The Twist of a Knife

26 The Dotted Line

I didn’t see Hawthorne for a while. After everything that had happened, I needed a break – and I also owed Jill an apology for all the upset I’d caused her. We booked a small hotel in the South of France, in a fortified village called Saint-Paul-de-Vence, and spent ten days in the sunshine, walking, swimming, visiting art galleries and drinking pink wine on the edge of a dusty square where the locals gathered to play boules.

Tirian had been arrested – with the inevitable result that Mindgame had closed at once. By then, I just wanted to put the whole thing behind me. I felt very sad. The failure of my play was part of it, but, strangely, it was thinking about Tirian that upset me more. I don’t usually have sympathy with murderers, but he’d never had a chance, chewed up by Trevor Longhurst’s lawyers and spat into a system that wasn’t really designed to help him. I’ve visited many juvenile prisons – or ‘secure centres’, as they are now called – and I’ve always had my doubts about putting young people behind bars, particularly when both the costs and the reoffending rates are so high. It goes without saying that there are children who are a danger to both the public and themselves, and I’ve encountered them too. They were the inspiration for my play A Handbag. But the majority of them are mentally unwell rather than criminal and they need help, not punishment. Whatever the newspapers may say, and despite the title of Harriet’s book, every one of the young offenders I’ve met has been more sad than bad. It seems crazy to me that the prison system educates them until they’re eighteen, but then feeds them into adult jail where any good will be undone. Like Tirian, most of them will come out utterly unprepared for normal life.

I also couldn’t help wondering what it must have been like for him negotiating his new career. He had been more than an actor. Everything about him – his accent, the motorbike, the private-school veneer – had been an act. Poor Wayne Howard. He had spent his adult life trapped in a different sort of prison and only by killing Harriet Throsby had he eventually released himself.

Anyway, I finally got back to London relaxed and refreshed, and although I took care not to walk past the Vaudeville – now ‘dark’, as they say in theatreland – my own life felt as if it had returned to normal. I was still working on my new novel, Moonflower Murders, and I immersed myself in the opening chapters, trying to remember all the clues I had already worked into the structure. It wasn’t easy. How had Jordan Williams met Maureen Bates? What had Lamprey said about Stephen Longhurst and how did the statue fit into the story? No – that was real life. The fictional village of Tawleigh-on-the-Water, the setting of my new novel, refused to let me back in as my head was still too full of the events of two weeks before.

It was while I was sitting at my desk, struggling, that my phone pinged and I found myself reading a text from Hilda Starke, asking me to look in and see her that afternoon. This was a surprise. I didn’t see my agent that often and as far as I knew, there was nothing we couldn’t have discussed over the phone. But she was based just round the corner from the Charing Cross Road and it would be pleasant enough to browse in the two or three second-hand bookshops that remained. I walked over, hoping the fresh air would clear my head.

Hilda’s office was in Greek Street, above an Italian café that had been there for ever. I went through the side door and up a narrow flight of steps that could just as easily have found itself in a haunted house. This was a successful agency with several big-name writers, but it always felt cramped and old-fashioned. My books were not on display in the reception area. A young receptionist behind an antique desk greeted me with a smile.

‘I’m here to see Hilda Starke,’ I told him.

‘And you are?’

She’d only been my agent for four years. I told him my name and he rang through. ‘Yes. She’s expecting you. You know where to find her?’

‘Yes. I think I can find the way.’

As I approached the door at the back of the building, there was a sound that I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard before. Hilda was laughing. I think, occasionally, I’d seen her smile when she was reading the bestseller lists, but she usually focused on whatever business was at hand and left any sense of merriment outside the door. I knocked and went in.

Hilda was not alone. Hawthorne was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, holding a cup of coffee. Both of them were wearing suits and I suddenly felt very scruffy in T-shirt, jeans and trainers. It took me a moment to remember that Hawthorne was now represented by Hilda. It seemed like an age had passed since he’d told me that he had come to an agreement with her. What were the two of them doing here together? And why did they need me?

‘You look well,’ Hilda said. She herself was showing off a luminescent suntan from her recent holiday in Barbados. ‘Have you started your book about Alderney yet?’

‘You know I’m working on Moonflower Murders,’ I told her. I sat down in the other empty chair. ‘Did you see my play?’ I asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I had tickets to the Saturday matinée. I was going to take the whole office, but when we got to the theatre they said it had closed that very day.’ She sniffed. ‘At least we got our money back.’

‘What is this about?’ I asked, a little tetchily.

‘How are you doing, mate?’ Hawthorne looked across at me. He was unusually cheerful too. ‘I was just telling Hilda about the murder of Harriet Throsby.’

‘Yes. You know, for once I actually got it right!’ I hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but it was true. When I’d left his dressing room, I’d named Tirian Kirke as the killer.

‘You didn’t exactly,’ Hawthorne returned. ‘You only thought it was him because he’d refused to do your drama on TV.’

