detective Superintendent Khan appeared, coming out of the long, narrow building that stretched across the bottom end of the close. He was accompanied by a man who was supporting himself on a walking stick, limping badly. The man, dressed rather too warmly for the summer weather, was short, neatly bearded, vaguely professorial, with thinning hair and spectacles. He seemed unusually relaxed, as if the two of them had been discussing the cricket season rather than the violent death of a local resident. Khan waved them over.

‘This is Daniel Hawthorne and John Dudley,’ he said, once they’d arrived. ‘They’re colleagues of mine. Helping us with our inquiries.’ He must have had a successful morning, Hawthorne thought. He was almost friendly. ‘How’s it going?’ Khan asked.

‘Swimmingly,’ Dudley said.

Khan scowled. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Adam Strauss. He lives in The Stables. He knows quite a bit about the neighbourhood.’

‘You played a brilliant game against Kramnik in the World Chess Championship last year,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Move seventy-two. A rook manoeuvre when you were two pawns down. Nobody could have seen that coming.’

Strauss beamed. ‘In a game at that level, you have to look ten moves ahead, Mr Hawthorne. Kramnik helped me, sacrificing his bishop on move sixty. Do you play chess?’

‘No. But my son’s crazy about it. He’s only fourteen, but he likes to read magazines with me.’

‘Maybe you have a chess prodigy on your hands.’

‘I doubt it. It’s chess one week, BMX bikes the next.’

Khan had been listening to this conversation with a sense of disbelief. He didn’t even know Hawthorne had a child. ‘Mr Hawthorne is asking some follow-up questions,’ he interrupted. ‘You’ve been very helpful to me, Mr Strauss, but would you mind having a chat with him too? A second perspective always helps.’

Strauss didn’t hesitate. ‘It would be my pleasure, Mr Hawthorne. Come in and have a cup of tea. I’m sure my wife will be delighted to meet you.’

Leaning heavily on his stick, he led the way into the main room, which stretched the full length of the building. A woman was sitting demurely on a sofa with an iPad on her lap, but she stood up as they came in. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress and leather thong sandals, a necklace of black pearls and gold clip-on earrings. Khan had already told Hawthorne that she was Hong Kong Chinese. He would have been less able to describe the steeliness behind her smile, the way she quickly weighed up the new visitors and came to a conclusion that she seemed determined to keep to herself.

‘This is my wife, Teri.’

‘More police officers?’ Teri was not pleased.

‘Daniel Hawthorne and John Dudley.’ Strauss was more convivial. ‘They’re helping the police. I’ve spoken to Mr Khan, and we should give them any help we can. This is an awful business – but the worst of it is that, like it or not, the shadow of suspicion has fallen on all of us. It’s clear the police believe someone living in the close may have been responsible, and as absurd as it sounds, that’s an intolerable situation. I just want to get back to normal.’ Strauss limped over to a sofa and sat down. ‘Let’s have some tea.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Jasmine or English breakfast?’ Taking her cue from her husband, Teri had risen – almost levitated – to her feet. Now she was the smiling hostess.

‘Builder’s will be fine,’ Dudley said.

Teri glided into the kitchen. She could still take part in the conversation as she set about making the tea, filling the pot with one of those taps providing instant boiling water.

‘Have you worked with Superintendent Khan before?’ Strauss asked.

‘First time,’ Hawthorne said.

‘So you are . . . what? Private detectives?’

‘You could say that.’

‘How wonderful. I used to know Trevor Eve quite well. That was in the days when I was working in television. He appeared as Shoestring – do you remember? He was a private detective, but I didn’t know they existed in real life.’

‘When did you come to the UK?’ Hawthorne asked. As well as the surname, he had noticed Strauss’s faint German accent.

‘I arrived here when I was seven years old. My father was in the diplomatic service and he was posted here in the late sixties. I was taught in Richmond. There’s a famous international German school just down the road, which is where I completed my Abitur. It was also where I found my love of chess. They had a club and I joined.’ He smiled sadly. ‘That’s why I’m so upset about what’s happened. Richmond has always been my true home.’

The statement was accompanied by the sound of a tune beaten out on a xylophone: the classic marimba ringtone. Strauss pulled an iPhone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘Do you mind if I take this? It’s my manager . . .’ Without waiting for an answer, he got up and, moving as quickly as he could, disappeared into his office, which led off from the library area.

Teri came over with the tea. She had also arranged a plate of homemade butter cookies. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked.

‘Both, thanks. Two sugars.’ Dudley reached for a biscuit. ‘So how long have you been married?’ he asked.

