The Twist of a Knife

16 Frost and Longhurst

Hawthorne and I met the following morning at a busy crossroads near Holborn station. He was sitting at a coffee shop – an outside table – lighting up what was almost certainly not his first cigarette of the day. I’ve often mentioned Hawthorne’s smoking habit, and thinking about it, I’d say he was addicted not just to the cigarettes but to the very act of smoking itself, that he wasn’t complete without it and the fact that it was unhealthy and antisocial only made him more determined to continue. For all his undoubted brilliance, Hawthorne was a very solitary man. He was separated from his wife and his teenaged son. I hadn’t met any of his friends. Apart from Kevin downstairs and his rather eccentric book group, he had never mentioned having any. He lived on his own. It was as if he had recognised how few pleasures he had in his life, making him all the more determined to cling on to the few that remained. Murder and cigarettes. That about summed him up.

I got myself a hot chocolate and joined him. We were on a corner with commuters pouring out of the station and early-morning traffic crawling past in four directions; not the most salubrious place to meet, but at least the sun had finally come out. I wasted no time telling him about my encounter with Jordan Williams the night before. I’d hardly been able to get to sleep, thinking about what he’d said. I’d mistrusted Tirian Kirke from the start. Now Jordan had provided me with a clear motive for the murder.

Irritatingly, Hawthorne didn’t agree.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, drawing on his cigarette. ‘I know you’re not that crazy about Tirian after he turned down your show. But it doesn’t add up.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start, we can’t be sure that Harriet did actually overhear what Tirian said at the party and nor can he. There were a lot of people in a small restaurant and from what you’ve told me, there must have been quite a bit of noise. Turkish music, people chatting, all the rest of it.’

‘He didn’t need to be sure. He could have gone round to her house and asked her.’

Hawthorne nodded. ‘That’s possible. But you’ve got to remember where the murder took place.’

‘Palgrove Gardens.’

‘I mean – which part of the building.’ Hawthorne looked at me a little sadly. ‘She was killed in the hallway.’

‘What about it?’

‘Look, Tirian might have been worried that Harriet had heard what he said about the film being no good. But there was always a chance she might not have taken it seriously. After all, it was a party. Everyone was drinking. And journalists don’t usually report private conversations.’

‘She wasn’t a journalist.’

‘Fair enough. But he’d still need to be one hundred per cent certain that she was going to write something nasty about him before he knocked her off – otherwise he wouldn’t take the risk. So what would he do? Go round to her house, talk to her, try and explain himself, find out what she’d heard and what she was going to do. She’d said nice things about him in her review. Maybe he could persuade her to forget this little indiscretion. But if, on the other hand, she was determined to go ahead and ruin his career, then, all right, he would have a reason to put a knife in her.

‘But the point is, Tony, would they have had the conversation standing there in the hallway? I don’t think so. They were right next to the door to Harriet’s study. They could have gone in there or into the kitchen and sat down over a nice cup of tea. “Hi, Harriet. I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t mean that stuff I said last night. I was just being stupid … ” That sort of thing.

‘But it never happened. I’d say it’s obvious that whoever arrived at the house that morning went there with one aim in mind, which was to murder her. No chat. No second thoughts. Harriet opened the door and that was the last thing she did.’

‘And it wasn’t Tirian.’

‘It might have been. I got Kevin to do a search on him, by the way. All that stuff he told us about growing up in Wales, his parents dying in a car crash, moving to Harrogate, the National Trust …’

‘And?’

‘It all checks out. The episode of Heartbeat was called “Another Little Piece of My Heart”. He didn’t get a credit, though.’

‘He was only an extra.’

‘I think they’re called background artists.’

My heart sank. ‘Have you heard anything more from Cara Grunshaw?’

‘She’s not going to call me!’

‘What about the forensic lab?’

‘They haven’t managed to sort themselves out just yet.’ He half smiled. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of my friend Kevin.’

‘I’m willing to make exceptions.’

Hawthorne ground out his cigarette and stood up. I was happy to leave my hot chocolate. It tasted of traffic fumes. ‘Martin Longhurst is waiting for us,’ he said.

Ahmet’s accountant had been at the party; I’d seen him talking to Harriet Throsby. For some reason, he’d been nervous. And lying in bed at four o’clock in the morning, I remembered that hadn’t been the first time I’d seen him either. He’d been sitting one row behind me at the first night of Mindgame. Even so, I still had no idea why Hawthorne was interested in him. We already knew that Ahmet was in financial difficulties. What else could he add?

