The Twist of a Knife

5 Daggers Drawn

I knew Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw very well. When Hawthorne was investigating the murder of the Hampstead divorce lawyer Richard Pryce, she had been the officer in charge of the case and she hadn’t been amused when he arrived at the truth ahead of her. That wasn’t the worst of it. I had inadvertently given her false information that had led her to arrest the wrong man – much to Hawthorne’s amusement. He’d even suggested she might lose her job. Well, that clearly hadn’t happened. Here she was, waiting to come in, with her equally unfriendly assistant, Detective Constable Derek Mills, standing beside her, both of them gazing at me like hyenas who have stumbled across a fresh carcass. I knew I was in trouble even if I had no idea what that trouble might be.

‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, innocently.

‘We’d prefer to talk inside, if you don’t mind.’

‘Do I have to let you in?’

Cara exchanged a knowing glance with her deputy. ‘We could throw you in the car and take you down to the police station if you prefer,’ she said.

This might not have been true, but I decided not to argue. I’ve always had a fear of authority figures that goes back to my schooldays, and Cara somehow encapsulated the maths, French and history teachers who had terrified me when I was eight. She was a round, solid woman with an overbearing presence defined by muscular arms and broad shoulders that would have served her well in a scrum. She wore heavy plastic spectacles that seemed to be sinking into the bridge of her nose. In fact, her whole face had a soft, pliable quality as if she had been created out of playdough. Her eyes, popped in as a last-minute afterthought, were small and hostile. What I most remembered about her was her jet-black hair, which didn’t look real. The strands swept down on both sides like miniature curtains that had been pulled back to give a view of her face. She was wearing a well-tailored, dark olive suit and a roll-neck jersey. No jewellery.

She elbowed her way past me and into the entrance hall, followed by Mills, who could have concealed himself in her shadow. He was smaller and lighter than her, with thinning hair that he never bothered to brush. He was wearing the same leather jacket as the first time I’d met him, though with more food stains. He eyed me briefly as he came in, making sure that I had registered his complete contempt for me, for my home, for the entire neighbourhood.

‘Which floor?’ Cara asked.

‘I’m at the top,’ I said.

She looked at the stairs. ‘Do you have a lift?’

‘I’m afraid it’s out of order.’ This wasn’t true, but the lift was tiny and slow and I couldn’t bear to think of myself trapped inside it with the two of them.

We walked up and into the main living room, with the seating area on one side, a dining table in the middle and a kitchen at the back. The flat had been a meat warehouse a hundred years before and it still had an industrial feel with high ceilings, exposed brickwork and lots of empty space. I saw Cara taking in her surroundings and felt strangely violated, having her here. She hadn’t been invited. She had invaded.

‘Would you like to sit down?’ I gestured at the table. I wanted this to be businesslike and the sofas didn’t feel appropriate. Nor did I offer her coffee or tea. I still had no idea what had brought her here but I wanted her and her assistant out as soon as possible.

They sat at the table. ‘Nice place,’ Cara said.

‘Thank you.’ There was a long silence. I was standing by the grand piano – which I had inherited from my mother and which I played every day – and I realised that Cara was waiting for me to join them. I walked over and took my place at the end of the table, as far away from them as I could. ‘So …?’ I asked.

‘I wonder if you could tell us where you were last night?’

It was a line I would never have used in a television drama – it’s such an old chestnut – but that was really how she began.

‘I was in bed,’ I said.

‘Before that.’

‘I was at the theatre.’

Mills had already been scribbling my answers down in his notebook, but somehow he picked up the fact that he’d been given his cue. ‘It was the first night of your play,’ he said.

‘If you knew that, why did you ask me?’

He ignored me. ‘Mindgame at the Vaudeville,’ he went on. He twitched his moustache without seeming to move his upper lip. It was a neat trick. ‘It hasn’t had very good reviews,’ he went on. ‘The Guardian said it was pretentious.’

‘I don’t look at the reviews,’ I muttered.

