‘But you’re not leaving the country?’
‘No.’
‘Then we’ll be in touch with you soon.’
It might have ended there but suddenly I noticed that Akira Anno was staring at me. I turned away, trying to make myself invisible, but it was already too late. I actually saw the moment when she remembered who I was.
‘I know you!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve met before.’
I said nothing. I was extremely uncomfortable but neither Hawthorne nor Grunshaw chose to help me out.
‘You’re a writer!’ She was not using the word as a compliment. She stood up, her hands resting on the table, balled into fists. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. Her accent, which had been Japanese American, now veered further towards Japanese.
‘Well . . .’ I began, still hoping Hawthorne would step in.
‘Why is he here?’ She turned vengefully on DI Grunshaw.
Grunshaw shrugged. ‘I didn’t invite him. He’s writing a book.’
‘A book about me? He’s putting me in his book? I don’t want to be in his fucking book! I want my lawyer in this room. If he puts me in his book, I’ll fucking sue him.’
‘I think you’d better go,’ Grunshaw said to me.
‘This is a fucking outrage! I don’t give him permission. Do you hear me? If he writes about me, I’ll kill him!’
She was screaming, her voice not exactly loud but high-pitched, her entire body shaking as Hawthorne and I excused ourselves and hurried out as quickly as we could. I had never seen anyone so angry and at that moment it was easy to imagine her picking up the bottle of wine, smashing it over Richard Pryce’s head and then using the jagged end to make mincemeat of his neck.
If there had been another bottle handy, I had no doubt at all she would have done the same to me.
7 His Story
‘I should never have married her!’ Adrian Lockwood threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘It was one of my biggest mistakes, and God knows, I’ve made plenty of those. Mind you, she was a very sexy little piece . . . bloody attractive and the toast of the town. Everyone was talking about her. It was only when we got back from the honeymoon that I discovered she was totally self-obsessed and boring! Actually, I think I may have spotted it on the plane out now I come to think of it. I was on my third G and T before we were at the end of the runway – and I needed it.
‘I really should have seen her for what she was from the start, but, you see, she was an intellectual. I never went to university myself and I’ve always had a respect for people who are good with words. But with her . . . well, there was no stopping her. It was all words, words, words, and I’m not just talking about her writing habits, although God knows she would lock herself away for hours at a time even when she was writing those bloody poems of hers. They only had three lines but I’d hear her pounding away at the computer from dawn to dusk.’
‘Did you take an interest in her work?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘I’m not sure “interest” is the word I’d use. I read one of her novels but I’m more of a John Grisham fan myself and I couldn’t really see the point of it. She gave me a copy of that haiku book of hers but by then things were already going off the rails. She signed it for me so maybe I can get a couple of quid for it on eBay. I’ve certainly got no other use for the bloody thing.’
Adrian Lockwood was the sort of man who was hard to dislike although he was doing everything he could to help us on our way. Lying back on the sofa with one denim-covered leg crossed over the other, a shining, black leather Chelsea boot dangling in front of us and his arms spread over the cushions, he looked every inch the shark he undoubtedly was. He had mean eyes that lurked behind sunglasses similar to those of his ex-wife, although in his case they were Porsche or Jaguar: racing-car chic. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail that didn’t suit him at all – he was well into his fifties – and he had a deep tan that must have come from his yacht in the Camargue. As well as designer jeans, he was wearing a dark blue velvet jacket that showed just a few flecks of dandruff on the shoulders, and a soft white shirt, open at the neck.
We had met him that same afternoon at his home in Edwardes Square, a twenty-minute walk from the police station through Holland Park. It was one of a terrace of houses that were not just similar but seemed to have been purposely designed to have no variations – the same proportions, the same arched doorways, the same black railings and, almost certainly, the same class of multimillionaire owners. We could tell which one was his from the car that was parked outside: a silver Lexus sedan with the registration number RJL 1.
Lockwood was on his own although the house showed signs of a cleaner and maybe even a housekeeper too, with expensive flower arrangements in vases, rigorously hoovered carpets and not a spot of dust to be seen. He had met us at the door, taking Hawthorne’s coat and hanging it on an art deco coat stand with a skull-handled umbrella – Alexander McQueen no less – poking out beneath. From there we had gone past an office and a home cinema and up to the first floor, which consisted of a single large space stretching the entire length of the building and offering views onto the square with its communal garden at the front and the smaller, very ornate, private garden behind.
This was the main living area, with an open-plan kitchen attached. A burst of October sunlight had flooded in, illuminating a thick, oyster-pink carpet, solid, quite traditional furniture, heavy, drooping curtains and a scattering of books on shelves. These included Two Hundred Haikus by Akira Anno, the book he had mentioned. A marble counter separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. The units could have come from one of those companies that manage to put three zeros on even a pedal bin and looked as if they had never been used.
‘This was your second marriage,’ Hawthorne said. He wasn’t impressed by the house or its owner. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, facing Lockwood, his hands clenched below his knees and his whole body tense, as if about to pounce.
‘That’s right.’ He was sober for a moment. ‘As I’m sure you know perfectly well, my first marriage came to a very unhappy end.’
Lockwood’s first wife had been Stephanie Brook, a Coronation Street actress who had reached the finals of Strictly Come Dancing. She had died of a drug overdose while she was on his yacht in Barbados and the tabloid press had been full of gossip about suicide – something he had always denied. I had looked at the stories on my phone before I had got here. Stephanie had been, according to one headline, ‘big, blonde and bubbly’. The opposite of Akira.
‘How did you meet your second wife?’ Hawthorne continued.
‘At Ronnie Scott’s. Someone introduced us.’
‘And you were married . . . ?’
‘On the eighteenth of February 2010, three days after my birthday, as it happened. That was the last happy birthday I was going to have for a while! Westminster registry office and then lunch at the Dorchester for two hundred people. It’s lucky I stipulated no presents or I’d have to send them all back!’ Again, he laughed at his own joke. ‘I have to tell you that when the police told me they were investigating a murder, for one brief, joyous moment I assumed someone must have done her in.’
‘Why is that?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Because she’s horrible, that’s why! She reminds me of a cat I used to have . . . a Siamese. It looked beautiful curled up in front of the fire and it would purr when you reached out to stroke it. But then a minute later, for no reason at all, it could twist round and sink its teeth into your hand. You never knew what was on its bloody mind.’