We sat there, glaring at each other. Then Hawthorne looked at his watch. ‘We should go downstairs. They’ll be waiting for us.’
‘I’m not your enemy, Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to help you.’
‘Yeah. Well, you’ve been a lot of help so far.’
He walked away. I had drunk less than half of the rum and Coke. I left the rest behind.
16 The Book Group
We took the lift down together and it was very strange because by the time we arrived, Hawthorne was quite back to his old self. It was as if the sliding door had acted like a wipe in one of those old-fashioned feature films, cutting off all the animosity between us and taking us to a new scene where we were friends again. Certainly, as we stepped out on the third floor, the argument had been forgotten. Hawthorne was jaunty, wired up, a little nervous. I knew how protective he was of his private life. He hadn’t really wanted me to come to his book group – presumably he had been cajoled by the other members. At the same time, though, these weren’t close friends I was about to meet. He had once told me that they’d all come together from the local library. Was that true? At least one of them had a flat in the same block as him. Perhaps they all did.
I smelled Indian cooking as we walked down the corridor. There was an open door about halfway along and we stopped outside. Hawthorne undid the single button of his jacket; his one concession to informality.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked.
‘Her name is Lisa Chakraborty.’
‘The last time I came to this building, I met a young man in a wheelchair . . .’
Hawthorne cast a doleful glance in my direction. It was already more than he wanted me to know. ‘That’s her son.’
Kevin Chakraborty. The boy with muscular dystrophy who had made a joke about reaching the top button in the lift.
We went in.
It was surprising how two flats in the same building, both about the same shape and size, could be so very different. Lisa Chakraborty lived in a space that was the opposite of open-plan. An enclosed, L-shaped corridor led almost reluctantly into a living room that was darker and more cluttered, with heavy furniture, wallpaper, chandeliers. The sofas were fat, smothered in cushions, facing each other like old enemies across the low, ornate coffee table that kept them apart. The carpet actually had a swirly pattern, something I hadn’t seen for some time. There were ornaments everywhere: porcelain figures, vases, glass paperweights, Tiffany lamps, different pieces of silverware. The room was as crowded, and as random, as an antique shop.
I noticed something odd about the layout although it took me a moment to work out what it was. Despite the clutter, a single wide space had been left, leading into the room from the entrance. The doors and corridors were perhaps one-third wider than average. I realised it had been designed that way for Kevin, who would have to manoeuvre his way round in his wheelchair.
He was not there, but an assortment of people stood clutching drinks, looking awkward in the way guests always do when they choose to stand together even though they’re surrounded by places to sit. My first impression, possibly unfair, was that they seemed to be quite freakish – mainly because they were all so very different. A very tall woman with a very short man. A pair of identical twins. A plump lady in a sari. A silver-haired, distinguished-looking man, perhaps South American. An extravagantly bearded man in a kilt, another small and shrimpy man with round glasses, in tweed. There were about a dozen of them in all. If I hadn’t known they were connected by books it would have been difficult to find a reason for them being in the same room.
The woman in the sari stepped forward, beaming. She had black hair streaked with grey and wide, searching eyes. I had never seen anyone with so much silver jewellery: three necklaces, rings on every finger and one in her nose, a sari brooch shaped like a peacock and earrings that brushed against her shoulders. She was about fifty years old but her skin was unlined and she positively radiated warmth and good humour.
‘Mr Hawthorne!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re very naughty! We were beginning to think you weren’t going to come. And this is your friend?’
I introduced myself.
‘We are so delighted you could join us. Come in, come in. I’m Lisa Chakraborty but you must call me Lisa, please, and I shall call you Tony.’
‘Well, actually—’
‘I’m afraid I’m on my own tonight. My husband never takes part in our little gatherings. He has actually no interest at all in books. He’s gone to the cinema.’ She spoke as if she was in a hurry, the words falling over each other in their enthusiasm to leave her mouth. ‘We’re starting with a little glass of wine and some food and then we’ll get down to business. Sherlock Holmes, no less! And to have a real investigator and an author who has written about the great detective himself – it’s a very special treat! Mr Brannigan! Have you a glass of wine for our guest?’
Mr Brannigan was the short husband with the tall wife. He had been smiling as I came in and the smile was still there, fixed into place and giving him a slightly manic quality. He was almost completely bald, with a round, eager-to-please face and a moustache that trembled on his upper lip. ‘Hello there!’ he barked, thrusting a glass of lukewarm white wine into my hand. ‘Kenneth Brannigan. Very nice to meet you, Tony. Very good of you to come. Let me introduce you to my better half. This is Angela.’
His wife – gaunt and imperious-looking – had joined him. ‘How nice to meet you,’ she said. She had a cut-glass voice and didn’t smile. ‘You write the Eric Rider books?’
‘Alex Rider, yes.’
She gave me a sad look. ‘I don’t think our children ever read them, I’m afraid.’
‘Hammy did!’ Kenneth contradicted her. He blinked at me. ‘Hammy read quite a few of them when he was twelve. Artemis Fowl. That was his favourite.’
‘Actually, that was Eoin Colfer,’ I said.
‘I’ll be interested to hear what you think about Sherlock Holmes,’ Angela said, going on quickly before I could tell her. ‘I find him very difficult, personally. I don’t know why he was chosen.’
‘Not our cup of Horlicks at all,’ Kenneth agreed. ‘But we’ve all been watching Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock on the telly. I suppose it might be interesting to see where it all began.’
Gradually, I made my way around the room. I met a veterinary surgeon, a psychiatrist and a retired concert pianist. Hawthorne hadn’t joined me. He was standing on his own, watching me warily from the side. But if he was afraid I was going to find out more about his private life, he needn’t have worried. I did try to dig a little, asking some of the people I met about him, but nobody seemed to know anything very much, or perhaps it was just that they were reluctant to tell me. He was simply Hawthorne, the man who lived on his own upstairs, who used to be a detective. I got the sense that he was as much a mystery to everyone else as he was to me. Only the man in the kilt (a meat trader, working at Smithfield Market, as it turned out) added a little more. Lowering his voice, he complained that Hawthorne was the only member of the group who didn’t allow them to meet in his flat. ‘I don’t know what he’s hiding,’ he muttered in clipped tones. ‘But I don’t think it’s right.’
Meanwhile, Lisa Chakraborty was bustling around with plates of food that included samosas, croquettes and other Indian snacks that were actually more pastry than anything else. Brannigan dutifully followed her with the wine. I didn’t feel like eating or drinking and I was relieved when Lisa announced that the discussion would begin in five minutes. As various members of the group took their seats, I picked up a couple of dirty plates and followed her into the kitchen.