‘Four years.’ Teri smiled. ‘I’m his second wife. Adam is divorced.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘I know his first wife, Wendy. In fact, she’s my cousin.’ She sounded only a little apologetic. ‘We grew up together. Her mother and my mother were sisters.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She went back to Hong Kong, although the two of us have stayed in touch. All the time she was in England, she was never happy. She didn’t like Richmond. She said it was too quiet. She wanted to live in town. And she wasn’t interested in chess either. How can you marry a chess grandmaster if you don’t have any interest in chess? That was what broke up the marriage. She was stupid.’

‘Do you like the game?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It’s more than a game, Mr Hawthorne. It’s a way of life.’ She paused. ‘I cannot follow all the moves. I do not understand the strategy. But I watch my husband play and it is like seeing God at work in the human brain. He is one of the greatest chess players who ever lived. You know, he played Deep Blue twelve times in a row and twelve times the computer lost. At the very end, the motherboard crashed. It suffered a complete meltdown. They say that the computer pulled the plug on itself to end the shame.’

‘Do you always travel with him?’ Dudley asked.

‘Always. My husband must have complete rest, isolation before every game. If I were not there, he would not even eat. He needs someone to look after him.’

Adam Strauss came back into the room. ‘It’s good news,’ he said. ‘I can go to Chennai after all. They’ve arranged a wheelchair for me at Heathrow Airport if I still can’t walk properly and the same at the other end. There’ll be someone to look after me at the Sheraton and they’re giving me a room close to the elevator.’

‘And your wife’s coming with you?’ Dudley asked.

Strauss nodded. ‘Teri always comes with me when I’m playing abroad. I couldn’t do it without her.’ He accepted a cup of jasmine tea and sat down again. ‘What do you want to know, Mr Hawthorne?’

‘Let’s start with that injury of yours, if you don’t mind. How did you hurt yourself?’

‘I had an accident a few days ago – last Friday. I was on my way to meet my manager to talk about the tournament in Chennai, as a matter of fact. I never got there. Somebody pushed into me on the steps at Richmond station and I fell quite badly.’ He stretched out his ankle, showing it to Hawthorne. ‘It’s not broken, but it’s a bad sprain. I was quite worried I wouldn’t be able to go.’

‘When exactly was this?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It was during the morning rush hour. About nine a.m.’

Hawthorne nodded at Dudley, who made a note of the time. ‘You used to live in Riverview Lodge,’ he went on.

‘Yes. That’s right. I have to say, I feel personally responsible for everything that’s happened here. If I hadn’t sold the house, none of us would ever have heard of Giles Kenworthy.’

‘Why did you move?’

‘Teri thought it was too big for us – and she was right. I didn’t need all that space.’ There was another reason, which he was less willing to put into words. ‘My income isn’t what it used to be either. You know I used to have my own show on TV?’

‘It’s Your Move,’ said Dudley.

‘That’s the one. It was a chess-based quiz. Very popular in its time . . . It was co-hosted by Debbie McGee! I was also a commentator at some of the major tournaments, but they’re not covered so much these days. And if I’m going to be honest with you, I’m getting too old for the major ones. Magnus Carlsen, the current world champion, is twenty-four. Levon Aronian is only a few years older. He became a grandmaster at seventeen. Anyway, Teri was never very comfortable at Riverview Lodge. It wasn’t a home we’d made together. So when The Stables suddenly became available, it felt like a no-brainer.’

‘I never liked the house,’ Teri agreed. ‘It’s better here.’

‘I still don’t understand why Giles Kenworthy and his family couldn’t fit in more,’ Strauss continued. ‘You don’t buy a house in a place like this if you’re not going to get on with your neighbours. I’m sure he wasn’t a bad person, but he did manage to annoy the hell out of us. The parking, the noise, the camper van, the children. We invited them to a meeting here about six weeks ago. We thought it might be an opportunity to sort things out – but at the last minute they didn’t show up. That was typical of them. Maybe they were just thoughtless, but they came over as rude.’

‘Everything got worse after that,’ Teri said.

‘That’s true, my love. Yes.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘First there was the dog belonging to those two dear ladies in The Gables.’

‘How well do you know them?’

‘Oh – we’re very close. The Gables and The Stables! They had a French bulldog, which was found at the bottom of the well. They were quite sure the Kenworthys were responsible. Then Andrew Pennington – he’s a retired barrister and our neighbour across the way in Well House – he had his flower display ruined by the children. They drove through it on skateboards, would you believe? Not a motive for murder, I’m sure, but he was very upset.’

