The Twist of a Knife

23 Nothing Personal

I opened my eyes and saw stars. It took me a few moments to remember that they were glued to the ceiling of William’s room and that it was his bed I was in. My feet were cold. The duvet only came down to my ankles. I also had a crick in my neck from sleeping in an awkward position, although it was a miracle I’d been able to sleep at all. A large glass of grappa on an empty stomach had obviously had its effect, although it had left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. I should have cleaned my teeth.

I turned over, hearing the springs creak underneath me. Hawthorne had bought his son an old-fashioned metal-framed bed that might have come out of a boarding school or an army camp. For a few moments, I lay there, taking in the complete silence that surrounded me. Every house has its own collection of sounds that become part of its daily rhythm for those who live there. In my Clerkenwell flat it would be the click of the pipework heating up, the whine of the dog waiting for his first walk, the whirr and thud of my wife on her running machine, the voice of Nick Robinson on the radio in the kitchen. Here there was nothing. I listened carefully but there was no movement at all and I wondered if Hawthorne had already left.

I got out of bed and perched on the edge, feeling self-conscious sitting in someone else’s room in my T-shirt and shorts. I had no fresh clothes to change into, so I pulled on my jeans and jersey from the day before. Softly I opened the door and peered out into an empty corridor. The door to Hawthorne’s bedroom was closed, but the guest bathroom was open and, going in, I found a single towel neatly folded on the toilet seat, with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste sitting side by side on top. The bathroom, incidentally, was immaculate, as if it had never been used. Presumably it was there for William when he visited and that told me something about Hawthorne I had known but never fully acknowledged. He was obsessively clean. Perhaps that was the reason he seldom ate out in public: a fear of germs.

I brushed my teeth and washed and then wiped down the sink, using the towel. I came out of the bathroom and softly called out Hawthorne’s name. There was no reply. I reached for my phone and checked the time. It was almost nine o’clock. My first instinct was to call Jill and tell her where I was, but I was still nervous of the signal being tracked and decided against it. The last thing I wanted to do was bring Cara Grunshaw to Hawthorne’s door. I made my way down the corridor and into the kitchen. There was nobody there, but I saw that a plate and a bowl had been laid on the table. There were two croissants in a bag and a collection of those miniature cereal boxes you sometimes get in hotels. Hawthorne must have gone out and bought the croissants for me. The cereal, I suspected, was William’s.

Hawthorne had left me a newspaper and a note.

Had to go out. Back by eleven. Help yourself to anything in the fridge – don’t make calls and don’t answer the door! In emergency, find Kevin.

Out of interest, I opened the fridge. There was an unopened carton of milk, a slab of butter and a small jar of marmalade. Nothing else. I’d had almost nothing to eat the day before and I was really hungry. I wolfed down both the croissants and then had a bowl of Crunchy Nut cornflakes, followed by a bowl of Coco Pops. I made myself a coffee and quickly searched through the newspaper. I was relieved to find there was no mention of me. I sat back and thought.

Things were a little better than they had been the night before. I was wanted by the police, but they had no idea where I was. For the time being, I was safe. Hawthorne’s note hadn’t said as much, but it seemed that he was on the case. Why else would he have gone out so early – and what would he bring with him when he came back? I hoped it would be the identity of the killer.

I folded up the paper. It was slowly dawning on me that I had been handed an amazing opportunity. Since the day I’d met him, I’d been trying to find out more about Hawthorne, but he’d stonewalled me at every turn. I’d managed to speak to a detective inspector who had worked with him, but he hadn’t been very informative and he’d charged me £100 for his time. Hawthorne had been forced to talk about himself when we’d been at the Alderney Literary Festival, but he still hadn’t given very much away and I wasn’t even sure how much of what he had said was true. His almost paranoid secrecy had become more and more annoying as we’d worked our way through three cases and we’d often argued about it. How could I write about him if I didn’t know anything about his past? Well, here I was, alone in his home. If I looked around, there must be any number of clues that might fill in the gaps in Hawthorne’s life. What had happened in Reeth was number one on the list, but there were all sorts of things I wanted to find out. Where had he been born? Why had he become a policeman? What did he do when he wasn’t investigating murders with me? What was the thing with the giraffes?

