What else was there? Hawthorne had gone on about the shape of the crime. We had been sitting in his flat, talking over that glass of rum and Coke. I went back through my notes and found his exact words.
It’s not like that, Tony. You’ve got to find the shape. That’s all.
But if there was a shape, I couldn’t see it. I was still convinced that the answer must be found in a single clue, something that had been right in front of me but the significance of which I had missed.
I cast my mind back to the visit we had made to Adrian Lockwood’s house: the umbrella by the door, the vitamin pills, the bilberries. I tried to remember why I had written them down in my notes. Why had I mentioned them at all?
That was my eureka moment.
I fired up my computer and went on the internet. What a wonderful device . . . a gift to writers and detectives alike! In seconds I had the answer I needed and at that moment everything came together in a rush and I suddenly saw with blinding clarity exactly who had killed Richard Pryce. It was something I had never thought I would experience. Agatha Christie never described it, nor did any other mystery writer I can think of: that moment when the detective works it out and the truth makes itself known. Why did Poirot never twirl his moustache? Why didn’t Lord Peter Wimsey dance in the air? I would have.
I spent another hour thinking it through. I saw Jill turn off the light and heard her go to bed. I made more notes. Then I rang Hawthorne. I didn’t care that it was late.
‘Tony?’ It was almost midnight but he didn’t sound upset to hear from me.
‘I know who did it,’ I said.
There was an empty silence at the other end of the telephone. Of course he didn’t believe me. ‘Tell me,’ he said, eventually.
So I did.
21 The Solution to the Crime
It was with a mixture of excitement and dread that I made my way back up the steps and into the police station at the corner of Ladbroke Grove where I had first attended the interview with Akira Anno. The memory of my conversation with Hawthorne was still buzzing in my head.
‘Tell me I’ve got it right.’
‘You’ve nailed it, mate. More or less . . .’
‘Hawthorne . . . !’
‘You’ve got it right.’
From the start I had known that it was possible to get there ahead of him, but I was disappointed that he was so grudging in his respect for what I’d done. Maybe he was a little peeved. To be fair to him, he had corrected me on a few points where I had got things confused. More importantly, he had agreed to the course of action I was taking now, although I wasn’t going to let Cara Grunshaw know that.
I had to share what I knew with her and her unpleasant sidekick, DC Mills. I didn’t want either of them to get the credit but I owed it to Jill and the series. I was still certain that Grunshaw was behind many of the problems that the production team was facing and it was the only way I could get her off our backs. It didn’t matter that much to Hawthorne. He was paid by the day; one of the reasons he was so painstaking in his enquiries. He didn’t seem to be particularly interested in taking the credit. Even so, he had chosen not to come with me. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Grunshaw myself.
She was waiting in the same dingy interrogation room where we had met before. She was wearing a bright orange jersey and a multi-coloured bead necklace, but they contrasted with the sourness of her expression, her refusal to smile or to look anything but threatening. Darren Mills was looking jaunty in a sports jacket and trousers with a very slight flare. Generally, I have quite a lot of admiration for the British police. They’re always extremely helpful to writers, giving us access to operations, control rooms and all the rest of it. They must get fed up always being depicted as aggressive or corrupt – but where these two are concerned, I have no regrets.
‘So what do you want?’ Grunshaw asked. She was sitting at the table with Mills leaning against the wall behind her. She hadn’t offered me a cup of coffee. She didn’t look at all pleased to see me.
‘You wanted information,’ I said. ‘We know who killed Richard Pryce.’
‘You mean, Hawthorne worked it out?’
‘We worked it out together.’ That wasn’t strictly true but I needed his authority.
‘Does he know you’re here?’
‘No. I didn’t tell him.’
I was worried for a moment but she didn’t see through the lie. ‘Well, go on then.’
‘Can I have a glass of water?’
‘No. You can’t have a fucking glass of water. And get on with it. We haven’t got all day.’
I was tempted to turn my back on her and walk out. But it was too late for that now. This was my moment. I plunged in.
‘This has been an investigation into not one death but two,’ I began. ‘There was the murder of Richard Pryce at his home in Fitzroy Park—’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Grunshaw interrupted. ‘We know where he lived.’
I held my ground. ‘Forgive me, Detective Inspector, but if I’m going to tell you this, I’m going to tell it my way.’
‘Whatever you say.’ She scowled. ‘But it had better be good.’
Behind her, Mills crossed his arms and his legs, using his shoulder blades to stay upright against the wall.
‘There was the killing of Richard Pryce and there was the death of Gregory Taylor just twenty-four hours before. What’s made this investigation difficult has been working out the connection between them – if there was one at all. Was Gregory’s death murder? Was it suicide? Was it an accident? Let’s take them one at a time.
‘It couldn’t have been murder. Only two people knew he was in London. Richard Pryce, the man he had come to see, and his wife. It’s just possible that Richard could have followed him to King’s Cross and pushed him under a train, but why would he do that? Gregory Taylor had a terminal illness and Richard had just agreed to pay for the operation that might save him. If he wanted to kill Gregory, all he had to do was refuse. And Susan Taylor had no reason to kill her husband either. Their marriage was happy enough and she’d been the one who’d sent him to London to get help. There was only one other person who might have had a grudge against him – Davina Richardson could have blamed him for the death of her husband. He had been the team leader at Long Way Hole. But she didn’t know he was coming to London and although it’s true he was close to Highgate station, there’s no evidence that the two of them met.
‘So was it suicide? That doesn’t make any sense either. Gregory Taylor came to London to get money for his operation and he rang his wife. We’ve heard the message and he’s ecstatic. Richard Pryce isn’t just going to pay £20,000 or £30,000, he’s going to pay the whole thing. Of course, Gregory could still be depressed. The operation may not succeed. He’s still ill. But everything in his behaviour suggests that this is a man who wants to live. He’s going to take his wife out to dinner to celebrate. He’s arranged to meet an old friend, Dave Gallivan, to talk about Long Way Hole . . . I suppose we’ll never know what he was going to say. He even buys a paperback with six hundred pages to read on the train!
‘It had to be an accident. It’s the only explanation that works. I’m sure you’ve seen the CCTV footage. He’s in a hurry. He wants to get home to celebrate with his wife. There’s a crowd of football supporters and someone pushes into him. He shouts, “Look out!” and he falls.’ I paused. ‘If he’d wanted to kill himself, would he have done it inside a station, with the train moving so slowly? The transport police didn’t think so and nor do I.’
Grunshaw and Mills were silent, gazing at me sullenly. At least I had their full attention.