Unlike their client, Frost and Longhurst were obviously doing well for themselves. They occupied a Queen Anne-style office spread over four storeys in a quiet backstreet. Theirs was the only name on the door and as we entered the reception area with its plush carpet and original oil paintings (horses and country villas), I couldn’t help thinking of Ahmet’s basement in the Euston Road. Why had they even taken him on as a client? This was an organisation more suited to high-end lawyers, businessmen, hedge-fund managers.

Martin Longhurst appeared almost at once, ushering us further into the building. At the first-night party, he had seemed awkward. When I saw him in Ahmet’s office, I’d thought he looked ill, but that was probably only because he’d seen the advance ticket sales for the play. This was a different man. He was totally relaxed, in a Savile Row suit with his dark hair slicked back and gold cufflinks glinting in his sleeves. As we moved through his home territory, he stopped to show off a couple of the paintings (‘That’s an Edward Walter Webb. The horse won the 1840 Grand Liverpool Steeplechase …’). He led us into a conference room with an oak table that gleamed like a mirror, twelve chairs, and coffee and tea on a side buffet. We sat down and he poured coffee for Hawthorne and tea for me, talking all the while.

‘I very much enjoyed your play, Anthony. I thought it was very entertaining. As a matter of fact, my daughter is a big fan of your work. She’s too young for Alex Rider, but – I hope you don’t mind – she’d love it if you’d sign another of your books.’ I’d already noticed a well-thumbed copy of Granny on the table. If there’s a book of mine in a room, it’s always the first thing I’ll see.

Longhurst took a seat. He moved very carefully, perhaps because he was so tall, sitting with a straight back and reaching for a bottle of sparkling water with elegant fingers. He was in his mid-thirties, with the easy confidence that comes from either inherited wealth or early success, a completely different man to the one I had met in Euston. Could it be that he changed his persona depending on the client he found himself with, that the richer and more established they were, the more suave and self-confident he became?

‘So, how can I help you gentlemen?’ he asked eventually.

I had no answer. It embarrassed me that I still had no idea why we were here.

‘Well, obviously we want to talk to you about Harriet Throsby,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I’m not sure I have anything to tell you.’ Longhurst chose his words carefully. ‘Certainly not in relation to her murder. My client, Mr Yurdakul, told me about it yesterday and you can imagine my reaction.’

‘How long has Mr Yurdakul been a client?’

‘I first met him about eight years ago when he came in to develop a software system for this company. He did a very good job. When he decided to set up as a theatrical producer, he asked me if I would look after his accounts, and although I will admit he didn’t quite fit the company profile – or the profile my partner and I were hoping to create – I agreed. I’m very sorry it hasn’t worked out for him, but I’m sure he’ll bounce back. He’s nothing if not resourceful.’

‘Did you know that Harriet Throsby would be at the theatre?’

‘It had occurred to me that she might be there. I don’t know why you’re asking me that question, Mr Hawthorne. Do you think I’m in some way connected to her death?’

‘Well, you were one of the last people to speak to her.’ Before Longhurst could deny it, Hawthorne went on. ‘I understand that the two of you met at Topkapi, the Turkish restaurant, after the play finished.’

Longhurst hesitated. ‘I spoke a few words to her in a crowded room,’ he admitted. ‘We said nothing of any interest whatsoever.’

‘Are you saying you’d never met her before?’

I saw the flicker of annoyance in the accountant’s eyes as he realised that he wasn’t going to be able to hide the truth. ‘No. I haven’t suggested anything of the sort. As a matter of fact, we did cross paths once, but that was a very long time ago. About twenty years, in fact, although I’d prefer not to discuss it.’

‘I’m sure you’d prefer not to, Mr Longhurst. Unfortunately, when someone is murdered – and in a particularly brutal way – there are questions that have to be answered.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘But you had a good reason.’

‘Did I?’

‘She wrote a book about you.’

And there it was. As soon as I heard Hawthorne’s words, I realised what I’d missed. There had been three books on the table in Harriet Throsby’s office in Little Venice, all of them written by her. One of them was called Bad Boys: Life and Death in an English Village. Arthur Throsby had described it to us. ‘It was about Trevor and Annabel Longhurst. You may remember them?’ Their son had been involved in the death of a teacher. Longhurst wasn’t that common a name and Hawthorne must have made the connection immediately.

