The Twist of a Knife

22 Safe House

I didn’t enjoy the journey back to London. Of course, Hawthorne hadn’t believed Adrian Wells’s ridiculous assertion that all along I had been a serial killer of critics who didn’t like my work. Or so I told myself. He said nothing. He had taken out his iPad and was methodically thumbing his way through Harriet Throsby’s book.

Incidentally, I was very proud of A Handbag, a short play I had originally written for the National Theatre’s ‘New Connections’ programme and which had subsequently been performed for one week only as part of a youth theatre festival in Bath. As Wells had said, it was about a group of kids locked up in a secure facility. The one hope in their life is their performance of Wilde’s masterpiece, which, they believe, will make them seem normal. Their tragedy is that they can’t understand a word of it. It was a play about failure and the refusal to give in.

I had never read Frank Heywood’s review.

We parted company at Paddington Station, Hawthorne promising that he would call me the next day, and I took the tube back to Farringdon. It was about nine o’clock when I climbed up to street level, and already dark. I was exhausted. This being a Friday, and the rain having finally subsided, the pavements were still crowded with office workers drinking outside the Castle and the Three Compasses. I was about to continue into Cowcross Street when my phone pinged. I took it out and looked at the screen. There was a message from Kevin Chakraborty.

Anthony – bad news I’m afraid.

Lambeth forensic lab is now up

and running. Grunshaw has definite

match on hair. Suggest you head

for the hills. Kevin.

I was still staring at the screen when two police cars tore round the corner with their lights flashing. Because of the way the station was configured, with a pedestrian area in front of the entrance, they didn’t see me. But I had a clear view as they screeched to a halt. Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw and Detective Constable Mills burst out of the first car. Two uniformed officers appeared from the one behind. I watched in horror as they rang the doorbell. I hadn’t told my wife about any of this. What was she going to say?

Before I knew what I was doing, I had turned round and hurried off the other way, putting as much space between myself and Cara Grunshaw as I could. I already had a weird sense of disembodiment. Just a moment before, I had been part of the crowd, making my way home. Now I was wanted by the police! I was on my own, but it was worse than that. I felt as if I was watching myself on a screen, recorded by some all-seeing camera positioned high above. I forced myself to slow down, recognising that I was already behaving like a fugitive. If someone saw the police cars and then saw me, the connection would be obvious.

I turned up the alleyway where Jordan Williams had appeared the night before and went back to the park where we had met. I needed somewhere to sit down and think and knew it was unlikely there would be many people there at this time of the evening. I couldn’t go back to Tolpuddle Street; that was the uppermost thought in my mind. It wasn’t just the dirt and the humiliation. If I was sucked back, it wouldn’t be for twenty-four hours. There would be no Hawthorne arriving to rescue me a second time. Cara had her evidence. Would it stand up in court? Of course it would! Tolpuddle Street could quite easily be the first step on the way to life in jail.

The park was locked. I sat on the edge of the pavement in despair.

All of this was crazy. I hadn’t murdered anyone. But then the dagger, the fingerprints, the hair, the Japanese blossom and the CCTV images said otherwise. I had a motive. I had threatened Harriet Throsby, according to one witness. I had agreed she deserved to die, according to another. And all of that was without taking into account my first victim, Bristol Argus critic Frank Heywood. There was no way round it. I think if I’d been on the jury, I’d have convicted me.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. Perhaps Cara would have gone by now and I could slip in and hide under the bed. It was a shame that the flat had no back entrance, not even a window I could climb through. I didn’t dare go back into Cowcross Street. There would probably be a police officer waiting for me all night. In the end, I did what I should have done in the first place. I took out my mobile phone and called my wife.

She answered on the second ring. ‘Anthony? Where are you?’

‘Is Cara Grunshaw still there?’

‘Yes. She is.’ She continued in the same breath. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘Murder that critic!’

‘What? I didn’t go anywhere near her! You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with it!’

‘The police seem to think they have a very good case.’

‘And you believe them, not me?’

‘Well, I know how upset you get by bad reviews.’

‘Not upset enough to kill someone!’

‘And why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think you’d want to know.’

‘You’re right! This is very disappointing—’

I would have continued, but then the phone must have been snatched from Jill’s hand and Cara Grunshaw came on.

‘Where are you, Anthony?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘You won’t get away. We’ve got the whole of London looking for you. It’ll make it a lot easier for you if you just turn yourself in.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Jill.’

‘She’s very upset. She had no idea of the sort of man she’s married to.’

‘Why don’t you just drop dead, Cara!’

‘Are you threatening me now?’ A pause. ‘Are you somewhere near?’

I hung up. There was something in her last question that had scared me. Was it possible that she could be tracing the call? I’d watched that scene in lots of films where the police try to keep the suspect talking for as long as they can while they close in on the signal – in fact, I’d written it a couple of times myself. I’d often wondered how long it really took. Perhaps these days it was instantaneous. It was time to move. I got up and walked back the way I had come.

