‘Where did you meet?’
‘We were both journalists – at the Bristol Argus. I wrote about politics and education. She was crime.’
‘Not theatre?’
He shook his head. ‘Not to start with. No. She was their senior crime reporter and she was very good at it. She got an honourable mention from the Bevins Trust and she was the Best Regional Journalist at the British Press Awards in 1997.’ His eyes fell on the dining table. ‘She was a published author too.’
Hawthorne spread out the three books. No Regrets: The Strange World of Dr Robert Thirkell. Lady Killer: The Crimes of Sophie Comninos. And Bad Boys: Life and Death in an English Village. I noticed that the titles followed the same pattern, almost like crossword clues with the answers printed next to them. The covers were also similar: black-and-white photographs snatched from old newspapers with gaudy lettering for the title and the author. The books looked determinedly old-fashioned; somehow stuck in the worlds they described.
‘Robert Thirkell was a doctor working in Bristol,’ Arthur explained. ‘He killed off half a dozen elderly patients … put rat poison in their tea. He thought he was doing them a favour. Harriet managed to get close to him before he was arrested and the two of them became good friends. That was how she got the material for the book. Sophie Comninos was a hotshot TV executive until she murdered her Greek husband. She smashed a bottle of pink wine over his head after losing at a game of backgammon and then she killed two more people trying to cover it up.’
‘What about this one?’ Hawthorne had picked up Life and Death in an English Village.
‘She got into a lot of trouble with that,’ Arthur said. ‘It was about Trevor and Annabel Longhurst. You may remember them? Their son came under the influence of an older boy and the end result was that he got involved in the death of a teacher at a local primary school. They were living in a village near Chippenham – Moxham Heath – and they weren’t popular. They were very rich. Incomers. Champagne socialists, you might say. They were both of them into politics, big time. Harriet was accused of doing a hatchet job.’
With everything I had learned about Harriet Throsby, that didn’t surprise me.
‘These were all stories she’d covered for the Argus,’ Arthur went on. ‘The books didn’t sell a lot of copies, but the advances helped pay for this place. Anyway, her heart wasn’t in it. Crime, I mean. When I first met her, she was already thinking about moving on.’
Once again, I saw Harriet as she had been, alive and opinionated, at the Turkish restaurant after the play. What was it she had said? ‘I didn’t find it entirely satisfying. Criminals are so boring.’ Her husband might have been blind to her failings, but it seemed he was telling the truth.
‘What did she want to do instead?’ Hawthorne said.
‘She was very good friends with the drama critic at the Argus … a chap called Frank Heywood. She’d go with him to the theatre whenever she could and she’d tell me all about it afterwards. How bad it was, how the lead actor should never have got the part.’ The ghost of a smile shimmered across his face. ‘I think she actually preferred the plays if they were no good. Anyway, she was always reading Frank’s articles and then, after he died, she went straight round to the editor and asked if she could take over.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Food poisoning. Harriet had dinner with him that night and she was very ill too. But Frank had a weak heart and that was the end of him. The editor – his name was Adrian Wells – didn’t want to give her the job. It would mean losing his best crime reporter. But she threatened to walk out if he didn’t do what she wanted, so that was what happened.’ Arthur sighed. ‘She only stayed at the Argus for a couple of years and then she moved up to London. She wrote for The Stage to begin with. After that, she worked on various papers until she got the top job at the Sunday Times.’
‘What about you?’ Arthur looked puzzled, so Hawthorne went on. ‘You said you were a journalist. Now you’re a teacher.’
‘Oh. Well … Harriet always said I was wasting my time, and perhaps she was right. There wasn’t a lot happening in Bristol and she used to say my stuff was boring. Council elections. The new one-way system. The annual Ofsted reports. We had a nice little house down there – a view of the docks – but I didn’t mind selling it, I suppose. When we came up here, I fished around for a bit, but then I got fed up with it and trained as a teacher. I’d written about education, so it seemed a natural move.’
‘You’ll forgive me for saying this, Mr Throsby …’ I always knew when Hawthorne was going to turn on someone. He could be friendly one moment, ferocious the next. ‘But you don’t seem too put out by the death of your wife.’
‘You can think that if you like, Mr Hawthorne. But you don’t know me and you never met Harriet, as far as I’m aware. She wasn’t the easiest of people to get along with, but we were happy together. And just because I’m not standing here tearing out my hair or whatever it is you’d like me to do, it doesn’t mean I’m not deeply upset.’
He didn’t sound deeply upset.
‘Harriet wasn’t perfect, but I never wished her any harm and what happened to her is horrible. I’m not going to put on a show for you and your friend and if you haven’t got any more questions, I’d like to be left on my own.’
In his own quiet way, Arthur was angry and I was thinking it was probably time for us to make an exit when the door opened and Olivia came in. She was dressed to go out – in a glittery jacket and T-shirt, carrying a leather bag on a chain. Her hair was still damp from the shower. ‘Dad, I’m on my way—’ she began, then stopped when she saw me and Hawthorne. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
‘These are police officers,’ her father told her.
Olivia looked at me petulantly. ‘No, he’s not,’ she replied. ‘He wrote the play. The one that I went to with Mum.’
‘What?’ Arthur turned on me. ‘You told me—’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ I said.
‘I’m a private detective,’ Hawthorne cut in. He was addressing Olivia and just for once he seemed to be on my side. ‘I sometimes help the police and that’s why I’m here. Tony works with me – and if you’ll give us a few minutes of your time, maybe the two of us can find out who killed your mother.’
‘I don’t care who killed her,’ Olivia said.
‘Olivia!’ Either Arthur was a brilliant actor or he was genuinely shocked by his daughter’s attitude.
‘Oh, come on, Dad,’ Olivia insisted. ‘What difference does it make? Knowing who killed her won’t bring her back, and don’t pretend you’re going to miss her. You know what she was like.’
‘Olivia! I can’t believe you’re saying these things. You know I’ll miss her. I already do!’
‘She was always criticising you. She never stopped! She was driving you out of your mind.’
‘You’re wrong, dear. You’re quite wrong. It’s never easy … relationships, marriage! It’s a balancing act. There are ups and there are downs—’
‘She’s gone, Dad. She was a total cow and she ruined our lives. Neither of us has to pretend any more.’