‘Your parents are Trevor and Annabel Longhurst,’ he stated now.

For perhaps half a second, Longhurst considered denying it, but he knew it would do no good. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Your brother was called Stephen.’

‘That’s right.’ He was still cradling the bottle of sparkling water. He twisted it open with a movement that was brief and almost violent.

Now Hawthorne was conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry to have to bring this up, Mr Longhurst,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s still very painful for you.’

‘You have no idea at all of my feelings, Mr Hawthorne. I was eighteen when Stephen became the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. He was very much my baby brother, eight years younger than me. Up until then, I’d had a normal childhood; I would say a very happy one. That single moment tore my world apart.’

‘Your brother was responsible for the death of a teacher at his primary school.’

‘No. I just told you. My brother was ten years old! Whatever the law may say, I do not believe he had reached the age of responsibility and he had no idea what he was doing. He was one of life’s innocents. He fell under the influence of another boy a year older than him and that was where the trouble began. He was quite unlike the character that Ms Throsby described in her book – which was itself nothing more than a ragbag of scurrilous and ill-informed gossip put together by a hack whose only interest was in making money.’

‘So, you didn’t have that high an opinion of her, then.’

‘You can taunt me if you wish. I’ll admit that I should have disclosed my association with that woman as soon as you came into my office, but even now, all these years later, the wounds haven’t healed.’

‘It must have shocked you, then, meeting her.’

‘It wasn’t something I expected. I’ve already told you. I had a good idea that she might be at the theatre. But Ahmet wanted me to come to the first night – his financial future depended on it – and I felt I couldn’t let him down. At the same time, I thought there was little chance of us encountering one another in an auditorium with six or seven hundred people. I saw where she was sitting and I made sure to avoid her.’

‘Until you got to the restaurant …’

‘Well, yes. That was a surprise. I had no idea that she would be coming to the first-night party. Indeed, I understand that it’s a rare thing for a newspaper critic to attend. A very unpleasant surprise.’

‘So what did you say to each other?’

‘She saw me before I saw her,’ Longhurst explained. ‘Otherwise, I would have made my excuses and left. As a matter of fact, I’m quite surprised that she recognised me after all this time. But she didn’t hesitate. She came straight up to me and introduced herself, reminding me who she was, as if I would take any pleasure in seeing her again. I didn’t know what to say to her. I felt physically sick being anywhere near her. She asked after my parents. That was how she opened the conversation. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me just wanted to walk out of the room. But I replied, briefly, that they were well.’

‘And then?’

‘She asked me if I’d enjoyed the play. That struck me as odd. She was the critic. Why would she be asking me my opinion?’

‘What did you say?’

‘I asked her the same – “Did you?” I didn’t care, of course. I just wanted the conversation to be over. It was quite difficult to hear her, with the band playing nearby. Anyway, she gave me a queer little smile and ducked the answer. “That’s my little secret!” I suppose she didn’t want to give anything away until she’d written it down.’

He poured himself a glass of water and took a large gulp. I watched his Adam’s apple travel up and down.

‘I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, Mr Hawthorne. But that was it; the full extent of my conversation with her. I cannot begin to imagine what was going on inside her head or why she would think, even for a minute, that I would have any interest in ever seeing her again. I made an excuse and walked away. I left the party almost immediately.’

‘Perhaps she was deliberately trying to upset you,’ Hawthorne suggested.

‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘So, tell me about the book. What was it that pissed you off?’ In his own way, and despite his language, Hawthorne was at his most affable. ‘The hard copy’s out of print, by the way, but I picked up a copy on Kindle for nothing. I haven’t had a chance to read it all yet, but from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think it’s one I’ll be recommending to my book club.’

‘Do we have to do this now?’

‘If we’re going to find out who killed her, we need to move fast.’

I hardly needed reminding. The DNA, the fingerprints, the Japanese blossoms, the witness statements. Cara Grunshaw could be at my front door at any time.

Hawthorne had evidently created some sort of bond of trust with the accountant. Longhurst nodded slowly and put the water down. ‘Very well.’

We waited.