‘And also there was your chess set,’ Teri reminded him.

‘Oh, yes.’ For a moment, Strauss lost his cheerful composure. ‘That was extremely annoying.’

‘What happened exactly?’ Hawthorne asked.

Strauss put his cup down. ‘I was in town, having lunch with a journalist friend of mine. This was the week before my accident. Teri was also out. When I got back, I noticed that one of the windows had been broken, and my first thought was that we had been burgled. In fact, it was simpler than that. The two Kenworthy boys – Hugo and Tristram – had taken to playing cricket in the courtyard, even though there’s supposed to be a rule about no ball games. There had been quite a few complaints about it. I remember that the Beresfords were particularly worried – but then they’ve got small children.’

‘They said it was dangerous,’ Teri agreed.

‘Well, I could see at once what had happened. They had hit their ball through my window. I found it on the floor. That would have been bad enough, but it had also smashed one of my most treasured chess sets, a gift from Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the ruler of Dubai.’

‘Did you complain to the parents?’ Dudley asked.

‘Of course I did. I telephoned Giles Kenworthy and spoke to him at length.’ He sighed. ‘He refused to accept responsibility. He said that he talked to the boys and they had denied it and suggested that it might have been one of their friends. He promised he would look into it, but I have a feeling he couldn’t really have cared less.’

‘Do you still have the chess set?’ Dudley asked. ‘There’s a model-maker I know. Brilliant at putting stuff together.’

‘I’m not sure it’s possible,’ Adam said.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Hawthorne cut in. ‘A tube of Revell Contacta Professional and a handful of fast clamps . . .’

Teri had already got to her feet. ‘It’s here!’ she said. She went to a low cupboard, reached inside and took out a chessboard, holding it carefully so that the pieces wouldn’t fall off. She brought it over for Hawthorne to examine. It was a set modelled on The Lord of the Rings, but the white king and queen and bishops were badly smashed. Several of the pawns were broken.

‘It looks a bit hopeless,’ Hawthorne admitted. ‘You wouldn’t have thought that a cricket ball could do so much damage.’

‘Well, the pieces were extremely fragile,’ Adam muttered tetchily. ‘There were only six sets ever made,’ he went on. ‘Put it away, dear. I can’t bear looking at it.’

Teri returned it to the cupboard.

‘So Kenworthy refused to accept responsibility,’ Dudley said. ‘He lied to you. And a few days later, he was dead . . .’ He sounded surprised by the force of his own logic. ‘Where were you on Monday night?’ he asked.

‘I was playing chess until well after midnight. Then I went to bed. And before you ask, my opponent was in Warsaw. We were playing online. His name is Grzegorz Gajewski and, like me, he’s a grandmaster.’ Strauss waited until Teri had sat down again. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I killed Giles Kenworthy out of revenge,’ he went on. ‘If every parent was responsible for their children’s misdemeanours, the entire country would be strewn with corpses! Anyway, I’ve already told you. Everyone in the close had a reason to dislike the Kenworthys. A man died because of them! Tom Beresford’s patient. That’s rather more important than a smashed chess set.’

‘Even a very valuable one.’

‘Yes.’

There was a brief silence.

‘It seems to me you’re in pole position, Mr Strauss,’ Hawthorne observed. ‘You used to live in the big house. Now you’re right beside the entrance. This meeting you had, when the Kenworthys were no-shows, that was your idea?’

‘Actually, I think it was Andrew Pennington who suggested it. He’s on his own now. His wife died of cancer a few years ago and he’s become something of a counsellor to all of us. He thought an informal drinks do might help. Teri and I were happy to host it.’

‘So tell me – if Giles Kenworthy was killed by someone in Riverview Close, who do you think it was most likely to be?’

Adam Strauss leaned forward, his palms touching and his fingers resting just beneath his chin, as if he was contemplating a move in an invisible chess game. ‘I’m not sure I accept your premise that the killer was one of us, Mr Hawthorne. Giles Kenworthy was a wealthy man, a hedge fund manager. I’d have said you should be looking for someone who lost money. An unhappy client. That makes much more sense to me.’

‘But how many of his clients would have been able to get through the gate or would have known that Roderick Browne kept a crossbow inside his locked garage?’ Hawthorne countered.

‘That’s a fair point – although the garage was frequently left open. Sarah, our gardener, was in and out all the time.’

‘Are you pointing the finger at her?’

‘I’m not pointing the finger at anyone. That’s exactly the point I’m trying to make. You’re asking me to turn against people whom I have always considered to be my friends. I’m not prepared to do that.’

