The Twist of a Knife

15 Clerkenwell at Night

Dinner was waiting when I got back to my flat. Jill had got in ahead of me and defrosted something that I’d cooked while I was writing my last book and which had been waiting in the freezer ever since. We opened a bottle of pink wine and sat down together and for the first time during that long day, I felt a sense of normality. This was my life. A marriage that had lasted thirty years. Two sons doing well in their careers. An elderly dog asleep in his basket. I looked at one end of the room, where the piano I had inherited from my mother stood, its polished surface gleaming in the light. I played it as a break from writing, moving from one keyboard to another. Behind me, a library of about five hundred books, half of them left to me by my father, stood on the shelves I’d had built for them. I’d added to them over the years: all the Bond novels, the 1946 Nonesuch edition of Dickens, a signed copy of I, Claudius that I’d found in Hay-on-Wye. Each book was a friend.

‘What sort of day have you had?’ Jill asked.

My sense of comfort and security disintegrated instantly.

‘Not great,’ I said. ‘This morning I woke up in a police cell. Did I mention I’d been arrested on suspicion of murdering a critic who didn’t like my play? I was locked up overnight at a custody centre in Islington and interrogated. I’m afraid it’s not looking too good. They’ve got enough evidence to put me away for twenty years, including – news just in – a petal from a Japanese cherry tree growing outside the house where the murder took place …’

Actually, I didn’t say any of this, much as I wanted to. I’d just had the worst two days of my life and I was terrified that the next two were going to be worse still. What would happen if Hawthorne failed to find the killer before the DNA evidence came in? How was I going to tell my sons that I was about to be arrested for murder? Of course I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Jill had enough on her plate running a company, currently raising the finance for an eight-part series based on my Alex Rider books. There was nothing she could do to help me. This was something I had to deal with on my own.

‘I saw Hawthorne,’ I said.

‘Oh – really? I thought you weren’t going to do another book with him.’

‘Well … he’s investigating something that might be worth thinking about.’

She was surprised. ‘What about Moonflower Murders?’

That was a mystery novel – fiction rather than true crime – I had been working on for six months. I’d worked out most of the structure, but so far I hadn’t written a word. Would they let me have a laptop in jail? I doubted it.

‘I might write some of that tonight,’ I said, vaguely.

That reminded her. ‘Where were you last night?’ she asked.

I’d known she’d ask me this and I’d already rehearsed my answer. ‘I went to see Ewan Lloyd. He has a place in Finsbury Park. We had rather too many drinks together and he invited me to sleep over.’

I hate lying to Jill. We’ve been together so long and she’s so much cleverer than me that it makes no sense to keep anything from her, and anyway, she always finds out. But this time I felt I had no choice. My one hope was that someone would say something or some clue would fall out of the sky and Hawthorne would work it all out. That was what I told myself. She would never need to know.

‘Did you see that a theatre critic got killed?’ Jill asked.

‘No!’ I was amazed. ‘Which one?’

‘I’m surprised Ewan didn’t tell you about it. I heard it on the news.’

It was a wretched evening. We watched a TV show together: season 7 of Game of Thrones. I could never work out what was happening at the best of times, but given everything that had happened, I wasn’t even able to enjoy the gratuitous sex and dismemberments. After an hour, I went up to my office and tried to work, but my thoughts were as blank as the computer screen in front of me. I was tired and wanted to go to bed, but knew I wouldn’t sleep, so I abandoned my desk and took the dog – a chocolate Labrador – out for a walk. It might at least be a chance to clear my head.

It was a little after ten thirty and a particularly dark night in Clerkenwell. At least it was still dry, but the streets were deserted and the moon was hiding behind an impenetrable bank of clouds. One of the joys of living in this part of town was its sense of remoteness, the way it retreated into the nineteenth century as soon as the offices emptied and the pubs and restaurants closed. My flat was on Cowcross Street, literally where the cows once crossed on their way to the meat market. Nando’s, Starbucks and Subway had all muscled their way in – our one bookshop had been forced out fifteen years ago – but the area still clung on to its sense of history, with St Paul’s Cathedral watching over in the distance.

There were three little parks where I could take the dog. The one closest to my flat – St John’s Gardens – had originally been a cemetery but the dead bodies had all been removed (to Woking, which must have surprised them) and what remained was an irregular space penned in by iron railings with a patch of scrubby grass, flower beds, paths and benches. The local council had taken to locking it at night to keep the drug dealers out, but occasionally they forgot – and fortunately that was the case tonight. I slipped inside and let the dog off the lead, then stood there watching him sniff around. The ground was wet underfoot, but I could feel a hint of spring warmth in the air, carrying with it the distinct scent of marijuana. There were empty offices on three sides of me, the back of a terrace of houses on the fourth. The dog ignored me. I felt very alone.