‘I can’t tell you everything you want to know about the summer of 1998,’ Longhurst began at last. ‘You have to remember that this comes from the perspective of an eighteen-year-old boy and I wasn’t even in Moxham when most of this happened. My parents had sent me to boarding school, to Marlborough College, and when this business with Stephen took place I was on my gap year, teaching football to children in Namibia. They wrote me a letter, explaining what had happened and urging me not to come home, even though that was my first instinct. They wanted to keep me out of the spotlight, to protect me, and they were largely successful … at least until that book came out.

‘As I’m sure you’re aware, my parents were fairly well known around the time of the millennium, which is to say they often appeared in the newspapers, in diaries or gossip columns. They had set up a business that started with children’s clothes but then branched out into a much wider range of products – toys, books, furniture. You may remember the name. It was called Red Button. There were Red Button shops, Red Button restaurants and even Red Button holiday resorts and adventure centres by the time they finished. They were extremely wealthy and they were closely connected to centre-left politics, by which I mean, of course, New Labour. This was the same year that Peter Mandelson made that famous remark about being relaxed with people getting filthy rich, or words to that effect. He spoke for the prime minister … and it could have been my mother and father he had in mind.

‘They had already given large sums of money to New Labour. They were major supporters of Tony Blair when he mounted his leadership bid in 1994, and they’d been with him in Downing Street when he won the election three years later. My father was involved in early talks relating to the Millennium Dome and might well have gone into the House of Lords if … things hadn’t happened the way they did.

‘My parents had moved to the village of Moxham Heath in the early nineties. I’m afraid I can’t really describe what it was like, living in the middle of Wiltshire, because I wasn’t there very much. I was either at school or I stayed in London. We’d kept our house off Sloane Square. To this day, I’m not sure why they’d decided that country life would suit them, particularly as they were opposed to so many of its traditions, but let me say at once that it was without any question the worst decision they ever made. It all went wrong from the moment they bought Moxham Hall, which was a quite unnecessarily large country house with a hundred acres just outside the village. Arriving by helicopter didn’t help either. My father flew it himself.

‘It was them and us – although not perhaps drawn across classical lines. This was a time when the Tories were losing power, and maybe there was a degree of resentment in what had always been a true-blue Tory shire. I don’t know. My parents weren’t just rich. There were plenty of rich people in Moxham. They were rich socialists. They supported the Labour opposition to hunting. They wanted to build a wind turbine, and you can imagine that that put a great many people’s backs up. Spoiling the view! Killing a few birds before the locals had a chance to gun them down! My father had been part of the Campaign for Lead-Free Air, so having their own helicopter pad made them hypocrites too. I kept out of it, but I still remember there was one squabble after another. The swimming pool. The footpath they wanted to move ten metres. The church-hall restoration fund. The annual village fête. This was little England and the two of them were incomers and hypocrites … at least, that was the perception. Nothing they did was ever right.

‘Maybe that was why they decided to send Stephen to the village school – Moxham Heath Primary. That was one of the things that Throsby suggested in her book. They were using him to ingratiate themselves with the villagers, to prove that they were “one of them”. It was complete nonsense, it goes without saying. But she wrote it anyway.

‘I need to describe my younger brother to you. Up to the age of nine – before he left London – he was a very quiet boy. He loved reading. He did well at school. He had plenty of friends. Harriet Throsby described him as spoilt and although it’s not a word I would have used, he was certainly indulged. This was because to all intents and purposes he was an only child. My parents always used to say he was an afterthought – although he was much loved and cherished.

‘Things changed almost as soon as he arrived at Moxham Heath. You can imagine how difficult it was for him. As I’ve explained, I was away. He’d lost all his London friends and he was having difficulty making new ones. My parents were launching Red Button in America and they were spending more and more time abroad. Stephen had a lovely nanny, an Australian girl who had moved to Wiltshire with the family, and she did the best she could. But looking back, I would be the first to admit that he was neglected. Things happened very quickly and nobody noticed until it was too late.

‘Moxham Heath Primary School had a policy of taking in boys and girls from as wide a catchment area as possible. They didn’t just want the offspring of local squires and bankers, and I’m sure this is something to be applauded. One of these boys, however, exerted a malign influence on Stephen almost from the start. His name was Wayne Howard and he lived on an estate just outside Chippenham, about eight miles away. He had no experience of village life and would probably have been much happier in a larger town. Nonetheless, he was bussed in every day and he and Stephen became friends.’

He shook his head sadly.