‘How about Roderick Browne himself?’

Strauss let out a sniff of exasperation. ‘I’m probably closer to Roderick than to anyone else. For a start, he’s my dentist.’

‘He didn’t mention that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Frankly, it’s none of your business. But since you ask, I was going to his clinic before he even moved into Riverview Close. He was recommended to me because he has quite a few celebrity clients. I actually met Ewan McGregor in his waiting room. A very charming man. Roderick has had the most appalling difficulties, what with Felicity’s illness and everything, and Teri and I have both been trying to offer him our support.’

‘He was upset about the swimming pool.’

‘And the Jacuzzi! I can understand that. They’re going to be right underneath Felicity’s window and there’s no doubt that they will make a huge impact on her life. I’m astonished Kenworthy even got planning permission.’ Strauss smiled a little mournfully. ‘With Kenworthy dead, the rest of the family may move,’ he said, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. ‘I suppose it’s quite possible there won’t be a Jacuzzi, a swimming pool or anything.’

‘Perhaps that’s exactly what he wanted.’

‘And that’s a motive for murder, I agree. But take it from me. Roderick couldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Flies don’t have teeth,’ Dudley pointed out.

‘I can tell you this.’ Strauss ignored Dudley’s remark. ‘Roderick is more upset than anyone about what’s happened. I spoke to him yesterday after Detective Superintendent Khan interviewed him and he was in considerable distress. I know him very well and I would urge you to leave him alone.’ Strauss drew himself to his feet. ‘And now, if you gentlemen have no other questions, I really don’t think there’s anything more to say.’

Strauss had clearly forgotten Hawthorne’s chess-loving son. The attack on Roderick Browne had been one step too far and the two investigators found themselves being shown rapidly out of the door.

‘That went well!’ Dudley said.

‘It’s interesting.’ Hawthorne didn’t seem at all put out. ‘Two random attacks in a matter of days.’

Dudley nodded. ‘I noticed that. An old lady being looked after by the Beresfords’ nanny is hit with a baton in Hampton Wick . . .’

‘And Adam Strauss is pushed down the stairs.’

‘Seems a bit random. I can’t see a connection.’

‘It still bothers me.’ Hawthorne made his decision. ‘Ask DS Khan for any CCTV footage from Richmond station last Friday morning – or nip round yourself. It might be interesting to see what really happened . . .’

7

There was a pub, the Fox and Duck, on the other side of the Petersham Road and after they left The Stables, Hawthorne and Dudley walked over there and found a table outside for a late lunch. The two of them had met very early that morning and had travelled to Richmond together. Neither of them had had time to eat. Dudley ordered a pie and chips with a glass of lemonade and didn’t seem aware of Hawthorne watching him over a black coffee and a cigarette. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until the food had been served. Then Hawthorne leaned forward.

‘Thoughts?’ he asked.

‘Not a bad pie,’ Dudley replied.

‘That’s not what I meant, mate.’

‘Well, of course, they’re all lying . . . the whole lot of them. I agree with you that Lynda Kenworthy was shagging the French teacher. Roderick Browne is in meltdown either because he committed the murder or because he knows who did. The wicked witch with the silver jewellery thinks her husband did it, and she’s certainly talked about killing Giles Kenworthy at some time, even if she wasn’t being completely serious. And I wouldn’t have thought anything happens in Riverview Close without Adam Strauss and his wife knowing about it. I hated that bloody chess set, by the way, but then I never much liked The Lord of the Rings either. Hobbits and talking trees? Not for me, thanks.’

Hawthorne examined his assistant with both curiosity and concern. ‘So, how are things going with you?’ he asked.

‘I’m all right.’

‘How’s the flat working out?’

‘It’s great. I’m very grateful to you.’ Dudley paused. ‘How much longer am I going to be able to live there?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘As long as you like.’

‘And rent-free? How does that work?’

‘The people who own it aren’t short of cash.’

‘Well, it’s very handy. And if I ever need a cup of sugar, I know where to go.’

‘I don’t have any sugar.’

‘I was talking about the Waitrose round the corner.’

Dudley continued to eat, almost mechanically. There could have been anything on his plate. Hawthorne finished his cigarette. He was very rarely ill at ease, but he hesitated before asking: ‘Are you still seeing Suzmann?’

Dudley stopped, the fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Now and then,’ he said.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Do you mind me asking?’