I sat at the table for a long time, reflecting on the dilemma I found myself in. Hawthorne hadn’t invited me here. He had only allowed me in because I was in trouble and had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t sure I could abuse his hospitality by ransacking his home. I mean, the first place I might start would be the bedroom. This is where all of us are most exposed. It’s where we keep our clothes and underclothes, the books or magazines we read before we sleep, the things that are most personal to us. Even the way we make our bed tells us something about ourselves. Wrinkled sheets and crumpled duvet or puffed-up pillows, novelty cushions and rag dolls? But I already knew that I wouldn’t even be able to open the door without despising myself. I might never be able to look at Hawthorne the same way again.

What about his study, then? I’d glanced inside the first time I was in the flat and it surely wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look at the business end of things. I went over to the door on the far side of the living room. ‘Hawthorne …?’ I still called out his name before I went in, knowing there would be no reply. It crossed my mind that there might be security cameras concealed in the flat and that even now Hawthorne or Kevin might be watching me. I tried to look casual. I just need a piece of paper to jot down a few notes about the case – that’s what I told my invisible audience. There was no other reason for me to be opening the drawers of his desk. Nothing personal.

The study was exactly how I remembered it – a desk up against a wall, two computers with strange brand names I’d never heard of, different bits of machinery plugged into the various ports and sockets, a tangle of wires. There were no papers or notepads on the surface, just a paperback copy of The Great Gatsby with several corners folded down to keep the place. I guessed he was reading it with his book club. I examined the shelves, but his choice of books was too diverse to tell me anything: literary fiction, thrillers, classics … everything from Dan Brown to Dostoyevsky. Nothing here by me.

There were eight or nine framed photographs that were more interesting. Half of them were shots of William in different guises – at home, at school, some of them taken with his mother. Hawthorne also had a framed portrait of his wife that stood slightly apart from the rest. This wasn’t a casual snap. It had been taken with a great deal of attention to the light, to the shape of her hair, to her pose. It was a picture you would take of somebody you loved. Three more photographs provided an intriguing record of Hawthorne’s past life, although they didn’t give me very much in the way of facts. Here he was aged about twelve, in short trousers, standing between two adults. One was a uniformed police officer – a sergeant, I think. The other was a woman wearing her Sunday best. His parents? They were both strangely old-fashioned, standing very formally – and they didn’t look anything like him. As for Hawthorne, there was already something vaguely otherworldly about him. He was holding their hands, but there was no emotion in his face. It was as if he was simply doing what he was told.

The next image showed Hawthorne now dressed as a police constable, perhaps at some sort of graduation ceremony. He was trying to smile for the camera, but he only managed to look awkward. Physically, he hadn’t changed much in twenty years: he had just become more menacing as time passed. And finally, here he was with a man of about his own age, both of them holding glasses. The picture had been taken at a pub – I could make out the umbrellas – with a river in the background. It wasn’t the Thames. I got a feeling that this was outside London. I took out my phone and took a picture of the picture. Maybe I could identify the location another time.

I turned my attention to the desk. It had six drawers, but the first two were virtually empty – just odd bits of stationery, more computer accessories, an old phone, a digital recorder. I stopped myself as I reached down to open a third. I was behaving badly and it wasn’t even as if I was being rewarded with any concrete information. This was wrong. I deleted the picture I had just taken and went back into the kitchen. The newspaper was waiting for me. I opened it and tried to read.

It was hard to focus on the news when I was worried that I might be news myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about Cara Grunshaw and what she might be doing right now. Was it really possible that I might go to prison? What would Jill say? And what about Hilda Sharpe – would she drop me? I turned to the crossword, but, as with the murder of Harriet Throsby, the clues made no sense to me at all. After about an hour, I heard the lift ping open and I briefly thought it might be Hawthorne, back at last. But it was more than one person. I heard two men on the other side of the door. Their voices became more distinct as they walked past.