‘It’s hard to believe that they were just nine and ten years old when they first met. They were children! But they formed what you might call a gang of two, with Wayne very much the ringleader, and soon they were out of control, always getting into trouble with the teachers at school, the neighbours, even the police. On one occasion they were reported for shoplifting from the village store, a place called the Ginger Box. After that, my parents went into the school and demanded the two boys be separated, but it was easier said than done in a small community. Really, that was when they should have seen the writing on the wall and taken Stephen back to London. But, as I’ve said, they were preoccupied and were inclined to think that “boys will be boys”, that it was good for Stephen to have met someone of his own age and that eventually things would sort themselves out.

‘It was a decision that led, inexorably, to the death of their teacher, Major Philip Alden.

‘He was an ex-soldier, born in the village. He’d fought in the Falklands and when he left the army he trained to be a teacher and worked for a few years in Trowbridge before he applied for the job at Moxham Heath Primary School. He was the deputy head: getting on a bit, mid-sixties and eccentric, exactly the sort of character you’d expect to find in a little Wiltshire village. Very much into cricket. Ran a chess club. Kept a bust of Cicero in his study. It was a solid thing, made of marble. I believe he had inherited it from his father.

‘Philip Alden was what you might call old school. He believed in discipline – not surprising, given his army background – and he came down hard on the children who didn’t keep up with their work or who misbehaved in class. It wasn’t long before he had both Stephen and Wayne in his sights. Things came to a head during the spring term. They were accused of doing something very stupid and unpleasant. They defaced a number of books in the library – tore out pages and scribbled obscenities in the margins. They both denied it, but he punished them by making them miss out on a trip to Bath Spa. I know it all sounds very trivial, describing it to you in this way, but in the end it was anything but.

‘Wayne and Stephen decided to get their revenge by playing another trick on the major, this one the oldest in the book. It was Wayne’s idea, of course. They sneaked into his study and balanced the bust of Cicero on top of the door, leaving it ajar. God knows how they got it up there because it weighed a ton, but there were a lot of books in the room, some of them on high shelves, and Alden used a small stepladder to climb up and down, so I presume they were able to use that. Later, they both claimed that it was just a joke and they didn’t want to hurt anyone, but the long and the short of it was that Alden came into the room, the bust fell on him, fracturing his skull, and the next day he died.

‘The two boys were sent to youth court and tried for manslaughter. By law, they’d both reached the age of criminal responsibility and they’d killed a war hero, for heaven’s sake, so it was no surprise when they were found guilty and sentenced to five and ten years in different secure units. Stephen’s lawyers were able to prove that he had been influenced by the older boy, so his sentence was shorter, but that made little difference as far as my family was concerned. Their names were released after the trial and the press, who had been fairly restrained up to that time, fell on us in a feeding frenzy. The effect on my parents was catastrophic. You can forget America! Red Button went bust almost immediately. You can’t sell children’s products when your own child is in jail. All their political friends turned their backs on them, of course. The pressure on them was enormous and a year later they separated. My father lives in the British Virgin Islands now. My mother went back to Vancouver. She was actually born in Canada. Stephen served four years at Warren Hill, a secure unit in Suffolk, and when he was released he was given special licence to live with her. They’re still together in Vancouver now.’

There was a long silence. Hawthorne was looking more subdued than I had ever seen him, but then he had a thirteen-year-old son himself and the story must have resonated. ‘Do you ever see them?’ he asked.

Longhurst shook his head. ‘Not as often as I would like. I took my family there a few Christmases ago, but it was quite difficult explaining to my daughters that this was their uncle who had killed someone. My mother has rebuilt her life and she made the decision that she had to do it without my father or me. That makes me sad, but I understand it, I suppose.’

‘Do you know why Harriet Throsby decided to write the book?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. She was a crime reporter at the time, working for a newspaper in Bristol, but she knew someone who lived in the village.’

‘Would that be Frank Heywood?’

‘That’s absolutely right. Yes. He was the drama critic on the same newspaper as her. She took over from him when he died a few years later. He was able to give her a great many insights into the people of Moxham, many of whom he knew socially. This is something for which I will never forgive him.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Bad Boys was nothing less than a complete travesty of the truth. It turned my parents into the villains of the piece. The court made it absolutely clear that Stephen had been completely under the thumb of the older boy. Their respective sentences demonstrated exactly that. But the way Harriet shaped her narrative, it could have been my parents who were responsible for Alden’s death. They were too busy with their own jet-set lifestyle. Stephen was neglected but he was also spoilt. He was the child they didn’t want, which was why they were so willing to turn a blind eye to his delinquent behaviour.