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’ Dudley put down his knife and fork, making sure they were parallel on the plate. ‘It’s been a year now since it happened. Bristol courthouse and all the rest of it. But I’ve got things under control, largely thanks to Dr Suzmann. And thanks to you, Danny. I like doing this job and I’m grateful to you. I’m getting things together in my own way, one day at a time. All the rest of it’s behind me, so I’d appreciate it if you’d leave it alone.’

‘I only asked,’ Hawthorne said, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘I appreciate it.’

‘So what do you suggest we do next?’

‘It would be nice to get hold of the barrister – Pennington. He arranged the big get-together everyone’s been talking about. And there was something about his flowers getting trashed.’

‘And Sarah Baines.’

‘Oh yeah. The gardener.’ Dudley took out his notebook and turned to a page. ‘Accused of theft and some sort of financial espionage. She had access to Roderick Browne’s house and she was in and out all the time. She’s also sending text messages to Mr Browne and it may have been her who threw that poor bloody dog down the well.’ Dudley snapped the book shut. ‘Yes. I’d definitely like to speak to her.’

8

There was a single policeman standing guard at the entrance to Riverview Close, keeping away any sightseers, but otherwise the whole place was eerily empty by mid-afternoon, when Hawthorne and Dudley returned. All the investigating officers, including Khan, had disappeared, as if, just a couple of days after a particularly violent and unusual murder, they had decided there was nothing more for them to do.

‘Have they made any arrests?’ Hawthorne asked the young constable – who at least knew who he was.

‘No, sir. Not that I heard.’

They walked through, into the close.

‘You think they’ve pulled Roderick Browne in?’ Dudley asked.

Hawthorne nodded. Dudley could have been reading his mind. ‘I’m not sure he murdered Giles Kenworthy – although he did his best to convince us otherwise. But I don’t think DS Khan will be able to resist it. Pull him in. Give him a night in police custody. Hope to terrify him enough into talking.’

The door of Well House was the first they came to and Dudley rang the bell. It was opened by Andrew Pennington, who seemed to know exactly who they were and had been expecting them. ‘Adam called me after you spoke to him,’ he explained. ‘He said you might want to speak to me.’ He leaned out and looked around the close. ‘It looks as if everyone else is out.’

‘Do you talk to each other a lot?’ Dudley asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You and Mr Strauss. It seems to me that the whole lot of you are pretty tight. You keep each other informed of what’s going on.’

‘We’re all friends, if that’s what you mean. At least, we were until the Kenworthys arrived. Please, come in . . .’

Andrew Pennington’s home was neat, comfortable, old-fashioned. The sitting room had a desk in one corner, a matching three-piece suite, bookshelves filled with mainly nineteenth-century English, French and Russian classics. The colour scheme tended towards the dark – walls painted in shades of green and mauve, with oak and mahogany furniture, thick carpets and curtains. Triple French windows at the back looked out into the garden, but only allowed a little afternoon sun to trickle in.

It was immediately obvious that he lived alone. The house had a sense of emptiness. It felt stuck in time, as if nothing had changed, but it was immediately obvious what was missing. There were photographs on every surface, mounted in a variety of frames, but all of them showing the same subject: a beautiful woman, always smiling, her face filled with life. Iris Pennington at work, Iris on the beach, Iris and Andrew arm in arm on a swing chair, Iris and Andrew dancing, Iris making a heart sign with both hands, Iris in bed, ill and wasted but still smiling for the camera. Well House spoke equally of her death and her surviving husband’s life.

Andrew was in his early sixties, a handsome, softly spoken black man with hair that was tinged with white around his ears. It would be easy to imagine him in court. He would be courteous, precise . . . but he would miss nothing. Those grey eyes of his would pick up the slightest nuance and when he sensed a weak spot he would strike with lethal accuracy. Of course, all of that was far behind him now. He had not so much embraced retirement as allowed it to engulf him. The slippers he was wearing, the cardigan pushed out of shape by the bulge of his stomach, the glasses, the tiredness in his face . . . He was tumbling into old age.

‘Can I get you tea or coffee?’ he asked as he showed them to a seat.

‘No, thank you. We just had lunch.’ Hawthorne picked up on what Dudley had been asking. ‘We’ve been told that you and your friends had a meeting,’ he said. ‘You were going to confront your new neighbours about their behaviour.’

‘You’re referring to the meeting we had six weeks ago at Adam Strauss’s house. But I don’t think “confront” is the right word.’

‘What word would you use?’

