At ten past four, the doorbell rang.
I went to the intercom, assuming it would be a delivery. Living six floors up and with no video camera, I seldom saw anyone’s face. My day was punctuated by disembodied voices. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Horowitz?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s the police. Can we come in?’
My first thought was that something had happened to Jill or to one of my sons. I hurried down six flights of stairs and over to the double set of doors at the end of the hallway. I was still in my bedroom slippers and I had forgotten my keys, so I had to wedge the inner door behind me with one foot whilst stretching awkwardly to push open the outer one. And that was how I was, strangely contorted, as I took in the two figures standing on the pavement and realised that I knew them and that they were really the last people in the world I wanted to see.
The bulky frame of Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw was blocking my view of Cowcross Street with an expression on her face that brilliantly amalgamated a scowl and a smile. Her assistant, DC Mills, was behind her.
‘Hello, Anthony,’ she said. ‘I wonder if we could have a word?’
5
Daggers Drawn
I knew Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw very well. When Hawthorne was investigating the murder of the Hampstead divorce lawyer Richard Pryce, she had been the officer in charge of the case and she hadn’t been amused when he arrived at the truth ahead of her. That wasn’t the worst of it. I had inadvertently given her false information that had led her to arrest the wrong man – much to Hawthorne’s amusement. He’d even suggested she might lose her job. Well, that clearly hadn’t happened. Here she was, waiting to come in, with her equally unfriendly assistant, Detective Constable Derek Mills, standing beside her, both of them gazing at me like hyenas who have stumbled across a fresh carcass. I knew I was in trouble even if I had no idea what that trouble might be.
‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, innocently.
‘We’d prefer to talk inside, if you don’t mind.’
‘Do I have to let you in?’
Cara exchanged a knowing glance with her deputy. ‘We could throw you in the car and take you down to the police station if you prefer,’ she said.
This might not have been true, but I decided not to argue. I’ve always had a fear of authority figures that goes back to my schooldays, and Cara somehow encapsulated the maths, French and history teachers who had terrified me when I was eight. She was a round, solid woman with an overbearing presence defined by muscular arms and broad shoulders that would have served her well in a scrum. She wore heavy plastic spectacles that seemed to be sinking into the bridge of her nose. In fact, her whole face had a soft, pliable quality as if she had been created out of playdough. Her eyes, popped in as a last-minute afterthought, were small and hostile. What I most remembered about her was her jet-black hair, which didn’t look real. The strands swept down on both sides like miniature curtains that had been pulled back to give a view of her face. She was wearing a well-tailored, dark olive suit and a roll-neck jersey. No jewellery.
She elbowed her way past me and into the entrance hall, followed by Mills, who could have concealed himself in her shadow. He was smaller and lighter than her, with thinning hair that he never bothered to brush. He was wearing the same leather jacket as the first time I’d met him, though with more food stains. He eyed me briefly as he came in, making sure that I had registered his complete contempt for me, for my home, for the entire neighbourhood.
‘Which floor?’ Cara asked.
‘I’m at the top,’ I said.
She looked at the stairs. ‘Do you have a lift?’
‘I’m afraid it’s out of order.’ This wasn’t true, but the lift was tiny and slow and I couldn’t bear to think of myself trapped inside it with the two of them.
We walked up and into the main living room, with the seating area on one side, a dining table in the middle and a kitchen at the back. The flat had been a meat warehouse a hundred years before and it still had an industrial feel with high ceilings, exposed brickwork and lots of empty space. I saw Cara taking in her surroundings and felt strangely violated, having her here. She hadn’t been invited. She had invaded.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ I gestured at the table. I wanted this to be businesslike and the sofas didn’t feel appropriate. Nor did I offer her coffee or tea. I still had no idea what had brought her here but I wanted her and her assistant out as soon as possible.
They sat at the table. ‘Nice place,’ Cara said.
‘Thank you.’ There was a long silence. I was standing by the grand piano – which I had inherited from my mother and which I played every day – and I realised that Cara was waiting for me to join them. I walked over and took my place at the end of the table, as far away from them as I could. ‘So …?’ I asked.
‘I wonder if you could tell us where you were last night?’
It was a line I would never have used in a television drama – it’s such an old chestnut – but that was really how she began.
‘I was in bed,’ I said.
‘Before that.’
‘I was at the theatre.’
Mills had already been scribbling my answers down in his notebook, but somehow he picked up the fact that he’d been given his cue. ‘It was the first night of your play,’ he said.
‘If you knew that, why did you ask me?’
He ignored me. ‘Mindgame at the Vaudeville,’ he went on. He twitched his moustache without seeming to move his upper lip. It was a neat trick. ‘It hasn’t had very good reviews,’ he went on. ‘The Guardian said it was pretentious.’
‘I don’t look at the reviews,’ I muttered.
‘The critic from the Daily Mail said it was the worst play he’d ever seen. The Times wasn’t sure. Variety said: “It’s so goofy it’s almost fun.”’ He looked at me sadly. ‘Almost,’ he repeated.
I felt the familiar sickness in my stomach. ‘It’s very nice of you to come and tell me what the newspapers think of my play,’ I said. ‘But wouldn’t you say that’s a slight waste of police time?’
‘And Harriet Throsby was the worst of all,’ Mills went on. ‘She really tore it apart. I imagine they’ll publish her review posthumously in the Sunday Times. Maybe they’ll frame it in a black border. That would be a nice touch, wouldn’t you say, ma’am?’
These last words had been addressed to Grunshaw. She nodded slowly.
‘Sort of a … final curtain,’ Mills added.
‘What are you saying?’ I cut in. ‘Is Harriet Throsby …?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not because I was shocked. It just seemed so unlikely.
‘Did you meet her at the theatre?’ Cara asked, ignoring my question.
‘Yes, briefly.’
‘And did you read her review?’
‘Yes. We all did. It was on Sky’s phone.’
‘That would be Sky Palmer.’
‘She played Nurse Plimpton.’ I wondered why I’d used the past tense. Perhaps it was because I knew that my play was dead too.
‘There was a party backstage at the theatre, is that right? Can you remember what time you left?’
Suddenly I was angry. ‘Look, I’m not going to answer any of your questions until you tell me what’s happened. Has Harriet Throsby been murdered?’
Cara looked shocked. ‘Whatever gave you that idea, Anthony?’