‘The critic from the Daily Mail said it was the worst play he’d ever seen. The Times wasn’t sure. Variety said: “It’s so goofy it’s almost fun.”’ He looked at me sadly. ‘Almost,’ he repeated.

I felt the familiar sickness in my stomach. ‘It’s very nice of you to come and tell me what the newspapers think of my play,’ I said. ‘But wouldn’t you say that’s a slight waste of police time?’

‘And Harriet Throsby was the worst of all,’ Mills went on. ‘She really tore it apart. I imagine they’ll publish her review posthumously in the Sunday Times. Maybe they’ll frame it in a black border. That would be a nice touch, wouldn’t you say, ma’am?’

These last words had been addressed to Grunshaw. She nodded slowly.

‘Sort of a … final curtain,’ Mills added.

‘What are you saying?’ I cut in. ‘Is Harriet Throsby …?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not because I was shocked. It just seemed so unlikely.

‘Did you meet her at the theatre?’ Cara asked, ignoring my question.

‘Yes, briefly.’

‘And did you read her review?’

‘Yes. We all did. It was on Sky’s phone.’

‘That would be Sky Palmer.’

‘She played Nurse Plimpton.’ I wondered why I’d used the past tense. Perhaps it was because I knew that my play was dead too.

‘There was a party backstage at the theatre, is that right? Can you remember what time you left?’

Suddenly I was angry. ‘Look, I’m not going to answer any of your questions until you tell me what’s happened. Has Harriet Throsby been murdered?’

Cara looked shocked. ‘Whatever gave you that idea, Anthony?’

‘You said she’d written her last review. You said it would be published posthumously.’

‘She could have had a heart attack. She could have fallen under a bus.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

Cara conceded the point. She let Mills tell me. ‘Harriet Throsby was stabbed to death in her home sometime around ten o’clock this morning. Can you tell us where you were at that time?’

‘I was in bed.’

‘Still in bed?’ Mills sounded disbelieving.

‘I went to bed late. I got up late.’

‘Could your wife verify that?’

For a moment I was confused as various thoughts crossed my mind at the same time. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘She’d gone to work.’

‘When did she go to work?’

‘I can’t tell you that. I was asleep.’

Mills wrote down my answer, presumably word for word. He underlined something not once but twice. He was making it clear that he doubted what I was saying.

Cara took over. ‘Do you own an ornamental dagger?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. She had caught me unawares and looked at me sadly, as if I had just given myself away. She was waiting for me to continue and I realised the mistake I had made. ‘Actually, I do have a sort of dagger,’ I said. ‘Ahmet gave it to me last night.’

‘You’re referring to Ahmet Yurdakul, the producer of Mindgame?’

‘Yes. It was a first-night present. He gave one to everyone.’ I stared. ‘Are you saying that Harriet was stabbed with one of the daggers?’

Again, I received no answer. That was Cara’s technique. She wanted me to know that she was in control. ‘Can you describe the dagger?’ she asked, sweetly.

‘All the daggers were the same. They were silver. About this long …’ I showed her with two fingers. ‘And there were some words on the blade. “Is this a dagger …?”’

‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious,’ Mills said.

‘It’s a quotation from Macbeth,’ I explained. ‘“Is this a dagger which I see before me?” Ahmet had produced the play in a castle somewhere in Yorkshire and he had some left over.’

‘I don’t suppose your dagger had any distinguishing features?’ Cara asked. She sounded completely reasonable and it should have warned me that she had constructed a trap into which she was gently leading me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I explained to you. The knives were identical.’ Then I remembered. ‘Actually, there was one thing. My dagger had a sort of decoration on the hilt. A round disc. It was loose.’

Cara raised her eyebrows as if to say that this was what she had been expecting. ‘And where is your dagger?’ she asked.

