‘And do you know who wrote it?’
I cut in before he could answer.
‘I did.’
22
Safe House
I didn’t enjoy the journey back to London. Of course, Hawthorne hadn’t believed Adrian Wells’s ridiculous assertion that all along I had been a serial killer of critics who didn’t like my work. Or so I told myself. He said nothing. He had taken out his iPad and was methodically thumbing his way through Harriet Throsby’s book.
Incidentally, I was very proud of A Handbag, a short play I had originally written for the National Theatre’s ‘New Connections’ programme and which had subsequently been performed for one week only as part of a youth theatre festival in Bath. As Wells had said, it was about a group of kids locked up in a secure facility. The one hope in their life is their performance of Wilde’s masterpiece, which, they believe, will make them seem normal. Their tragedy is that they can’t understand a word of it. It was a play about failure and the refusal to give in.
I had never read Frank Heywood’s review.
We parted company at Paddington Station, Hawthorne promising that he would call me the next day, and I took the tube back to Farringdon. It was about nine o’clock when I climbed up to street level, and already dark. I was exhausted. This being a Friday, and the rain having finally subsided, the pavements were still crowded with office workers drinking outside the Castle and the Three Compasses. I was about to continue into Cowcross Street when my phone pinged. I took it out and looked at the screen. There was a message from Kevin Chakraborty.
Anthony – bad news I’m afraid.
Lambeth forensic lab is now up
and running. Grunshaw has definite
match on hair. Suggest you head
for the hills. Kevin.
I was still staring at the screen when two police cars tore round the corner with their lights flashing. Because of the way the station was configured, with a pedestrian area in front of the entrance, they didn’t see me. But I had a clear view as they screeched to a halt. Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw and Detective Constable Mills burst out of the first car. Two uniformed officers appeared from the one behind. I watched in horror as they rang the doorbell. I hadn’t told my wife about any of this. What was she going to say?
Before I knew what I was doing, I had turned round and hurried off the other way, putting as much space between myself and Cara Grunshaw as I could. I already had a weird sense of disembodiment. Just a moment before, I had been part of the crowd, making my way home. Now I was wanted by the police! I was on my own, but it was worse than that. I felt as if I was watching myself on a screen, recorded by some all-seeing camera positioned high above. I forced myself to slow down, recognising that I was already behaving like a fugitive. If someone saw the police cars and then saw me, the connection would be obvious.
I turned up the alleyway where Jordan Williams had appeared the night before and went back to the park where we had met. I needed somewhere to sit down and think and knew it was unlikely there would be many people there at this time of the evening. I couldn’t go back to Tolpuddle Street; that was the uppermost thought in my mind. It wasn’t just the dirt and the humiliation. If I was sucked back, it wouldn’t be for twenty-four hours. There would be no Hawthorne arriving to rescue me a second time. Cara had her evidence. Would it stand up in court? Of course it would! Tolpuddle Street could quite easily be the first step on the way to life in jail.
The park was locked. I sat on the edge of the pavement in despair.
All of this was crazy. I hadn’t murdered anyone. But then the dagger, the fingerprints, the hair, the Japanese blossom and the CCTV images said otherwise. I had a motive. I had threatened Harriet Throsby, according to one witness. I had agreed she deserved to die, according to another. And all of that was without taking into account my first victim, Bristol Argus critic Frank Heywood. There was no way round it. I think if I’d been on the jury, I’d have convicted me.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. Perhaps Cara would have gone by now and I could slip in and hide under the bed. It was a shame that the flat had no back entrance, not even a window I could climb through. I didn’t dare go back into Cowcross Street. There would probably be a police officer waiting for me all night. In the end, I did what I should have done in the first place. I took out my mobile phone and called my wife.
She answered on the second ring. ‘Anthony? Where are you?’
‘Is Cara Grunshaw still there?’
‘Yes. She is.’ She continued in the same breath. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Murder that critic!’
‘What? I didn’t go anywhere near her! You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with it!’
‘The police seem to think they have a very good case.’
‘And you believe them, not me?’
‘Well, I know how upset you get by bad reviews.’
‘Not upset enough to kill someone!’
‘And why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t think you’d want to know.’
‘You’re right! This is very disappointing—’
I would have continued, but then the phone must have been snatched from Jill’s hand and Cara Grunshaw came on.
‘Where are you, Anthony?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘You won’t get away. We’ve got the whole of London looking for you. It’ll make it a lot easier for you if you just turn yourself in.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Jill.’
‘She’s very upset. She had no idea of the sort of man she’s married to.’
‘Why don’t you just drop dead, Cara!’
‘Are you threatening me now?’ A pause. ‘Are you somewhere near?’
I hung up. There was something in her last question that had scared me. Was it possible that she could be tracing the call? I’d watched that scene in lots of films where the police try to keep the suspect talking for as long as they can while they close in on the signal – in fact, I’d written it a couple of times myself. I’d often wondered how long it really took. Perhaps these days it was instantaneous. It was time to move. I got up and walked back the way I had come.
But not to the station. That was the first place they’d look for me. Instead, I made my way up towards Holborn. If I wanted to lose myself amongst thousands of people, I’d be more likely to find them in the centre of town, and anywhere had to be safer than Farringdon. I was annoyed now that I had dressed in jeans and a jersey. If only I’d put on a hoodie or a baseball cap; anything to cover my head. It’s fortunate that writers are very rarely invited on television and it had been at least a year since my last appearance. I shoved my hands in my pockets and stared at the pavement, hoping that nobody would recognise me.
I’d walked for several minutes before I began to ask myself what I was doing. Where did I plan to spend the night? A hotel was out of the question. The front desk would report me before I’d even reached the room. I had various friends in the city, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to involve them, possibly getting them into trouble with the police – and anyway, Cara Grunshaw had been holding my wife’s mobile phone minutes ago. I wouldn’t have put it past her to make a note of all her contacts and then go round door to door. Could I go and stay with my sister in Suffolk? No – that meant train stations and trains.
I’d just reached Chancery Lane when it hit me. I needed somewhere to hide out – a safe house – and there was only one that might open its door to me. Without a second thought, I headed down towards the river, backtracking to Blackfriars Bridge. That was where I felt most exposed, above the water and out in the open, with nobody else on the pavement and dozens of cars speeding past. I could see the lights of Doggett’s pub ahead of me. That marked my destination. I quickened my pace, wanting to get this over with. The only question was – would Hawthorne let me in?