The barrister shrugged. ‘I haven’t quite put my finger on what it was about the Kenworthys that annoyed so many of us. I’m not convinced it was the issues – the noise and all the rest of it. I think it was the people themselves. There was something about them that was deeply off-putting. I’ve seen it in court, many a time. A jury takes against a defendant for no clear reason and it’s almost impossible to make them see sense, no matter how many facts you have at your fingertips.

‘For what it’s worth, I would have said the meeting was more about conciliation than confrontation. It seemed a good idea to discuss the issues before they got out of hand.’

‘They got out of hand – big time,’ Dudley muttered.

‘It was unfortunate that the Kenworthys decided not to come. They sent a text while we were together, after we’d arrived. It didn’t go down well.’

‘The meeting was your idea?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘The idea presented itself when I was talking to Adam. It’s long been my experience that it’s all too easy to get a false impression of someone if you don’t talk to them. You imagine the worst and that’s what they become. There’s a poem by William Blake.’ He closed his eyes, recalling the words. ‘“I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.”’ He smiled. ‘The poem is called “A Poison Tree”. I suppose we met to avoid cultivating one.’

‘There must have been a lot of anger in the room,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Wrath,’ Dudley corrected him.

‘Again, that’s not the case. Tom was probably more annoyed than anyone because of the parking situation – quite rightly, as it turned out. A man died in his surgery when he couldn’t get there to save him. Roderick and Felicity were determined to fight the swimming pool. They’d just received notice of the planning application. We all had. If it went through, they would lose their view – not at all helpful when you’re bedridden. But nobody said anything particularly aggressive and certainly nothing that might be deemed illegal. Adam didn’t complain at all, as far as I can recall, although of course his most precious chess set hadn’t been smashed at the time. That happened later. May actually said what a lot of us were thinking, which was that we should do everything by the book. The important thing was not to let the situation escalate. In the end, it was quite a pleasant evening, albeit a short one. There was no point hanging around if they weren’t going to show up.’

‘But then things got worse,’ Dudley said.

‘It’s true. The next six weeks were very trying.’

‘Mrs Winslow lost her dog.’

‘The dog belonged to both her and her companion. I was with them when they found him. He was at the bottom of the old well in the corner of my garden and in considerable pain, poor thing. They’d had a long dispute with the Kenworthys – I’m afraid the dog had a habit of burrowing into their garden – but there’s absolutely no evidence that either Giles or Lynda had anything to do with it.’

‘What did it do, then? Commit suicide?’ Dudley was unimpressed.

‘May and Phyllis believe that Giles Kenworthy ordered Sarah Baines to do away with it. It’s true she had scratches on her arms the following day, but I’ve spoken to her and I believe her when she says she would never have done anything like that. For that matter, I’m not sure that the Kenworthys would have given the order.’

‘You mentioned Adam Strauss’s chess set,’ Hawthorne said.

‘That was the children playing cricket. No doubt about that.’

‘They also rode their skateboards over some of your flowers.’

For the first time, Andrew Pennington was taken aback, losing some of his poise. When he spoke again, his voice was low. ‘Yes. That was Hugo and Tristram Kenworthy again. They’re very young and I’m sure they meant no harm, but we have repeatedly asked their parents to keep them under control.’

He wanted to stop there, but Hawthorne and Dudley waited in silence, expecting more.

‘You may have noticed the roundabout in the centre of the close. With the permission – indeed, with the encouragement – of the other residents, I had planted it with shrubs and flowers that had a special significance for my late wife, Iris. She died of cancer just as I retired and I have to tell you, I miss her terribly. I try to keep myself busy. I’ve joined a bridge club and I play twice a week – Mondays and Wednesdays. In fact, I’m playing tonight. There’s a walking group. Swimming in the summer. But it’s not easy without her, which is perhaps why the display means so much to me.

‘Anyway, I came home one evening to discover wheel marks from two skateboards cutting right through the beds. A lot of the flowers were severed. In fact, the whole bed was decimated. I would say “profaned”, but perhaps that’s going too far.’ He tried to make light of it. ‘It’s not hugely important. I can always plant more. But I was upset because it happened to be the fifth anniversary of her death.’ His eyes met Hawthorne’s. ‘Perhaps that leads you to think that I had a motive to kill their father. He didn’t even apologise. The boys still race around on their skateboards.’

‘It might do.’

‘Well, I’ll give you a much better motive if it will help you with your inquiries, Mr Hawthorne. Giles Kenworthy was a card-carrying member of the UK Independence Party.’

‘What of it?’

‘I think it informed the way he treated me.’

‘And how was that, Mr Pennington?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘With disdain.’

‘Are you saying he was a racist?’