But not to the station. That was the first place they’d look for me. Instead, I made my way up towards Holborn. If I wanted to lose myself amongst thousands of people, I’d be more likely to find them in the centre of town, and anywhere had to be safer than Farringdon. I was annoyed now that I had dressed in jeans and a jersey. If only I’d put on a hoodie or a baseball cap; anything to cover my head. It’s fortunate that writers are very rarely invited on television and it had been at least a year since my last appearance. I shoved my hands in my pockets and stared at the pavement, hoping that nobody would recognise me.

I’d walked for several minutes before I began to ask myself what I was doing. Where did I plan to spend the night? A hotel was out of the question. The front desk would report me before I’d even reached the room. I had various friends in the city, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to involve them, possibly getting them into trouble with the police – and anyway, Cara Grunshaw had been holding my wife’s mobile phone minutes ago. I wouldn’t have put it past her to make a note of all her contacts and then go round door to door. Could I go and stay with my sister in Suffolk? No – that meant train stations and trains.

I’d just reached Chancery Lane when it hit me. I needed somewhere to hide out – a safe house – and there was only one that might open its door to me. Without a second thought, I headed down towards the river, backtracking to Blackfriars Bridge. That was where I felt most exposed, above the water and out in the open, with nobody else on the pavement and dozens of cars speeding past. I could see the lights of Doggett’s pub ahead of me. That marked my destination. I quickened my pace, wanting to get this over with. The only question was – would Hawthorne let me in?

He was intensely private. I had only ever been into his flat four or five times throughout my time with him and his hospitality hadn’t extended much further than a KitKat in the kitchen … although on one occasion he’d offered me a rum and Coke. I didn’t even know if he had a spare room. Was it possible that Cara Grunshaw knew where he lived? It was unlikely. Hawthorne would never have given her his address and he didn’t own the flat; it belonged to someone overseas. He wasn’t paying any rent. There would be no record of his name … not on the deeds, perhaps not even on the utility bills. The more I thought about it, the more River Court seemed to be the safest house in London. I was still nervous. Hawthorne hadn’t exactly been championing my innocence since this began, but surely he wouldn’t turn me away in the night.

I reached the front door and pressed the bell. There was no answer and I was beginning to think that he might be out or asleep or simply refusing to answer, but then, distant and metallic, I heard his voice coming out of the speaker. ‘Tony!’ I hadn’t needed to speak. He’d seen me on the video system. He didn’t sound surprised.

I pressed my face against the speaker, injecting as much urgency into my voice as I could muster. ‘I need to come in,’ I said. ‘Cara Grunshaw’s at my flat. Kevin texted me. They’ve got the DNA. They want to arrest me. I need somewhere to stay!’

There was a pause.

‘I’m sorry, Tony. But the answer’s no.’

My heart sank. I should have known that he wouldn’t let me in. At the same time, I realised I’d heard those exact words before and there was something about the way he expressed them, as if he was reminding me of something. And then I remembered. They were exactly the same words I’d used when I’d told him I wasn’t going to write any more books. The bastard! He was choosing this moment to have his revenge.

For once, I almost lost it. ‘Hawthorne, if you don’t allow me into this building, I swear to God I will never speak to you again and you can forget about Alderney. I’ll break our contract. I won’t write the third book. It’ll never happen.’

‘I thought you’d already started.’

‘I’ll tear it up.’

‘You sound like you’re in a bad mood.’

‘Of course I’m in a bad mood! I’m being hunted by the police. Let me in!’

There was another long silence. I wanted to scream. But then came the exhilarating buzz of the electric lock. I pushed and the door opened. I almost fell into the reception area. The lift arrived as I walked towards it and I wondered if Hawthorne had sent it down. I was grateful that there was nobody else around. Nobody had seen me enter. I dived into the lift and travelled alone to the twelfth floor.

Hawthorne was waiting in the corridor. He had changed into another grey V-neck jersey, but otherwise he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on all day. He was looking nervous. ‘Move it, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Someone may see you.’

For half a second, I thought he was being serious. Then I realised that, in his own way, he was enjoying this. I remembered how dismissive he’d been when he first came to Tolpuddle Street. ‘The only thing he’s ever hit in his life is a computer keyboard.’ The idea of me being a fugitive from justice amused him. And right now, looking up and down the corridor and then stealthily closing the door behind me, he was playing a part.

We went into the living room. I noticed Hawthorne’s iPad on the table, surrounded by the intricate pieces of whatever military vehicle he was currently constructing. He must have been reading Harriet Throsby’s book when I rang the bell. That was something, anyway. He was still committed to the investigation.

‘Hawthorne,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘I need to stay here tonight. I can’t go home. Cara Grunshaw was there. She was with my wife! I can’t check into a hotel. I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘I’m not sure, mate. If the police have issued a warrant for your arrest, I’d be breaking the law by sheltering you. It might make me an accessory.’

‘You’re worried about breaking the law?’ I nearly screamed at him. ‘You got thrown out of the police for pushing a paedophile down a flight of steps, and later on you persuaded him to commit suicide. You regularly hack into the police computer system! You are kidding me, aren’t you? Apart from being a detective, you have no respect for the law at all. You’ve got to help me. I thought we were a team. I’ve been in hospital twice because of you. All the things we’ve done together – don’t they mean anything to you?’

