‘But Tom blamed himself. That’s the sort of man he is. And that’s why he lost his temper and may have said some stupid things to Giles Kenworthy. We all say stupid things from time to time, things we don’t mean. The idea that he crept out, stole a crossbow and put a bolt into him is out of the question. You don’t know Tom! Anyway, it’s impossible. He was here all night in bed, next to me, so if you’ve got him on your list of suspects, you’ll have to add me to it too.’
She took another look at her watch.
‘And now I really have to go.’
‘Just one last thing,’ Hawthorne said. ‘If your husband didn’t kill Giles Kenworthy, who do you think did?’
‘How can I possibly answer that?’
‘The police seem to think that it may have been one of the residents living in Riverview Close,’ Dudley chipped in. ‘You probably know them as well as anyone.’
‘I know them well enough to know that none of them would be capable of such a thing.’
‘You’d be surprised who’s capable of murder, Mrs Beresford,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Is there someone you’re trying to protect?’
Her eyes flared. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘You live with these people. Maybe you’ve seen something. I understand! You want to play nice neighbours. But you all hated Giles Kenworthy.’
‘I didn’t hate him.’
‘There was something about a dog . . .’
Gemma looked scornful. ‘That was dreadful. Poor May and Phyllis! Their dog fell into the well and they blamed him. But they’re both in their eighties. They’re completely harmless! I certainly can’t see them creeping around with a crossbow in the middle of the night.’
‘Did you ever hear anyone else talking about killing Giles Kenworthy, Mrs Beresford?’ Dudley asked.
For just a brief moment, Gemma was unsure of herself. ‘No. Of course not. When would anyone ever say something like that? I never heard anything!’ She stopped herself. ‘You won’t turn me against my neighbours,’ she went on. ‘Just as you’ll never turn them against Tom and me.’
‘Is that what you’ve all agreed?’
‘It’s how we are.’
She stood up, signalling that she wanted Hawthorne and Dudley to leave.
‘I like the jewellery,’ Dudley said. ‘Is that a snake around your neck?’
‘As a matter of fact, I designed it. I have a jewellery business. And it’s part of my Rare Poison collection.’
‘Sounds unusual.’
‘The necklace is shaped like the butterfly viper that lives in Central Africa. The creature is really quite wonderful with its brilliant blue-green markings and bright red triangles. It’s also venomous. The earrings are inspired by the webs of the orb-weaver spider from Madagascar, which turn gold in sunlight. I’m exploring the correlation between beauty and death in nature.’
‘They look lovely but they kill you,’ Hawthorne said.
Gemma Beresford smiled for the first time. ‘Exactly.’
6
‘Well, she was nice,’ Dudley said as they watched Gemma Beresford drive out of the close, on her way to her children’s playgroup.
‘Interesting woman,’ Hawthorne agreed. ‘What’s she hiding?’
Dudley raised his eyebrows. ‘The truth? She’d certainly heard someone talking about the death of Mr Kenworthy. Before it happened.’
There were fewer police around, but this was the second day of their inquiry and they had things wrapped up – quite literally in the case of the forensic teams, who were carrying out the last pieces of evidence concealed in white plastic. Everything else would have gone the day before: clothing, computers, documents and files, anything that might have a story to tell. Hawthorne and Dudley had both been in this world once, following the procedures set out in Blackstone’s Police Investigators’ Manual, volumes 1–4. Now, for different reasons, they had been cast adrift, unnoticed on the edge of the crime scene.
Dudley watched the slightly listless activity in silence. With the afternoon sun shining and everything so perfect, surrounded by designer houses with their stock-brick chimneys, Dutch gables and flowering jasmine, there was an unreality to the scene.
‘Look at them,’ he muttered. ‘This has got to be the unlikeliest place in the world for a murder. When you think about it, the worst crime you could imagine happening here would be someone borrowing someone else’s lawnmower without asking permission.’
Detective Superintendent Khan appeared, coming out of the long, narrow building that stretched across the bottom end of the close. He was accompanied by a man who was supporting himself on a walking stick, limping badly. The man, dressed rather too warmly for the summer weather, was short, neatly bearded, vaguely professorial, with thinning hair and spectacles. He seemed unusually relaxed, as if the two of them had been discussing the cricket season rather than the violent death of a local resident. Khan waved them over.
‘This is Daniel Hawthorne and John Dudley,’ he said, once they’d arrived. ‘They’re colleagues of mine. Helping us with our inquiries.’ He must have had a successful morning, Hawthorne thought. He was almost friendly. ‘How’s it going?’ Khan asked.
‘Swimmingly,’ Dudley said.
Khan scowled. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Adam Strauss. He lives in The Stables. He knows quite a bit about the neighbourhood.’
‘You played a brilliant game against Kramnik in the World Chess Championship last year,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Move seventy-two. A rook manoeuvre when you were two pawns down. Nobody could have seen that coming.’
Strauss beamed. ‘In a game at that level, you have to look ten moves ahead, Mr Hawthorne. Kramnik helped me, sacrificing his bishop on move sixty. Do you play chess?’
‘No. But my son’s crazy about it. He’s only fourteen, but he likes to read magazines with me.’
‘Maybe you have a chess prodigy on your hands.’
‘I doubt it. It’s chess one week, BMX bikes the next.’
Khan had been listening to this conversation with a sense of disbelief. He didn’t even know Hawthorne had a child. ‘Mr Hawthorne is asking some follow-up questions,’ he interrupted. ‘You’ve been very helpful to me, Mr Strauss, but would you mind having a chat with him too? A second perspective always helps.’
Strauss didn’t hesitate. ‘It would be my pleasure, Mr Hawthorne. Come in and have a cup of tea. I’m sure my wife will be delighted to meet you.’
Leaning heavily on his stick, he led the way into the main room, which stretched the full length of the building. A woman was sitting demurely on a sofa with an iPad on her lap, but she stood up as they came in. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress and leather thong sandals, a necklace of black pearls and gold clip-on earrings. Khan had already told Hawthorne that she was Hong Kong Chinese. He would have been less able to describe the steeliness behind her smile, the way she quickly weighed up the new visitors and came to a conclusion that she seemed determined to keep to herself.