‘She didn’t stop there. It was all set out, chapter by chapter. They’d antagonised the villagers. They were arrogant and selfish. They had no respect for their neighbours. The footpath, the fête … she paraded all these trivial arguments as if they actually amounted to anything and she made it seem that the death of Major Alden was nothing less than a logical conclusion. It was a hatchet job, nothing more, nothing less – written cleverly enough to keep her on the right side of libel. My parents were still together when the book came out and maybe there was a chance they would have muddled through. Harriet Throsby destroyed them. I blame her at least in part for the breakdown of their relationship. You could say that I lost a mother and a brother thanks to her.’

He spread his hands, signalling that he had little more to add.

‘I hated that woman. I won’t deny it. Hatred isn’t an emotion that I would normally entertain, but I believe that Harriet Throsby relished what she was doing. To use what was, at the end of the day, a tragic accident, a childish prank that went wrong, as an excuse to make money? To subvert or – at the very best – simplify the truth to sell books? I don’t know how she lived with herself and I’d almost go as far as saying that whoever killed her did the world a favour.’

He smiled for the first time. But there was no warmth in it.

‘I’m aware that I may have incriminated myself in your eyes,’ he said. ‘Do you want to know where I was at the time of her death? I believe the police are saying that it was around ten o’clock in the morning.’

‘It would help,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I went to the Vaudeville at half past nine. I had to go through some papers which Ahmet had left there. He was given one of the dressing rooms as a temporary office. Then I came here, arriving just before half past ten.’

‘You spent a long time at the theatre.’

‘Not really. No more than forty minutes. I’m sure the stage-door manager will have seen me leave.’

‘You signed in and out?’

Longhurst thought back. ‘No. I don’t think I did. The pen was out of ink. But you can ask … I made no attempt not to be seen.’

‘Thank you, Mr Longhurst. You’ve been very open with us. I’m sorry we had to make you go through it all again.’

It was rare to hear Hawthorne apologise for anything and the moment we were back in the street, I had to ask: ‘Did you believe him?’

We were walking along Queen Square, a private garden laid out on one side. The sun was still shining and the trees were in blossom, not that the sight of them did much for me. Hawthorne was already deep in thought. ‘Believe what, exactly?’ he said.

Why did he have to be so difficult?

‘All along, we’ve assumed the dagger was taken after the party, at night,’ I explained. ‘But Martin Longhurst could have taken it early the following morning.’

‘I haven’t assumed anything,’ Hawthorne said.

I ignored this. ‘An hour and a half would have been enough time to go to Little Venice and back again. He could have killed Harriet Throsby and gone straight into work.’

‘Covered in blood?’

‘He could have worn a coat!’

‘But why would he have wanted to frame you?’ he asked.

‘Well, you heard what he said. His client’s going bankrupt. Maybe he blamed me for the play.’

Hawthorne stopped. ‘It’s just possible that Longhurst could have picked up the dagger when he went to the theatre the next morning,’ he said. ‘But there are three questions you’ve got to ask yourself. How did he know it was there, and if he happened to come across it, how would he know it was yours?’

‘And the third question?’

‘How did he get hold of a strand of your hair?’

It was true. ‘Longhurst wasn’t anywhere near me,’ I admitted. ‘He couldn’t have got a sample of my hair … not unless he followed me into a hairdresser, and I haven’t been to one for weeks!’

Hawthorne stopped. I could see the main road and Holborn station ahead of us.

‘Let’s just suppose for a minute that the two things – the murder and your involvement – aren’t connected,’ he said. ‘Let’s imagine that you’re completely irrelevant.’

‘Thanks!’

‘An old man died in the village of Moxham Heath. Two kids killed him. And Harriet turned it all into a book.’

‘You think someone didn’t like what she wrote?’

‘Nobody ever liked what she wrote. That was her intention. But emotions always run high when someone dies. And you’ve got to ask yourself – what was that book doing, sitting on Harriet’s desk?’

‘Bad Boys …’

‘Maybe she was trying to tell us something.’

‘We’re not going to Moxham Heath, are we?’

‘Tony, mate. Cara Grunshaw can’t be too far behind. By the end of today, she’s going to have everything she needs to nail you.’

One hour later, we were on the train.