Olivia went over to him and rested a hand on his arm, and in that brief moment I was aware of a real affection between them. What had it really been like living with Harriet all these years? The two of them were survivors.
Hawthorne was less impressed. ‘You don’t seem to have many fond memories of your mum,’ he observed.
‘You don’t need to answer any of his questions.’ Arthur put an arm around his daughter, protecting her. ‘These gentlemen were leaving anyway.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘And you had no right to be here in the first place!’
Olivia glared at Hawthorne. ‘I’ll answer anything you like,’ she said, defiantly. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’
Hawthorne smiled. ‘So when was the last time you saw her?’
‘We came home in a taxi from the theatre.’ She glanced at me. ‘She really hated your play, by the way. She finished writing her review when we were in the Savoy and I could tell she was ripping into it from the way she typed.’ She turned back to Hawthorne. ‘I didn’t see her the next morning. I had to be at work by nine.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Near Paddington Station. I’ve got a job at Starbucks.’
‘And you were there until when?’
‘Until the middle of the afternoon. Three o’clock.’
‘How far is the Starbucks from here?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘Ten minutes there and back.’ Hawthorne looked at her, the obvious question hanging in the air.
‘You think I popped home and killed Mum?’ Olivia smiled unpleasantly. ‘I couldn’t leave work. Someone would have seen me. And anyway, I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re only accusing me because you know who really did it.’
‘And who was that?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Him!’
Him? I glanced left and right, but there could be no avoiding it. She meant me!
‘What are you talking about …?’ I began.
‘You threatened her!’
‘That’s nonsense. That’s absolutely untrue.’ I could feel the blood draining from my face. Or possibly rushing into it. ‘We chatted at the party in the Turkish restaurant. That was all. I didn’t say anything!’
‘You asked her what she thought of your play.’
‘Well, yes …’
‘It was the way you asked her. She felt threatened by you. She said so on the way home.’
‘It was a reasonable question!’
‘She didn’t think so. You frightened her!’
‘Did she say that?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘She didn’t need to. I could tell just by looking at her.’
‘I think you should leave,’ Arthur said, again.
Hawthorne nodded and, much to my relief, we did. It was only when we were out in the street that he asked me: ‘Is it true … what Olivia said?’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘You can’t be serious. All I did was ask Harriet Throsby what she thought of the play. We hardly spoke otherwise. I didn’t threaten her! There were lots of people there. Ask them!’
The policeman who was still standing there, on duty, overheard us. ‘Are you the writer?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘My son really likes your books.’
‘Thank you.’
‘He’ll be very sorry to hear what you did, sir. I can understand you being angry, being criticised that way. But I think you’ve let down all your readers.’
I’d had enough. I stormed down the street. I looked back and saw Hawthorne hadn’t moved. ‘We’re going back to the theatre,’ he called out to me.
Right. The Vaudeville was near Charing Cross. We could get there from Warwick Avenue station on the Bakerloo line – but that was at the other end of the street.
I turned round and stormed off that way.
9
Seven Suspects
It was a very different experience returning to the Vaudeville Theatre that evening. Two nights before, I had been nervous almost to the point of feeling sick – but it was clear to me now that I’d got things out of proportion. The failure or success of Mindgame was rather less significant than the prospect of twenty years in jail, and although I knew I hadn’t gone anywhere near Harriet Throsby, I could see the evidence inexorably piling up against me with two malignant police officers bulldozing their way to a false conviction. Why had Olivia been so malicious? She knew I hadn’t threatened her mother. Worse still, why had Hawthorne been so ready to believe her? His lack of faith was almost as dispiriting as the accusation itself, and although it was true that he’d managed to delay the police investigation – with Kevin’s help – that was all he’d done so far. Couldn’t he at least have been a bit more worried about me? Weren’t we supposed to be friends?
I was also aware that time was trickling away. Hawthorne had said that we had forty-eight hours to solve the crime and two of those had already gone. Fighting my way into the station, getting stuck behind a woman searching for her Oyster card, waiting for the next train, which, the departure board told me, was going to take an infuriating seven minutes to arrive, stopping at a red signal with the driver refusing to announce when we would be moving … all this played havoc with my nervous system. I’m the sort of person who gets panic attacks about the average-speed cameras on a motorway. Having Grunshaw and Mills lumbering up in the fast lane behind me, flashing their lights and shouting ‘Murder’, terrified me. It was something that had never happened to me before.
But Hawthorne was in no hurry as we climbed back up to street level at Charing Cross station. I saw him take out his cigarettes and knew what he wanted. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ I said. I looked at my watch. ‘The play begins in an hour.’
‘I’ve already seen it.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting we go in and see it, Hawthorne. I mean—’ I played back what he had said. ‘You’ve seen it? When?’
‘I went to the Wednesday matinée. I was on my way home when you called from the custody centre.’
‘What did you think of it?’ After everything that had happened in the last two days, was that really the question I’d just asked? But it was out of my mouth before I could stop it. It really mattered to me.
‘I thought it was very good. Very witty. William enjoyed it too.’
‘You took your son?’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘His school closed early for staff training and the kids had the afternoon off.’
‘He didn’t think it was too violent?’
‘You should see his school!’ Hawthorne lit a cigarette before I could stop him. ‘He didn’t get some of it, but nor did I – and that gave us something to talk about afterwards.’
I felt an unusual sense of warmth towards Hawthorne and I was annoyed with myself for what I’d just been thinking. ‘You should have let me buy the tickets,’ I said. ‘I could have got them half-price.’
‘That’s OK, Tony. They were selling them two for the price of one anyway.’
The theatre was right in front of us. The pavement outside the main entrance was deserted. Not a good sign.
‘I suppose we’re here to see the actors,’ I said. ‘They’ll be onstage in an hour.’
‘Plenty of time, mate. Lucky it’s a small cast!’
We ducked round the side and went up Lumley Court, one of those old, forgotten alleyways that London does so well. On one side, the wall was topped with razor wire. On the other, a set of double doors provided an emergency exit from the theatre itself. Hawthorne tested the doors – he did it without thinking – and seemed to be pleased that they were firmly secured. We then climbed a short flight of concrete steps that led up to Maiden Lane and the stage door.
I remembered coming here after the first-night party when I was still hoping the play would be a success. It felt like a lifetime ago … and someone else’s life.