I sat at the table for a long time, reflecting on the dilemma I found myself in. Hawthorne hadn’t invited me here. He had only allowed me in because I was in trouble and had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t sure I could abuse his hospitality by ransacking his home. I mean, the first place I might start would be the bedroom. This is where all of us are most exposed. It’s where we keep our clothes and underclothes, the books or magazines we read before we sleep, the things that are most personal to us. Even the way we make our bed tells us something about ourselves. Wrinkled sheets and crumpled duvet or puffed-up pillows, novelty cushions and rag dolls? But I already knew that I wouldn’t even be able to open the door without despising myself. I might never be able to look at Hawthorne the same way again.
What about his study, then? I’d glanced inside the first time I was in the flat and it surely wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look at the business end of things. I went over to the door on the far side of the living room. ‘Hawthorne …?’ I still called out his name before I went in, knowing there would be no reply. It crossed my mind that there might be security cameras concealed in the flat and that even now Hawthorne or Kevin might be watching me. I tried to look casual. I just need a piece of paper to jot down a few notes about the case – that’s what I told my invisible audience. There was no other reason for me to be opening the drawers of his desk. Nothing personal.
The study was exactly how I remembered it – a desk up against a wall, two computers with strange brand names I’d never heard of, different bits of machinery plugged into the various ports and sockets, a tangle of wires. There were no papers or notepads on the surface, just a paperback copy of The Great Gatsby with several corners folded down to keep the place. I guessed he was reading it with his book club. I examined the shelves, but his choice of books was too diverse to tell me anything: literary fiction, thrillers, classics … everything from Dan Brown to Dostoyevsky. Nothing here by me.
There were eight or nine framed photographs that were more interesting. Half of them were shots of William in different guises – at home, at school, some of them taken with his mother. Hawthorne also had a framed portrait of his wife that stood slightly apart from the rest. This wasn’t a casual snap. It had been taken with a great deal of attention to the light, to the shape of her hair, to her pose. It was a picture you would take of somebody you loved. Three more photographs provided an intriguing record of Hawthorne’s past life, although they didn’t give me very much in the way of facts. Here he was aged about twelve, in short trousers, standing between two adults. One was a uniformed police officer – a sergeant, I think. The other was a woman wearing her Sunday best. His parents? They were both strangely old-fashioned, standing very formally – and they didn’t look anything like him. As for Hawthorne, there was already something vaguely otherworldly about him. He was holding their hands, but there was no emotion in his face. It was as if he was simply doing what he was told.
The next image showed Hawthorne now dressed as a police constable, perhaps at some sort of graduation ceremony. He was trying to smile for the camera, but he only managed to look awkward. Physically, he hadn’t changed much in twenty years: he had just become more menacing as time passed. And finally, here he was with a man of about his own age, both of them holding glasses. The picture had been taken at a pub – I could make out the umbrellas – with a river in the background. It wasn’t the Thames. I got a feeling that this was outside London. I took out my phone and took a picture of the picture. Maybe I could identify the location another time.
I turned my attention to the desk. It had six drawers, but the first two were virtually empty – just odd bits of stationery, more computer accessories, an old phone, a digital recorder. I stopped myself as I reached down to open a third. I was behaving badly and it wasn’t even as if I was being rewarded with any concrete information. This was wrong. I deleted the picture I had just taken and went back into the kitchen. The newspaper was waiting for me. I opened it and tried to read.
It was hard to focus on the news when I was worried that I might be news myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about Cara Grunshaw and what she might be doing right now. Was it really possible that I might go to prison? What would Jill say? And what about Hilda Sharpe – would she drop me? I turned to the crossword, but, as with the murder of Harriet Throsby, the clues made no sense to me at all. After about an hour, I heard the lift ping open and I briefly thought it might be Hawthorne, back at last. But it was more than one person. I heard two men on the other side of the door. Their voices became more distinct as they walked past.
‘River Court is something of a landmark on this part of the river, and being on the twelfth floor, you get the most amazing views.’
Whoever was speaking had the well-educated voice and the smooth enthusiasm of an estate agent showing potential purchasers a flat. I heard a few more words – ‘Two bedrooms … very private …’ – and then a door opened and closed further down the corridor and the voices were cut off.
I made myself another coffee and then went back to the crossword – but it was just so many black and white squares. I was beginning to feel nervous. Could something have happened to Hawthorne? It was already ten forty-five and he’d said he would be back by eleven.
There was a knock at the door.
I stood up. I was tempted to open it – but then remembered the instructions Hawthorne had left me on the note.
A second knock. A voice called out: ‘Hello?’
A pause, and then I heard a key being inserted into the lock, the door opened and a man walked in.
He was about forty years old, in a suit, with curly hair and a shiny face. On first appearance he seemed overweight, middle-aged, ordinary, standing there with the sort of embarrassment that seems particularly English. I recognised him at once from the photograph in Hawthorne’s study. He was the man with the drink. He blinked at me. ‘Oh – hello!’ he said.
I also recognised his voice. I had heard him walking past the flat. And yet there was something about him that didn’t quite fit my image of a London estate agent. He was too old, for a start. From his crooked tie to his unruly hair, there was something careless about the way he presented himself. His brown suede shoes didn’t match his grey suit. He was holding a large manila envelope, heavily sealed.
‘Hello.’ I smiled at him.
‘Look, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to bust in. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here.’ He waved the envelope vaguely. ‘I was going to leave this for Daniel.’
Daniel? I had never heard Hawthorne called that before. ‘You can wait for him if you like,’ I said. ‘He should be back in a minute.’
‘Well, I’m not sure …’ He was clearly surprised to see me, waiting for me to explain myself.
I told him who I was. ‘Hawthorne let me stay here last night,’ I said. ‘We’re working together. I’m writing books about him.’
‘Yes. I know who you are. I read The Word is Murder. I enjoyed it very much, although I’m not sure you quite captured Daniel … at least, the Daniel I know.’
‘You’re his half-brother?’
Hawthorne had told me that his half-brother was an estate agent who had arranged for him to stay in the flat. It was a guess but an informed one and the man nodded. ‘You could say that.’
‘You haven’t told me your name.’
‘Haven’t I? How very remiss of me. It’s Roland.’
‘Roland Hawthorne?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ He placed the envelope on the table. I could tell that it was quite heavy. It might contain thirty or forty sheets of paper. ‘I’ll just leave this here. If you could say I called in …’