‘River Court is something of a landmark on this part of the river, and being on the twelfth floor, you get the most amazing views.’

Whoever was speaking had the well-educated voice and the smooth enthusiasm of an estate agent showing potential purchasers a flat. I heard a few more words – ‘Two bedrooms … very private …’ – and then a door opened and closed further down the corridor and the voices were cut off.

I made myself another coffee and then went back to the crossword – but it was just so many black and white squares. I was beginning to feel nervous. Could something have happened to Hawthorne? It was already ten forty-five and he’d said he would be back by eleven.

There was a knock at the door.

I stood up. I was tempted to open it – but then remembered the instructions Hawthorne had left me on the note.

A second knock. A voice called out: ‘Hello?’

A pause, and then I heard a key being inserted into the lock, the door opened and a man walked in.

He was about forty years old, in a suit, with curly hair and a shiny face. On first appearance he seemed overweight, middle-aged, ordinary, standing there with the sort of embarrassment that seems particularly English. I recognised him at once from the photograph in Hawthorne’s study. He was the man with the drink. He blinked at me. ‘Oh – hello!’ he said.

I also recognised his voice. I had heard him walking past the flat. And yet there was something about him that didn’t quite fit my image of a London estate agent. He was too old, for a start. From his crooked tie to his unruly hair, there was something careless about the way he presented himself. His brown suede shoes didn’t match his grey suit. He was holding a large manila envelope, heavily sealed.

‘Hello.’ I smiled at him.

‘Look, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to bust in. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here.’ He waved the envelope vaguely. ‘I was going to leave this for Daniel.’

Daniel? I had never heard Hawthorne called that before. ‘You can wait for him if you like,’ I said. ‘He should be back in a minute.’

‘Well, I’m not sure …’ He was clearly surprised to see me, waiting for me to explain myself.

I told him who I was. ‘Hawthorne let me stay here last night,’ I said. ‘We’re working together. I’m writing books about him.’

‘Yes. I know who you are. I read The Word is Murder. I enjoyed it very much, although I’m not sure you quite captured Daniel … at least, the Daniel I know.’

‘You’re his half-brother?’

Hawthorne had told me that his half-brother was an estate agent who had arranged for him to stay in the flat. It was a guess but an informed one and the man nodded. ‘You could say that.’

‘You haven’t told me your name.’

‘Haven’t I? How very remiss of me. It’s Roland.’

‘Roland Hawthorne?’

‘Yes. That’s right.’ He placed the envelope on the table. I could tell that it was quite heavy. It might contain thirty or forty sheets of paper. ‘I’ll just leave this here. If you could say I called in …’

‘I’m sure he’d be sorry to miss you.’ I gestured at the kettle. ‘I was just making coffee. Won’t you join me?’

‘Well …’

I was on my way into the main kitchen area before he could stop me. I clicked the kettle on and spun round. ‘Milk?’

‘A drop, please. No sugar.’

He sat down reluctantly. I made the coffee as quickly as I could and brought it over to him. ‘So you’re an estate agent,’ I said, adding: ‘I heard you go past just now. You were with a client. Did you sell the flat?’

‘I’m not selling.’

‘Another caretaker, then?’ He looked at me blankly. ‘Hawthorne mentioned to me that he’s looking after this flat for a foreign owner.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘Isn’t it true?’

‘He’s certainly helping us out.’

He was already regretting being here, I could tell. So I pressed on before he could make an excuse and leave. ‘So what estate agent do you work for, then?’

‘It’s not exactly an estate agency. We provide more of a creative and business development service.’ Why was he being so vague? ‘We facilitate things for our clients,’ he concluded unhelpfully.

Looking at the envelope and knowing as much as I did about Hawthorne, a thought occurred to me. ‘Does Hawthorne work for you?’ I asked.

It made sense. He had come to me to write the books because he needed the money. He had been kicked out by the police, so he had to have some way of earning a living, if only to support his less-than-lavish lifestyle. He was a private detective. The police were occasional clients. There had to be others.