‘I’m asking what sort of man puts jingoistic slogans in his front window and flies a Union Jack in his back garden?’

‘A patriot?’

‘I’m afraid it’s been a very long time since the Union Jack was associated with patriotism, Mr Dudley,’ Andrew replied.

‘The UK Independence Party wouldn’t call itself racist,’ Dudley said.

‘Their leader said he wouldn’t want to live next to a Romanian. One of their councillors was recorded admitting she had a problem with “Negroes”. The Prime Minister himself has referred to them as “closet racists”. Maybe the view is different when you’re seeing it from your side of the fence, Mr Dudley. But as I understand it, the police are even looking into a possible political connection in the attack on Marsha Clarke. You won’t have heard of her, but there have been quite a few stories about her in the local press.’

‘She was the old lady being looked after by the Beresfords’ nanny.’

‘That’s right. Apparently, an Independence Party leaflet has been found in her letter box. It may have been a calling card.’

Hawthorne and Dudley took this in. Marsha Clarke, a woman living in Hampton Wick, had been the victim of what might have been a racist attack. Her assailant might have belonged to a right-wing political party. Giles Kenworthy supported the same party. And he happened to have lived next door to the young woman who had been caring for Marsha.

There might be a connection, but it was definitely an oblique one.

‘Giles Kenworthy never spoke to me,’ Andrew went on. ‘He never invited me into the house. He always looked at me with a sense of superiority, almost contempt. I used to think that he deliberately revved the engine of his car outside my house to wake me up.’

‘Why are you telling us all this, Mr Pennington?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Because I think you’re focusing on the wrong angle. All the trivia of a suburban close means nothing at all. Nobody ever murdered anyone because they played their music too loud. It may be that Kenworthy was a racist and a deeply unpleasant man who deserved to die.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘No. I did not.’

Before either of them could say anything more, there was a movement outside the window and a young woman walked past, dressed in a vest top and jeans, pushing a wheelbarrow.

‘Is that Sarah Baines?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Yes.’

‘She works here?’

‘She does all the gardens.’

‘Not the Kenworthys’,’ Dudley said. ‘They fired her.’

‘Would you mind if we had a word with her?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘There’s nothing more you want to ask me?’

‘Not for the moment, thanks.’

Andrew Pennington got up and opened the French windows. ‘Then be my guest . . .’

9

Sarah Baines had been mowing. As Hawthorne and Dudley walked up to her, she was unloading the wheelbarrow onto a compost heap.

She was a statuesque woman, tall and muscular, with auburn hair brushing over her eyes, twisting around her neck and plunging down to her ample breast. Her clothes, especially her heavy black gardening gloves, did her no favours – but when she turned and smiled, she was strikingly attractive: formidable, certainly, but with something of the magnetism of a movie star, perhaps in a superhero film. Her vest top revealed bare arms with tattoos on both biceps: a pair of dice on the left and a spider’s web on the right. The wheelbarrow was old and heavy, but she had no trouble manouevring it, spilling weeds and grass cuttings – along with a number of undeserving flowers – onto the pile.

Andrew Pennington’s garden was surprisingly large, almost twice the size of its neighbours. It was L-shaped, starting with a York stone patio, a wooden table and six chairs. Beyond this, the lawn stretched all the way round the side of the house, bordered by a long line of flower beds that stretched from one end to the other. Climbing roses and jasmine had been planted against a brick wall that separated the property from the main road. They provided a colourful background for the medieval well that had been the cause of so much misery and which stood on its own with a gravel surround. Ellery would have had no trouble coming through the shrubs that separated the garden from May Winslow’s. He could have been carried just as easily.

The scratches were no longer showing on Sarah Baines’s arms.

‘Ms Baines?’ Dudley was the first to reach her. ‘Can we have a word?’

‘I’ve already spoken with the police. I’m busy.’

‘But less busy than you were, or so I understand.’

Sarah stopped what she was doing and set the wheelbarrow down. She looked at them with sullen hostility, as if she was only looking for an excuse to start a fight. ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘Well, you got fired by Giles Kenworthy, didn’t you? The same weekend he got murdered!’ Dudley made it sound as if the two events were an extraordinary coincidence.

Sarah sneered at him. ‘You think I had something to do with it?’ Her voice was hard-edged, pitiless.

‘You knew about the crossbow in Roderick Browne’s garage. You were in and out all the time.’