I don’t know what spooked me first. It was the sound of footsteps, I think, coming up the narrow alley that led from Turnmill Street. There was nothing unusual about that. Other dog walkers used the park at night: I didn’t know their names, although I knew their dogs’. However, these footsteps sounded too heavy, too slow and deliberate. Work on Crossrail was continuing day and night at Farringdon Station, which was out of sight around the corner, and they must have left a single floodlight on. A shadow stretched up the road towards me. It led to a single figure that suddenly stopped, silhouetted against the light, very much like Max von Sydow in the poster of the 1973 film The Exorcist. It was a man, standing there, silent and unmoving. And there could be no mistaking it. He was looking at me in a way that made me feel vulnerable, exposed.

‘Lucky!’ I called out. This wasn’t an observation. It was the name of my dog.

The dog refused to come.

Despite everything that had happened, it had never once occurred to me that I might be in danger, that the smiling face of somebody I might have met even today could have been concealing the mind of a psychopathic killer and that they might have further designs on me. After all, one of them had walked round to a house in Little Venice and stabbed Harriet Throsby to death in her own hallway. That same person had tried to frame me. Suppose they now felt threatened? Suppose Hawthorne had said something during one of the interviews that had told them the game was up? They might not have any reason to kill me – but mad people don’t need a reason. If they’d killed Harriet because of something she wrote, might they not do the same to me? In my case it would be Mindgame. She hated it. I created it. Maybe we both needed to be punished.

All these thoughts swirled in a sort of vortex through my mind. I tried to persuade myself that I was being ridiculous, that I was just a few minutes from my home and perfectly safe. But suddenly I had no desire to be out here on my own. I called the dog again and this time he must have recognised the anxiety in my voice because he padded over and allowed me to attach the lead. The man still wasn’t moving. He looked enormous, slanting out of the pavement like some sort of golem.

‘Good dog!’ I muttered, cheerfully. I wanted the man to hear my voice; to let him know I wasn’t frightened.

We began to walk out of the northern end of the park, up towards the Goldsmiths’ Centre, one of the newer constructions in the area. At once, the man fell into step behind me. I heard his feet hitting the pavement and tried to quicken my own pace. Unfortunately, the dog wouldn’t have it. He’d been distracted by an overflowing bin and although I tugged at the leash, he refused to move.

The top floor of my flat was in sight, poking over the other buildings. If I shouted loud enough, Jill might even hear. But shouting for help is one of the things people in horror films don’t often do and it was the same for me now. I wasn’t certain that there was anything to worry about. My imagination could be playing tricks on me. There was no one around to hear me anyway, and if I shouted, it might actually encourage whoever this man was to launch his attack. I glanced round and saw that he was holding something low down, at waist height. It glinted in his hand. A knife?

I made a decision, leaned down and released the dog. Wasn’t he supposed to protect me? If he sensed the master was in danger, maybe he would turn round, bark and gnash his teeth.

The dog ran back to the bin.

Worse still, I’d got the timing wrong. By the time I stood up with the leash in my hand, I realised that the man had reached me. There he was, looming over me, his face a silhouette. I stared. Then he spoke my name and I recognised his voice.

‘Jordan!’ I muttered. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

I wasn’t sure what to say. Why was Jordan Williams here? Had he deliberately set out to frighten me? Why wasn’t he onstage? No. The play would have finished forty-five minutes ago – ample time to get changed and take the tube across to Farringdon. He wasn’t carrying a knife. Now that he was standing in front of me, I saw that it was a mobile phone in his hand.

‘Hello, Anthony.’

‘What are you doing here? I thought you lived in …’ I realised I had no idea where he lived.

‘I live in Hoxton. But sometimes I come home this way. When I need to clear my head.’

‘How did the play go tonight?’

‘It was good.’

‘Decent audience?’

‘We weren’t full. But they enjoyed it.’

We stood there, face to face, slightly ridiculous in the open air with the dog scavenging for pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

‘I was hoping to see you,’ he admitted. ‘I was going to stop at your flat if the lights were on, but as I came out of the station, I saw you crossing the road with your dog so I followed you here.’

‘Why?’ I realised I was sounding defensive, but even though I now knew who I was dealing with, Jordan still seemed quite menacing. This was, after all, the man who had threatened Harriet Throsby, who had hurt Sky Palmer and was, I’d been told, on the verge of leaving his wife. If it had been Tirian or Ewan surprising me in an ex-cemetery in the middle of the night, I would have been much more relaxed. They were more my size. ‘It’s quite late, Jordan. Maybe we could talk tomorrow.’