To my horror, I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes. It had been another very long day. I couldn’t believe that this was where I’d ended up.

‘Relax, mate. You want a drink?’

‘What have you got?’ I prayed it wouldn’t be another rum and Coke.

‘I think I’ve got some grappa.’

‘Grappa?’

‘It’s Italian brandy.’

‘I know what it is.’ I forced myself to calm down. ‘Yes, please. I’d love some grappa.’

‘Just wait here a minute.’

He left the room and I examined the model in front of me. It was either a tank or some sort of mobile rocket launcher. He hadn’t assembled enough for me to be sure and I was in no mood to make sense of the eighty or ninety scattered pieces that remained. The rest of the room was as empty as it had always been. Hawthorne hadn’t drawn the curtains. There were no curtains. I could just make out the glint of the River Thames. There must be a full moon, although I hadn’t noticed it before.

He returned with a glass of clear liquid and a single lump of ice. He was holding a small bowl in his other hand. He set them both down. ‘Here you are, mate. I thought you might like a Twiglet.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

There were perhaps a dozen Twiglets in the bowl. They reminded me that I hadn’t had dinner and why I was here. ‘Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘Tell me who killed Harriet Throsby.’

He grimaced. ‘I wish I could.’

‘You must know! We’ve talked to everyone. We’ve been to Moxham Heath. You always know by now …’

‘Well, this one’s been tricky. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got three main suspects.’

‘Don’t tell me I’m one of them.’

He avoided my eye.

‘I don’t know why I bother.’ I threw back some of the grappa. It was sweet and a little cloying. It burned the back of my throat. The alcohol had no effect on me at all. ‘I might as well hand myself in,’ I said.

‘There’s no need to be defeatist.’ Hawthorne tried to sound cheery.

‘What else can I do? If you’re not going to let me stay …’

Finally, he seemed to take pity on me. ‘Look, mate. I’m not used to having guests overnight. It’s just not what I do. And there’s only one spare bedroom.’

‘I only need one bed!’

‘It’s not that …’ He was wrestling with himself. Finally, he seemed to arrive at a decision. ‘All right. I’ll put you up for one night. But only because it’s you. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.’

‘Thank you.’ I really meant it. I don’t think I’d have been physically able to leave.

‘You want some dinner?’

‘I can’t eat.’

‘Just as well. There’s nothing in the fridge.’

‘Hawthorne, please tell me. Three suspects. Two if you don’t count me. You must have a good idea …’

‘Let’s talk about this in the morning. I’ve got an early start.’

‘But surely you’ve got all the facts!’

‘Actually, mate, that’s exactly the problem. The facts. That’s what’s been getting in my way. There are too many of them and they can’t all be right. That’s what I need to sort out.’

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he didn’t want to say any more and I wasn’t going to push my luck by putting more pressure on him. I threw back the rest of the grappa, hoping it would help me sleep, and followed Hawthorne out through the kitchen and into a short corridor on the other side. There were three doors that I’d never seen before.

Hawthorne pointed to the one at the end. ‘That’s my room. There’s a spare bathroom next door. I’ll dig out a toothbrush for you. And you’ll be in here.’

He opened the nearest door.

‘I don’t want you talking about how and where I live. All right? And I definitely don’t want to read about it in your book.’

‘I’m not writing a book.’

He didn’t say anything. I went in.

It was his son’s room. I saw that at once. The single bed with its Arsenal duvet. The stuffed giraffe. The Marvel superhero posters. The books. Unlike the rest of the flat, it was actually decorated, and suitable for a young boy. The room was small and cosy with a little desk in one corner. The walls were painted blue. There were stars and planets stuck on the ceiling.

I turned to say something to Hawthorne, but he had already gone, closing the door softly behind him. I felt bad that I had forced my way in here. I knew very little about his son, William, but Hawthorne had told me they had a close relationship. He slept over sometimes and it wasn’t right, me being here in this room. I saw a photograph in a frame and picked it up. William was a good-looking boy who looked very much like his mother. I had met her once. He had fair hair and an engaging smile. The photograph had been taken at a zoo. William was with Hawthorne, the two of them holding hands, looking at giraffes. Perhaps that was when they had bought the stuffed toy. I wondered who had taken the picture.

It was too late to back out now. I undressed and got into bed. Before I turned out the light, I glanced at the bookshelves that ran the full length of the wall. Hawthorne had once told me that William didn’t read my books, but there they all were, or at least fifteen of them: Alex Rider, the Diamond Brothers, my collection of myths and legends, Granny, Groosham Grange. They looked well thumbed.

To my surprise, I fell asleep almost at once. I suppose I was mentally and physically exhausted. And my last conscious thought as I lay in that narrow bed, with my feet sticking out from under the duvet, was that I was in Hawthorne’s home and that he was also in bed, just a couple of doors away. A lot of strange things had happened in the last four days, but that was the most unlikely of them all.