‘Doesn’t mean I killed him.’ A wasp buzzed briefly around her head and she flicked it away. ‘Yes, I knew about the crossbow. Yes, I had access. But you think I’m stupid? You think I’d kill someone just because they gave me the push? I’ve got plenty of work here and I’m doing very nicely, thank you very much.’ It was warm out in the sun and she pulled off her gloves, revealing jagged nails stained with earth and nicotine. ‘Anyway, he wouldn’t have booted me out if it hadn’t been for his wife. The two of us got on all right, but she never liked me.’

‘She found you in his office.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I was in and out of that house all the time. I didn’t just do their garden. I was their electrician, their painter, their bloody cleaner when Miss Ping-Pong couldn’t be bothered to do it herself.’

‘That’s a bit racist,’ Dudley said.

‘That’s what Kenworthy called her. He didn’t even know her real name.’

‘You also killed dogs for them,’ Hawthorne remarked, speaking for the first time.

Baines gave Hawthorne an ugly look, taking it as a personal insult. ‘That’s a lie,’ she said. ‘I never touched Mrs Winslow’s dog. Why would I have done that? I’d never have hurt any animal, even if Giles Kenworthy told me to. And he didn’t. Who are you, anyway? What gives you the right to ask me questions?’

‘Giles Kenworthy lost a Rolex,’ Dudley said.

‘He was careless. But he was rich enough. He could buy another.’

‘How long were you in prison?’ Hawthorne asked.

The question had come out of nowhere, but it was a blow that landed. Sarah looked around her as if she was afraid someone might have heard. ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded.

‘You did, Sarah, with those tattoos of yours. That’s not ink under your skin, is it? There’s no proper ink in the nick. I’d say it’s soot from burnt hair grease or maybe burnt plastic mixed with water and alcohol. And those designs you’ve chosen! A lot of inmates have a dice on their arm. It means they’re prepared to take risks. And the spider’s web . . . it’s the prison that traps the spider. Out of interest, how long were you in for?’

Sarah reached into her jeans pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. She was wondering whether to answer. ‘I was stitched up,’ she said, at length. ‘I did six months at Feltham. Burglary.’

‘And?’

‘Two years at New Hall, Wakefield. I hurt someone in a pub.’

‘Hurt?’

‘I put a glass in his face. He deserved it.’

Hawthorne sighed. ‘They always do.’

‘That was three years ago.’ Sarah scowled. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Well, someone has just been shot with a crossbow,’ Dudley said. ‘So it might be a tiny bit relevant.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Khan.’

‘Detective Superintendent Khan to you, I think.’

‘He knows who I am, what I’ve done. I didn’t murder anyone and if he thought I had, why would I still be free?’

‘Why did May Winslow recommend you for the job?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Because she’s a decent sort – not a hard bastard like you.’ She took a breath. ‘I was looking for work,’ she went on. ‘I was knocking on doors all over Richmond, but nobody trusts anybody any more. She was the only one who listened to me. She took me in, and one after another all the others followed.’

‘Why Richmond?’

‘Richmond is full of rich people – or haven’t you noticed? I did an Open College Network course in farms and gardens at New Hall and I’ve always been good with my hands. I’m doing all right here. I don’t need to steal Rolexes and if you think otherwise, you’re as stupid as Giles Kenworthy.’

‘You sent Roderick Browne a text this morning,’ Dudley said. ‘What was that about?’

‘His petunias need watering.’

‘You really know anything about petunias?’ He pointed to the flowers on the compost heap. ‘You’ve cut half of them down.’

She shrugged. ‘The lawnmower’s twenty years out of date. It’s got a mind of its own.’

Sarah Baines had decided that the interview was over. She put her gloves back on, picked up the wheelbarrow and headed towards the other side of the garden. The cigarette was still in her mouth.

‘Benson and Hedges at eight quid a pack,’ Dudley muttered. ‘She’s doing all right for herself.’

The two of them walked round past the well. Hawthorne briefly peered into the tunnel of ancient brickwork but said nothing. They continued through a gate that led back to the close.

‘You want to wait for the two old ladies?’ Dudley asked. ‘And Dr Beresford?’

Hawthorne shook his head. ‘I think we’ve done enough for one day. How do we get a taxi out of here?’

‘The station’s five minutes away.’

‘I don’t like tube trains.’

They set off, walking up the hill towards the town centre. It was late afternoon and the close was empty and silent, the shadows lengthening. At that moment, with no cars parked, no police officers present and everything bathed in golden light, it could have inspired the cover of one of the books sold at The Tea Cosy. One murder had already taken place, but now there was a hushed expectancy, a feeling of evil in the air, and it would be easy to imagine that the stage had been set for another.