‘I happened to speak to Maureen Bates today,’ he said, ignoring this.

‘Oh really?’ I replied, cheerfully. ‘I was at her office this evening. She didn’t mention she’d seen you.’

‘We spoke on the phone. She told me that you might be writing a book.’

‘A book?’

‘About us. About Harriet Throsby.’

I wondered how Maureen had known this. I hadn’t told her. With everything that was going on, I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.

‘Apparently, you’ve already written a book about that detective you were with. She said that was why the two of you were together.’

‘Well, I haven’t made a decision yet. If you really want to know, Hawthorne and I are out of contract.’ It was stupid of me, but I couldn’t resist adding: ‘But I suppose it’s always possible.’

That started him off again. ‘You should have told me that before you came into my dressing room.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want to be in your book. Do you understand me? If you’d told me that was what you were thinking, I wouldn’t have spoken to you.’

‘Why not?’ I was genuinely puzzled. My only thought was that he had murdered Harriet and he didn’t want it made public. After all, it wouldn’t exactly help his career. ‘Are you afraid of something?’

‘I’m not afraid of anything!’ He hadn’t raised his voice but he was fighting for control. ‘You have not asked for my permission to use any aspects of my life and I’m not giving it to you. I don’t want my name in your book. I don’t want to be any part of it. And that’s the end of the matter.’

‘Hold on a minute, Jordan.’ I was angry too. He had no right to track me down in this way, to spring out of the shadows, half terrifying me in the middle of the night. Suddenly I was annoyed. ‘Look, I may write about this. I may not. But either way, I don’t think it’s any business of yours. I don’t see what right you’ve got to stop me.’

‘So you haven’t written anything yet.’

I couldn’t lie to him. ‘I may have taken notes.’

He jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘You write about me and I will make sure that all hell comes in your direction. I have my life. I have my experiences. And you have no right at all to appropriate my story, turn me into a cultural stereotype, simply to embellish your own view of the world.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about a privileged white writer describing things he knows nothing about, profiting – in every sense – from an experience he will never understand because he hasn’t lived it. I have!’

‘You’re not being serious!’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Are you saying that if I decide to write about the death of Harriet Throsby, I can’t put you in the book, that I can’t even mention you – because of your heritage?’

‘How have you described me? In your notes? Have you said I’m a Native American?’

The ground had shifted beneath me and I suddenly felt sick. He was talking about cultural appropriation! I don’t even like writing those two words. There’s a reason why I never go anywhere near politics or social issues. I write to entertain people. If I have one determination in life, it’s that I don’t want to do anything that will upset anyone. I’m always aware of that great beast Twitter lurking on the sidelines, waiting to tear out my throat.

I desperately tried to work out an answer to what he had just asked me.

‘I suppose I might have thought of you as a Native American. I mean, your background … being adopted … you told me everything yourself.’

‘That didn’t give you permission to use it. I only told Mr Hawthorne because I was under police investigation. I had no choice. You were there as an eavesdropper. You had no right to be in the room.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Jordan. You can’t accuse me of cultural appropriation. I mean … I’m not saying it doesn’t exist. Of course it does. It’s terrible!’ I realised I was burbling. ‘I’ve been in the room with you loads of times,’ I went on. ‘I knew about your heritage before I even met you. What difference does it make? Are you saying I can’t write about Ahmet because he’s Turkish? Or Pranav because he comes from India?’

‘If you’re talking about Pranav the stage manager, he’s from Pakistan!’ His eyes blazed. ‘How have you described me? Have you mentioned the colour of my skin? My ponytail?’

‘I may have mentioned them …’

‘Those are more stereotypes.’

‘You’ve got a ponytail!’ I said. ‘It’s not my fault. And it’s very nice. It suits you.’

‘The other things I told you. Rosebud. Pomona. Are you going to write about all that too …?’

‘Why not? I didn’t know about any of it. The way you were taken away from your family. The assimilation programme. The Carlisle Indian Industrial School. It’s awful! Isn’t it important that people know these stories and learn about them?’

‘But they’re our stories.’

‘Yes, of course. I understand that. But the whole point about stories is that they’re for sharing. That’s the very nature of their existence. Stories are what bring us together. It’s how we try to understand each other and understanding is exactly what my job is all about.’ I didn’t want to be having this conversation. I was tired. I wanted to be in bed. ‘Are you saying you’d prefer it if I ignored what you told me? If I pretended you hadn’t said it?’

‘I’m saying it’s none of your business. You have no understanding about how I feel.’