‘Well, I didn’t trust him. I was right about that.’ While I’d been in France, I’d had time to think about what had happened and now I couldn’t stop myself asking, ‘Why did they all gang up on me, Hawthorne? I mean, Jordan said I agreed with him when he was making his threat to kill Harriet. Ewan said the same. Olivia told you I threatened her mother. And Sky Palmer said I’d seen Harriet’s address in the magazine. None of that was true!’

‘Basic psychology, mate. All four of them felt under pressure. Olivia probably blamed herself for nicking her mum’s review and sending it to her girlfriend. Sky felt guilty about reading it out. Ewan was defending Jordan, and Jordan … well, he’d started the whole thing. It was the same for all of them. Deflection! They accused you to stop me accusing them.’

‘There’s something else.’ This had also been on my mind. ‘On the first night of the play, Martin Longhurst was sitting right behind me and I was sure I felt something prick at the back of my neck. All along, I thought he was the one who might have pulled out one of my hairs.’

‘Why didn’t you mention it?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t be sure …’

‘Well, he had nothing to do with it. It was probably first-night nerves.’

‘Or you could have nits,’ Hilda suggested.

‘I don’t have nits,’ I growled.

Hawthorne smiled. ‘Anyway, Tony, it’s all over. And I’ve got to tell you, if it wasn’t for me, you know where you’d be right now.’

‘That’s true.’ I couldn’t deny it. ‘You worked it all out, Hawthorne. You stood by me. I owe you a big vote of thanks.’

He coughed quietly. ‘Actually, you owe me a bit more than that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you hired me. This time, I wasn’t helping the police. You were the client. I put four days into this and Kevin helped too.’ He held up a hand before I could protest. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll do it for mate’s rates. I can give you a ten per cent discount—’

‘Hawthorne! I don’t believe you’re saying this. It’s outrageous.’

‘I don’t see why. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a career any more. I was just talking about that with Hilda.’

‘I don’t think it would have been a good look, being arrested for murdering a critic,’ Hilda agreed.

I stared at Hawthorne. ‘So that’s all there is between us? You just think of me as a client?’

‘You were the one who said you didn’t want to write any more books.’

He let this sink in. Suddenly, I knew where this was heading.

‘I’ve spoken to Penguin Random House,’ Hilda chipped in. ‘They were very saddened by your decision. The Word is Murder has done much better than any of your other books, and you know how keen they are on series. Hawthorne asked me to call them on his behalf – I didn’t want to trouble you while you were away – and I have to say, they’ve made an extremely generous offer.’

‘An offer?’

‘Four more books once you finish A Line to Kill.’ She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a contract. ‘Of course, it’s entirely your decision. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.’

She handed me the document. I read:

Memorandum of Agreement dated 20 April 2018

between Anthony Horowitz (‘Author’), c/o Hilda Starke Limited (‘Agent’) of the one part; and

Penguin Random House (‘Publisher’) of the other part, concerning 4 (four) original works of fiction of 90,000 words each at present entitled:

Hawthorne Investigates (‘Book 4’)

Untitled Hawthorne Book 5 (‘Book 5’)

Untitled Hawthorne Book 6 (‘Book 6’)

Untitled Hawthorne Book 7 (‘Book 7’)

(hereinafter referred to as the ‘Work’, together or individually as the context provides)

Whereby it is mutually agreed as follows:

That was as far as I got. There were half a dozen more pages of legalese. Is there an author in the world who goes through all this stuff and understands it? But that wasn’t the point. I’d already read enough.

‘I am never calling any of my books Hawthorne Investigates!’ I said.

‘It was only a suggestion.’ Hawthorne shrugged. ‘It’ll be easy to write,’ he went on. ‘Not too many suspects. Everyone likes the theatre. And why do you think I gathered everyone on the stage like that? I did that for you, mate. It’s a terrific end – just like Agatha Christie!’

‘You did that for the book?’

‘Just trying to help.’

I stared at the pages. ‘Are you seriously telling me that if I don’t sign this contract, you’re going to charge me hundreds of pounds for solving the crime?’

‘I would never do that!’ Hawthorne placed his hand on his heart. ‘I have too much respect for you, Tony. Anyway, it’s thousands of pounds.’

I turned to Hilda. ‘I thought you were on my side.’

‘I’m representing your best interests,’ Hilda assured me.

‘You were against me writing this series!’

‘Not at all. I was annoyed that you sprang it on me without any discussion, but I can already see that it could be a game changer for you. You being in the books is really unusual. You’ve had a great response to The Word is Murder. Four and a half stars from Goodreads and a terrific review in the Mail on Sunday.’

‘Thank God for critics,’ Hawthorne said.

‘If you want to think about it, that’s fine. But this is a fantastic deal – even splitting the royalties sixty-forty.’

‘Fifty-fifty!’

‘We can negotiate.’

I looked down at the sheets of paper in my lap. I knew I’d been backed into a corner, but, quite honestly, there was a part of me that wanted to be there. It was true that Hawthorne had saved my career. More than that, with every case, I was getting closer to him, finding more of his secrets. Now, as well as Reeth, I had a shadowy organisation, a man called Morton, adoptive parents, Roland Hawthorne. My whole life is spent looking for stories. Was I prepared to give up this one?

I took out a pen and sighed.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Where do I sign?’