‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That thought never crossed my mind.’
‘Well, it crossed mine. He’s got a bit of a reputation for this sort of thing.’
‘He would never kill anyone.’
‘We looked at CCTV footage, but that was a waste of time. Lots of people going in and out of the reception area, but these days it’s all baseball caps, sunglasses and hoodies. Anyway, if someone did want to sneak into the room, they could have got in through the service area and up the backstairs. Security at the hotel was pathetic. You might like to know that we pulled Hawthorne in and we talked to him at length. Of course he played wide-eyed and innocent. But there was no one who could tell us where he was when the supposed accident happened. Home alone, he said. Strange that he didn’t make or receive any calls either. Total radio silence. He said he was assembling an Airfix Supermarine Spitfire Mark One. Makes you wonder what sort of man spends an entire day on his own with a model kit.’
‘I refuse to believe he went anywhere near Adam Strauss.’
‘You can believe what you like. But he’d still concluded, against all the evidence, that Adam Strauss was a killer, and given his past record, it’s hardly a surprise that he decided to take things into his own hands . . .’
‘I think you should leave him alone.’
‘You leave me alone and that’ll make us quits.’
He opened the book I had given him and twisted it round for me to sign. ‘My boy’s name is Nadeem,’ he said.
I dedicated the book and he closed it without looking at what I’d written.
‘Are you still interested in John Dudley?’ he asked, almost as an afterthought.
‘Very much so. Can you tell me anything about him?’
Khan nodded. ‘In a way, he and Hawthorne were made for each other. He’s a sad act – a bright, up-and-coming DC down in Bristol. A lot of people spoke very highly of him. But it all went wrong when his fiancée was killed in an accident. It happened just before Christmas. The driver was a man called Terence Stagg. He was the bar manager at a hotel in Cardiff and not a nice piece of work. He knocked her down on the way to work. The thing is, though, he was on his mobile at the time.’
‘Is he in jail?’
‘He should have got ten to twelve years, but he had smart lawyers and they managed to get him off scot-free. They couldn’t prove he was speeding. He was seen holding the phone, but he claimed he was using it hands-free. And one of the street lights was broken – that was the key to the defence. Anyway, it was enough. He walked away without even paying a fine.
‘These things happen from time to time and you have to live with them, but it didn’t work out that way. Stagg had some mates meet him outside the court and they were all having a laugh, celebrating his release. One of them had even brought a bottle of champagne. Dudley came out and saw them and went berserk. Punched the lights out of one of them and put Stagg in hospital with a broken jaw. He was lucky not to get prosecuted himself, but his work went to pieces after that. He started drinking. There were a couple of other incidents and he was out of the force within a year. He’s spent the last four years working as a security guard . . . something like that. Bit pathetic, really.’
Khan took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He laid it on the table in front of me.
‘Anyway, I managed to track him down for you. This is where he lives – not so far from here. If you visit him, don’t say you got this from me.’
He walked away. I opened the piece of paper and glanced at the address. I recognised it immediately. I knew exactly where it was. I should have known all along.
3
Nineteen B, River Court.
Another address with a river in the name – but this was a building I had been to many times. Hawthorne lived here on the twelfth floor and now it turned out that Dudley had a flat on the first. Had Hawthorne arranged it for him or did he have Morton to thank for his accommodation? I would have been really interested to know just how many of the flats belonged to Fenchurch International and what other refugees, criminals or aliens of one sort or another they had hiding out here.
As I arrived at the front door, I was in two minds. Who should I call on: Hawthorne or his former assistant? It was a decision easily made. Neither of them wanted to see me, but there was more chance that Dudley would open the door. What did he have to lose?
I rang the bell.
Silence.
Then . . .
‘Hello?’ It was quite something to hear his voice. A lot of writers say that their characters talk to them but very few of them mean it literally.
‘John Dudley?’
‘Yes.’
I told him who I was. ‘I work with Hawthorne,’ I explained. ‘Can I come in?’
There was another long pause and I wondered whether he was going to ignore me. He might be calling Hawthorne. He might have gone out a back way. Then I heard a buzzing sound. I pushed the door and it opened. He had let me in.
I walked up to the first floor. Dudley was waiting for me outside an open door, about halfway down a corridor that was identical to Hawthorne’s: the same neutral colours and discreet lights. Everything was very quiet. I walked up to him.
‘Does Hawthorne know you’re here?’ he asked.
It was interesting that this should be his first question. ‘No,’ I said.
‘Probably just as well. Did Detective Superintendent Khan give you my address?’
How did he even know we’d met? I decided to tell him the truth. ‘Yes. I gave him a signed book.’
‘I’m surprised he’s so cheap.’ He examined me for a few moments. Then he came to a decision. ‘Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in.’
I walked into a flat that was as empty as Hawthorne’s – but for a different reason. There were three suitcases by the door, a pile of cardboard boxes over by the window, the sort removal men use to pack up your life. A single plate, a knife and a fork sat beside the sink in the open-plan kitchen. The furniture had been reduced to the bare necessities. This wasn’t how he always lived. He was leaving.
‘You’ve just caught me,’ he said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘The Cayman Islands. Tomorrow.’
That made me think of Lady Barraclough. ‘Will you be gone for long?’ I asked.
‘It may be a one-way ticket.’ I felt him examining me, although his face gave nothing away. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked.
‘That would be nice. Thank you.’
He opened a cupboard that contained a jar of instant coffee, two mugs, a bag of sugar. He put the kettle on and took a carton of milk out of the fridge. And all the time I watched him with the uncanny feeling that in a strange way I was watching myself. I had taken his place! And looking at his brown eyes, his dark – definitely lank – hair, it occurred to me that in some ways he looked rather like me, although I was older and perhaps more smartly dressed. Neither of us spoke while he made the coffee. Maybe he was waiting for me to go first.
‘You know I’m writing about Hawthorne,’ I said as he sat down.
‘I’ve read the first two books,’ he said. ‘I hear they’ve done quite well.’
I got a faint sense of disapproval. ‘I feel I’ve stepped into your shoes,’ I suggested.
‘I don’t agree.’ Dudley added three teaspoons of sugar to his coffee. ‘You’re writing about him. I worked for him. I’d say we had very different roles.’
‘Did he tell you that I’m writing about Riverview Close?’
Dudley paused, mid-stir. ‘No. I heard about that – but not from him.’
‘Then who?’