‘I’m sure he’d be sorry to miss you.’ I gestured at the kettle. ‘I was just making coffee. Won’t you join me?’
‘Well …’
I was on my way into the main kitchen area before he could stop me. I clicked the kettle on and spun round. ‘Milk?’
‘A drop, please. No sugar.’
He sat down reluctantly. I made the coffee as quickly as I could and brought it over to him. ‘So you’re an estate agent,’ I said, adding: ‘I heard you go past just now. You were with a client. Did you sell the flat?’
‘I’m not selling.’
‘Another caretaker, then?’ He looked at me blankly. ‘Hawthorne mentioned to me that he’s looking after this flat for a foreign owner.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Isn’t it true?’
‘He’s certainly helping us out.’
He was already regretting being here, I could tell. So I pressed on before he could make an excuse and leave. ‘So what estate agent do you work for, then?’
‘It’s not exactly an estate agency. We provide more of a creative and business development service.’ Why was he being so vague? ‘We facilitate things for our clients,’ he concluded unhelpfully.
Looking at the envelope and knowing as much as I did about Hawthorne, a thought occurred to me. ‘Does Hawthorne work for you?’ I asked.
It made sense. He had come to me to write the books because he needed the money. He had been kicked out by the police, so he had to have some way of earning a living, if only to support his less-than-lavish lifestyle. He was a private detective. The police were occasional clients. There had to be others.
‘He doesn’t work for me. No, no, no. I work full-time for the agency and he works for the agency occasionally and in this instance I’m just … sort of … the intermediary.’ He was visibly tying himself in knots as he tried to explain how he came to be here.
‘Is that a job?’ I went on, glancing at the brown envelope.
‘It is.’
‘Someone’s been killed?’
‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Nothing you’d want to put in one of your books. It’s actually quite pedestrian. An errant husband. Wife thinks he’s seeing someone else … which he might be, although quite what they’re doing in Grand Cayman—’ He broke off, realising he had already said too much. ‘I really ought to be going …’ he muttered.
‘When I asked you if you were his half-brother, you didn’t seem sure.’
‘Well, I know who he is. And I know who I am. But I’m trying to think. Half-brother is when one of your parents remarries, isn’t it? That never happened.’
‘You’re not blood relatives.’ They had no physical similarity.
‘That’s right.’
‘But you have the same surname?’ In his own way, Roland was as infuriating as Hawthorne. He didn’t want to tell me anything. The only difference was, he was unable to stop himself. ‘Are you adopted?’ I asked. It was the only possible explanation.
‘I’m not! Heavens, no!’ He let out a snuffle of laughter.
‘So he is?’
Roland was immediately serious again. ‘It’s quite private, you know. He doesn’t really like to talk about it.’
‘Your parents adopted him.’
The two people in the photograph. The police constable and his formally dressed wife. It didn’t surprise me at all that Hawthorne had been adopted. It put everything I knew about him – right down to the Airfix models – in perspective. So why had he called Roland his half-brother? I suppose he didn’t want to give too much away.
‘That’s right. I don’t really think of him as an adoptive brother, though. I’d say we’re closer than that. He’s a marvellous man. We’ve known each other all our lives.’
‘What happened to his own parents?’ Roland was squirming, his coffee forgotten. I could see him eyeing the door, planning his escape. ‘I think Hawthorne mentioned they lived in Reeth?’ I was lying. Hawthorne had said nothing of the sort. I was fishing.
Roland took the bait. ‘In Yorkshire. Yes.’
‘And they died?’
‘If they hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have needed adopting.’
‘That’s true, of course. It was very sad.’
‘A terrible business.’
‘How did they die?’
It was one question too many and I’d asked it too directly. I saw his eyelids come down like shutters. ‘I really can’t talk about it.’ He got to his feet. ‘Actually, I’d best be off. A great pleasure to meet you, Anthony. Daniel’s told me a lot about you. Perhaps you can tell him I looked in.’
But there was no need. Just then the door opened and Hawthorne was there, looking suspiciously from Roland to me. Then he relaxed. ‘Roland!’ he said. He was more friendly as he greeted his adoptive brother.
‘Oh – hello, Daniel. Everything all right?’ He picked up the envelope. ‘Morton asked me to drop this in for you. The Barraclough file.’
Hawthorne took it. ‘You met Tony, then.’
‘Yes. He just introduced himself. I was rather surprised to find him here.’
‘He’s hiding from the police.’
‘Oh. That would explain it, then.’
‘You stopping for a coffee?’
‘Just had one, thanks all the same. Best be on my way!’ He turned to me. ‘I may pop in and see your play next week. Mindgame. It looks interesting.’
‘It may not be on,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Oh. That’s a shame. Well, goodbye!’
He left. Hawthorne and I were alone. ‘Who’s Morton?’ I asked, casually. Hawthorne didn’t reply. He wasn’t showing any emotion, but I thought he might be angry. ‘I didn’t let Roland in,’ I said. ‘He had a key.’
‘You been all right on your own?’
‘Yes. Thank you for the croissants. And the Coco Pops.’
He didn’t know how long Roland had been here. He didn’t know that we’d been talking about him. I’d left no trace of my visit to his study. I saw him glance at the kitchen table with the coffee cups and the newspaper spread open on the surface. He decided to let it go. ‘We should make a move,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘The Vaudeville Theatre.’
I’m not sure what it was about the way he said that, but suddenly I knew. ‘Have you worked out who killed Harriet Throsby?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘That’s right, mate. They’re waiting for us there.’
24
Back to the Vaudeville
Hawthorne didn’t speak to me as we crossed Blackfriars Bridge, the river glittering beneath us in the sunshine.
He hadn’t mentioned Roland and I was sensible enough not to ask him any more questions about his adoptive brother – or whatever Roland wanted to call himself. From the way he walked – his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead – he seemed to be in a hurry to reach our destination and put this whole business behind us. He obviously regretted ever having let me into his flat and knew that I had managed to get through some of his defences.
And what exactly had I learned? That he had been born in Reeth. His parents had died, presumably at the same time and so, I would imagine, in traumatic circumstances. A car crash? As a result, he had been adopted by a serving police officer. He was the classic private detective, working part-time for an agency possibly run by a man called Morton. The nature of the agency was still a mystery. It clearly had some sort of connection with River Court. It appeared that Hawthorne was not caretaking the flat as he had told me. He was there for another reason.
I would make sense of it all later. Right now I had other thoughts on my mind. Hawthorne had worked out the identity of Harriet’s killer! We were on our way to meet him (or her) at the Vaudeville Theatre. I tried to imagine who might be waiting for us in the foyer and pictured them, one at a time. Ahmet with one of his American cigarettes. Maureen in her fur wrap. Martin Longhurst, tall and twitchy. Then I remembered something Hawthorne had said to Roland just before we left. My play might have come off by the following week. Did that mean one of the cast members was about to be arrested? Or Ewan Lloyd, the director?