‘He doesn’t work for me. No, no, no. I work full-time for the agency and he works for the agency occasionally and in this instance I’m just … sort of … the intermediary.’ He was visibly tying himself in knots as he tried to explain how he came to be here.

‘Is that a job?’ I went on, glancing at the brown envelope.

‘It is.’

‘Someone’s been killed?’

‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Nothing you’d want to put in one of your books. It’s actually quite pedestrian. An errant husband. Wife thinks he’s seeing someone else … which he might be, although quite what they’re doing in Grand Cayman—’ He broke off, realising he had already said too much. ‘I really ought to be going …’ he muttered.

‘When I asked you if you were his half-brother, you didn’t seem sure.’

‘Well, I know who he is. And I know who I am. But I’m trying to think. Half-brother is when one of your parents remarries, isn’t it? That never happened.’

‘You’re not blood relatives.’ They had no physical similarity.

‘That’s right.’

‘But you have the same surname?’ In his own way, Roland was as infuriating as Hawthorne. He didn’t want to tell me anything. The only difference was, he was unable to stop himself. ‘Are you adopted?’ I asked. It was the only possible explanation.

‘I’m not! Heavens, no!’ He let out a snuffle of laughter.

‘So he is?’

Roland was immediately serious again. ‘It’s quite private, you know. He doesn’t really like to talk about it.’

‘Your parents adopted him.’

The two people in the photograph. The police constable and his formally dressed wife. It didn’t surprise me at all that Hawthorne had been adopted. It put everything I knew about him – right down to the Airfix models – in perspective. So why had he called Roland his half-brother? I suppose he didn’t want to give too much away.

‘That’s right. I don’t really think of him as an adoptive brother, though. I’d say we’re closer than that. He’s a marvellous man. We’ve known each other all our lives.’

‘What happened to his own parents?’ Roland was squirming, his coffee forgotten. I could see him eyeing the door, planning his escape. ‘I think Hawthorne mentioned they lived in Reeth?’ I was lying. Hawthorne had said nothing of the sort. I was fishing.

Roland took the bait. ‘In Yorkshire. Yes.’

‘And they died?’

‘If they hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have needed adopting.’

‘That’s true, of course. It was very sad.’

‘A terrible business.’

‘How did they die?’

It was one question too many and I’d asked it too directly. I saw his eyelids come down like shutters. ‘I really can’t talk about it.’ He got to his feet. ‘Actually, I’d best be off. A great pleasure to meet you, Anthony. Daniel’s told me a lot about you. Perhaps you can tell him I looked in.’

But there was no need. Just then the door opened and Hawthorne was there, looking suspiciously from Roland to me. Then he relaxed. ‘Roland!’ he said. He was more friendly as he greeted his adoptive brother.

‘Oh – hello, Daniel. Everything all right?’ He picked up the envelope. ‘Morton asked me to drop this in for you. The Barraclough file.’

Hawthorne took it. ‘You met Tony, then.’

‘Yes. He just introduced himself. I was rather surprised to find him here.’

‘He’s hiding from the police.’

‘Oh. That would explain it, then.’

‘You stopping for a coffee?’

‘Just had one, thanks all the same. Best be on my way!’ He turned to me. ‘I may pop in and see your play next week. Mindgame. It looks interesting.’

‘It may not be on,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Oh. That’s a shame. Well, goodbye!’

He left. Hawthorne and I were alone. ‘Who’s Morton?’ I asked, casually. Hawthorne didn’t reply. He wasn’t showing any emotion, but I thought he might be angry. ‘I didn’t let Roland in,’ I said. ‘He had a key.’

‘You been all right on your own?’

‘Yes. Thank you for the croissants. And the Coco Pops.’

He didn’t know how long Roland had been here. He didn’t know that we’d been talking about him. I’d left no trace of my visit to his study. I saw him glance at the kitchen table with the coffee cups and the newspaper spread open on the surface. He decided to let it go. ‘We should make a move,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘The Vaudeville Theatre.’

I’m not sure what it was about the way he said that, but suddenly I knew. ‘Have you worked out who killed Harriet Throsby?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘That’s right, mate. They’re waiting for us there.’