‘Mr Fairchild?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Yes. Is this about the murder?’ He had a high-pitched voice that not only questioned everything but seemed to be suspicious of it too. ‘I’ve already told the police everything I know.’
‘We’re helping the police and I’d be very grateful if you could spare us a couple of minutes of your time.’
‘I’ll talk to you but I won’t invite you in, if you don’t mind. Rufus doesn’t like strangers.’
Rufus, I assumed, was the dog.
‘Apparently you saw someone heading towards Heron’s Wake last night.’
‘Heron’s Wake?’
‘Richard Pryce’s house.’
‘Yes. I know where he lives.’ The old man cleared his throat. ‘He came off the Heath just as I got home. I always take Rufus out after supper and before I go to bed. We don’t walk very far. Just down to the bowling club and back. It gives him a chance to do his business . . . you know.’
‘So what did you see?’
‘I didn’t see very much at all. It was dark. There was someone coming out of the Heath, holding a torch.’
‘A torch?’ Hawthorne was surprised.
‘Can’t you hear me? I just said. He was holding a torch. That was the main reason why I couldn’t see him. The light got in my eyes. He was quite a distance away.’ He pointed in the direction of the gate, on the other side of Heron’s Wake. ‘I did think it a bit odd, someone walking on their own at that time of night. No animal or anything like that. At least, I didn’t see one.’
‘Are you sure it was a man?’
‘What? I don’t know if it was a man or a woman. I couldn’t see because of the torch.’
‘You just said he was holding a torch!’ Hawthorne was annoyed. I could tell from his eyes and from the way his lips had narrowed until they were almost a straight line. To be fair, there was something extremely irritating about Henry Fairchild. When DI Grunshaw had described him as ‘charming’ she was most definitely being sarcastic.
‘I don’t know if it was a man or a woman and there’s no point asking me what colour he was or anything like that. I’ve already told the police. I noticed him just as I was going into the house and I didn’t think anything more about it until I woke up and saw that all hell had broken loose with murder and the police and everything else.’
‘You didn’t hear anything?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Fairchild cupped a hand to his ear, inadvertently answering Hawthorne’s question.
‘Never mind. Just one last thing. Are you sure about the time?’
Fairchild looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten to three.’
‘No.’ Hawthorne raised his voice. ‘I’m asking you about the time when you went out with your dog. You said it was about five to eight. Are you sure about that?’
‘It was definitely five to eight. I always go out after supper and I didn’t want to miss the beginning of Antiques Roadshow so I looked at my watch just as I reached the door.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fairchild.’
‘I suppose they’ll have to sell the house now. I must say, I don’t like all this disturbance . . . all these people here and everything. I like peace and quiet.’
Somewhere behind him, Rufus was still barking his head off.
‘Yes. It was very inconsiderate of Mr Pryce getting himself murdered,’ Hawthorne agreed, at his most poisonous.
We walked back down the path. I thought we’d get back into the taxi but we continued, once again passing in front of Heron’s Wake. ‘I’ll tell you something that doesn’t make any sense,’ Hawthorne muttered, as we made our way. ‘Let’s assume that Fairchild was telling the truth, even if he is deaf and half blind too. It was a full moon last night.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes.’ Hawthorne looked around him. ‘It probably gets quite dark down here, but not that dark. And Fairchild wasn’t carrying a torch – at least, he didn’t say he was. So why did this mysterious visitor need one?’
‘He didn’t know the houses,’ I said. ‘He had to read the names!’
Hawthorne considered. ‘Well, that’s one theory, Tony.’
We reached the gate and the entrance to Hampstead Heath. This was where the mysterious visitor had appeared. Ahead of us, the grass stretched into the distance with a few walkers braving the damp October air. I’d had a dog myself for thirteen years and had occasionally come this way. Kenwood was over to the left or you could continue straight ahead up to Hampstead Lane, the main road that connected Hampstead and Highgate. It had rained heavily in the past month and there was a large puddle blocking our way. Whoever had come through with their torch would have had to tread carefully and I was surprised that they hadn’t left muddy footsteps at Pryce’s house. Perhaps they had taken off their shoes?
I wasn’t sure if Hawthorne had come to the same conclusion. He was deep in thought and clearly had no intention of sharing any of it with me.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘That’s it for today. You can drop me off at Hampstead station. We can meet tomorrow at Masefield Pryce Turnbull. That seems the best place to start . . . at least until Akira Anno turns up, and my guess is that Grunshaw will want to speak to her straight off the mark.’
‘Actually, I’ve got a meeting at the Old Vic,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I pick you up at your place around ten o’clock? Then we can go to Masefield Pryce Turnbull together.’
Hawthorne considered it. I could see he didn’t like the idea but then he relented and shrugged. ‘All right. Whatever . . .’
We walked back to the taxi. I noticed that the charge had crossed the £60 barrier. As usual, I would have to pay. When it came to cabs and coffees, Hawthorne was always slow reaching for his wallet. But I didn’t mind. The truth was that, to my surprise, I was already hooked. What was the significance of the numbers on the wall? Why had Stephen Spencer been lying? I genuinely wanted to know who had killed Richard Pryce and why.
So far I had missed three clues and misconstrued two more.
Things were only going to get worse.
5 Masefield Pryce Turnbull
The Old Vic has a special place in my affections. It’s the most beautiful theatre in London and I’ve been going there since I was a teenager. Even now, I can remember queuing up to get standing tickets to see Maggie Smith in Hedda Gabler, Laurence Olivier in The Party and Diana Rigg in the world premiere of Tom Stoppard’s Jumpers. Long before I published my first children’s book, I wanted to write plays. I found the draw of the theatre quite magical and when I was asked to join its board, I accepted at once – even though I didn’t know anything very much about finance, health and safety or charity law.
But I didn’t have a meeting there on that Tuesday morning. I had said that to give myself an excuse to drop in on River Court, which was where Hawthorne lived and which was only ten minutes from my own flat, on the other side of Blackfriars Bridge.
I wanted to know more about Hawthorne. I wanted to know why he had destroyed his career by pushing a paedophile down a flight of stairs and how he had come to be living on his own in an empty flat, caretaking for the owners who were in Singapore. He had told me that he had a half-brother who was an estate agent but it still seemed an unusual arrangement. I also knew that he was separated from his wife and that she lived in Gants Hill with an eleven-year-old son who didn’t read my books. Apparently, the two of them were still seeing each other from time to time. Hawthorne had two hobbies. He liked constructing Airfix models, mainly from the Second World War. If this wasn’t unlikely enough, he was also a member of a book group.