I was ahead of her. From the moment she’d mentioned the dagger, I’d been wondering what I’d done with the bloody thing. I remembered opening the package at the stage door and talking about it with Sky Palmer. I’d certainly had it with me when I went into the green room. But after that, things were a bit hazier. I’d had a lot to drink, both at the formal cast party and afterwards. Then there had been the bombshell of the review and the whole evening had disintegrated. All I’d wanted to do was go home. I was sure, though, that I’d brought it with me. I could see it in my hand as I walked the short distance up the Strand and across to Clerkenwell. What could I have done with it when I got in? I tried to reconstruct my movements. I hadn’t wanted to disturb Jill, so I’d used the downstairs bathroom. I’d left my clothes on the piano.

But I had gone – briefly – into my office on the top floor! I remembered that now. I’d wanted to check my emails to see if any of my friends had said anything nice about the play. And I’d put the dagger on my desk beside the computer. I must have done.

‘It’s upstairs,’ I said.

‘Would you mind getting it for us?’

‘Not at all. I’ll just be a minute.’

I didn’t like leaving them there. I didn’t want them going through my things. But I had to get this over with and so I ran up to my office, which was right at the top of the flat, and went straight to the computer. And the knife, of course, wasn’t there.

It’s been the same ever since I turned fifty. I spend hours every day looking for glasses, my wallet, my phone, the letter I need, the shopping list I’ve been given. I hate the idea of getting old, but that’s how I feel when I go into a room to get something and forget what it is I’ve come for before I can even begin looking. And then there are the false memories. The pen that I definitely put in my pocket. The watch that I’m sure I left by the bath. Except I didn’t – and they’re not there. That was how it was now. I quickly searched my office but I knew that I wouldn’t find the dagger. It seemed likely that I’d never brought it home in the first place.

I went back down.

‘It’s not there,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I must have left it in the theatre.’

‘We’ve been to the theatre,’ Cara said, barely able to keep the triumph out of her voice. ‘It wasn’t there.’

‘Well, I’m not sure what I’ve done with it.’ I forced a smile to my lips, fighting the strange sensation that I was acting a part, that nothing I said or did was real any more. I had this extraordinary urge to confess, to say ‘I killed her!’ even though I hadn’t.

‘Perhaps we can help you,’ Cara said. She nodded at Mills.

‘We retrieved an ornamental dagger from the home of the deceased,’ Mills intoned, effortlessly slipping into the stilted language so loved by police officers. ‘And we can confirm it has a medallion with a silver design on the grip. That said medallion has come loose.’

‘Well, the daggers were cheap,’ I exclaimed. ‘They were all faulty!’

Cara shook her head. ‘We’ve already spoken to the other recipients,’ she told me. ‘Ewan Lloyd, the director. Sky Palmer, Jordan Williams and Tirian Kirke in the cast. They all have their daggers and we’ve been able to examine them. None of them have any loose parts. We’ve also contacted Ahmet Yurdakul, who assures us that there were only the five daggers given out at the London premiere.’

‘The dagger that killed Harriet Throsby is your dagger,’ Mills said.

‘No. That’s not possible.’

‘Then where is it?’

‘I just told you. I was very tired last night. It was late. I must have forgotten it and left it behind at the theatre.’

‘That’s not what you said a moment ago.’ Cara Grunshaw was merciless. ‘You told us it was upstairs.’

‘I thought it was.’

‘You lied to us.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Get out of my flat. I’m not talking to you without a lawyer.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, Anthony.’ Cara was enjoying herself. It was always possible that she really believed I had killed Harriet Throsby, but that didn’t matter. The identity of the killer was almost irrelevant. This was revenge for what I had done to her, feeding her the false story that had led to her humiliation.

She left the honours to Mills.

‘Anthony Horowitz,’ he said, ‘I am now arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Harriet Throsby at 27 Palgrove Gardens, W9. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if …’

You must know the words. I’ve written them enough times in enough books and police dramas. But I zoned out as he pronounced the formal police caution. I saw his lips moving but I didn’t hear anything. I was being arrested! No! That was insane.

And what was it, echoing in my brain, ricocheting around my skull, the one thing that could save me, the one person I needed to see right now?

Hawthorne.