‘And so I can’t even try? What does that leave me with? We’ve already agreed that I can’t write about Ahmet or Pranav. So presumably I can’t write about Maureen or Sky either … because they’re both women! Or Lucky because he’s a dog! At the end of the day, if I listened to you, I’d only write about myself! A book full of middle-aged white writers describing middle-aged white writers being murdered by middle-aged white writers!’

We both drew a breath. And that was when the absurdity of it hit me.

‘That’s not why you’re here,’ I said. ‘This has got nothing to do with cultural appropriation. You just don’t want me to write about you because you’re ashamed.’

‘I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘You threatened to kill Harriet! You stabbed a cake. There was that business with Sky. And you’ve had a row with your wife.’

Jordan visibly shrank. ‘That’s not true …’

‘I’m sorry. I have absolutely no interest in your private life. But everyone’s heard you shouting on the phone – and she didn’t come to the first night.’

‘I told you. She was working.’ But even as he spoke, he sounded half-hearted and I knew that I was right. ‘I don’t want you writing about Jayne.’

I was disappointed with myself. I’d liked Jordan Williams from the very start and I was grateful to him. It had been a real breakthrough when he’d agreed to take the part of Dr Farquhar and he’d thrown himself into it, supporting the play from the start. Only the week before we’d opened, he’d been on the radio, saying nice things about me. And here we were shouting at each other for no good reason at all.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Right now I’m not even thinking about the book. I don’t even want to write it. All I care about is who killed Harriet Throsby.’ I took a deep breath. ‘And you might as well know that the police are convinced it was me. They kept me locked up for twenty-four hours and they interrogated me. I think, technically, that I’m out on bail. There! Now you know.’

‘But I was the one who threatened her!’

‘I know that. But it was my knife that ended up in her chest.’

He looked at me, puzzled. Then he remembered. ‘You had it in the green room!’ he said. ‘I saw you with it.’

‘You don’t remember what I did with it?’

‘I think you left it over at the side. Near the fridge. Yes! I’m sure I saw it there.’

‘Was it still there at the end of the evening?’

‘I can’t remember.’ He shook his head. ‘Someone could have taken it.’

‘That’s why we were at the theatre today, asking you all those questions. Hawthorne’s my friend. Well, he is sort of. He’s just trying to save me from being sent to jail.’ I felt empty, exhausted. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,’ I said. ‘That really wasn’t my intention.’

He smiled and at that moment I had the completely irrelevant thought that he would have been really good as Dr Who.

‘I may be able to help you,’ he said.

‘How?’

‘I may know who killed her.’

I stared at him.

‘Tirian.’ He went on hastily, before I could interrupt. ‘I’m talking out of turn – and whatever happens, you didn’t hear this from me – but you might as well know. Tirian was really worried about Harriet Throsby. I mean, worried sick! He thought she was going to ruin his career – his big break in that Hollywood movie.’

‘How come?’

‘You should know. You were right next to him!’ Jordan moved closer to me as if he was afraid of being overheard. ‘When Harriet came over to us at the party, Tirian was telling us about Tenet. Don’t you remember?’

‘He was saying it was no good.’

‘That’s right. He’s full of shit really, because he doesn’t know anything about anything, but he basically said the script was rubbish and the director – Christopher Nolan – didn’t know what he was talking about.’

‘And …?’

‘He didn’t see Harriet creeping up behind him and by the time he turned round, it was too late. She’d heard every word of what he said! When we went back to the theatre later on, Tirian and me, I could see he was shaking like a leaf. I asked what was wrong and he told me. He was terrified she was going to write about him and repeat what he’d said.’

‘In her review?’

‘No. She didn’t just write reviews. She had a diary column in the Evening Standard. She could have dropped it in there. Or she could have rung up Nolan’s office and done the dirty herself, maybe in return for an exclusive interview. She was a monster. I wouldn’t have put anything past her. And what do you think would have happened then? They’d have fired Tirian. He’d be one time-travelling secret agent who’d be heading right back to bit parts in TV. If they’d have him, that is. Nolan is Hollywood royalty. It could have been the end of him.’

‘You think Tirian killed Harriet to stop her talking?’

‘Look, I tried to persuade him not to worry. I said she had bigger fish to fry. And it’s true: he seemed all right down there in the green room, at least until we read the review. But I don’t know what was going on in his head. In fact, I never do. That’s half the trouble, working with him. Maybe he went round the next day and …’ Jordan mimed the rest of the sentence, the knife strike to the heart.

The dog whined.

‘I have to go in,’ I said.

‘All right.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, Anthony …’

‘I’m sorry too.’ I took his hand. ‘If by some miracle I do end up writing about you, I’ll change your name. And I can make you something else if you like. Korean or something.’

‘No. I’ll stay as I am.’

We shook. Jordan disappeared back across the park. I went home.