We reached the other side of the bridge and turned into the Strand. ‘Where were you this morning?’ I asked.
Hawthorne took a few more steps before answering. ‘I went over to Petty France,’ he said.
That was in Westminster. It was where a number of government offices were located. I remembered that the Passport Office had been in the same street, although even assuming they were still there, they would surely be closed on a Saturday. ‘Is that where you found the answer?’ I asked.
‘It was where I found what I expected to find.’
‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted, then.’ I hated it when he was so cryptic.
The theatre was ahead of us. As far as I could see, the play was still running. In fact, there would be a matinée performance at three o’clock that afternoon. Hawthorne opened the front door for me. I went into the foyer …
… and stood there with my heart pounding, my stomach shrinking and a sense of complete despair as DI Cara Grunshaw and DC Mills lurched towards me. Grunshaw was grinning victoriously. Her assistant was contenting himself with an unpleasant smirk. They had both been expecting me.
‘So you kept your word,’ Grunshaw said. She was talking to Hawthorne.
‘Hawthorne—!’ I couldn’t believe he had done this to me.
‘I’m sorry, mate. Detective Grunshaw called me this morning. Somehow, she’d worked out where you were – which is surprising as working things out has never been her strong suit – and she made it clear to me. I can’t be seen to be obstructing the course of justice.’
‘But I thought we were friends!’
‘I’ll come and visit you in jail.’
‘I’m not going to jail. I didn’t kill anyone.’ I was close to tears. It wasn’t just the notion of being charged with a crime I hadn’t committed. It was Hawthorne lying to me, leading me into a trap.
‘I saw your play last night,’ Cara said. ‘I took Mills. What did you think of it, Derek?’
‘Not a lot,’ Mills said.
‘I quite enjoyed it myself. I think Harriet Throsby was very unfair. In fact, I might have been tempted to murder her myself if I’d been the writer. Anyway, shall we get the formalities over and done with?’
‘You do not have to say anything—’ Mills began. It was the second time he had given me an official police caution.
‘Hold on a minute,’ Hawthorne cut in. ‘I think you’re forgetting our deal, Cara.’
‘What deal?’ I grasped at the straw. Maybe they were going to let me run away.
‘Thirty minutes. I explain how it all happened. Then you make the arrest.’
‘We know how it happened,’ Cara growled.
‘That was still the deal we made.’
She sighed. Her ample chest rose and fell. ‘All right then, Hawthorne. But I haven’t got all day.’
‘Not here,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Inside.’
‘In the theatre? I didn’t have you pegged as a drama queen, but I don’t mind sitting down. I’ve been on my feet since breakfast and they’re killing me. Let’s get on with it.’
We went down the stairs, back into the auditorium and down the red carpet to the condemned cell … that was how it felt. But when we entered the stalls, I stopped in surprise. I looked past the long stretch of empty seats to the stage. The curtain was up and there were nine people waiting for us on the set of Mindgame, some of them sitting on the furniture used in the play, others perched on plastic seats that had been brought from backstage. Absurdly, the human skeleton that was part of the action stood in the corner.
The cast was on one side: Jordan Williams next to Sky Palmer, then Tirian Kirke. Ewan Lloyd was nearby but on his own. Ahmet Yurdakul and Maureen Bates came next, sitting side by side, uncomfortably close, on a sofa. Martin Longhurst, their accountant, was behind them. Arthur Throsby and his daughter, Olivia, had also been summoned to the theatre and were over by the window that during the play turned into a wall. They must have been waiting for us for some time and weren’t looking too pleased as the four of us made our way down the aisle. That was when I noticed that Keith, the deputy stage-door manager, had been summoned too. He was sitting, half-hidden, in the wings.
We reached the front of the stage.
‘You stay here,’ Hawthorne said. He was addressing Grunshaw and Mills. He turned to me. ‘You come with me, Tony.’
A flight of steps had been placed against the apron. While the two detectives settled themselves into the first row of the stalls, we climbed up. I noticed an empty chair had been placed centre stage, presumably for me. I sat in it. I was aware of everyone examining me and kept my gaze fixed on the empty auditorium, the invisible audience somehow more unnerving than a real one, all those imagined eyes watching me. Meanwhile, Hawthorne had taken off his coat. He was completely at ease, even enjoying himself. But then in his own way he always had been a performer. He was in his element.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ he began. ‘I know it was a bit short notice, but Detective Inspector Grunshaw here only works until lunchtime on Saturdays.’
‘What is this all about?’ Jordan asked. Typically, he was more annoyed than anyone else.
‘Well, obviously, it’s about the murder of Harriet Throsby. We haven’t come here to rehearse. All of you were involved, one way or another, and I thought you might like to know how it happened.’
‘Do you know who killed my wife?’ Arthur Throsby asked.
He was considerably less mournful than he had been just two days ago when we had first met. He was wearing brand-new clothes, for a start: a colourful blazer and tie. He’d had a haircut. It seemed to me that he’d not only got used to his wife’s death, he had adapted to it and perhaps even found that it suited him. Next to him, Olivia was quiet, clearly nervous.
‘I wouldn’t have called you all here if I didn’t,’ Hawthorne replied.
He hadn’t even started and Grunshaw and Mills were already looking bored.
‘If you’ll forgive me, Mr Hawthorne, why do we all have to be here?’ It was Tirian who was speaking. ‘It’s the weekend. We have two performances today. There are other places I’d rather be.’
‘I’m sorry to have spoiled your morning,’ Hawthorne said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘There are still a few questions that have to be answered by all of you. The funny thing about this murder is that it’s much more complicated than it needs to be. Someone knocked on the door at Palgrove Gardens and killed Mrs Throsby. I think it’s fair to say that every single one of you on this stage had a good reason to wish her dead.’
‘How dare you say that!’ Arthur Throsby remarked, although he didn’t sound particularly outraged. ‘Do you really think that Olivia or myself—’
‘Forget it, Dad!’ Olivia interrupted her father. ‘Of course we’re both suspects. We both hated her.’
‘But I wasn’t at home when it happened. I was at school.’
‘I’ve talked to your school,’ Hawthorne remarked. ‘You had no lesson from nine thirty to ten fifteen. You told us you had witnesses at the school, but in fact it would have been easy for you to leave. You had your bicycle. Ten minutes each way and two minutes to get rid of her …’
Arthur Throsby fell silent. ‘I didn’t touch her!’ he muttered.
Hawthorne was unmoved. ‘Any one of you could have done it,’ he continued. ‘And as it happens, none of you can fully account for your movements at the time she died. Easy enough to slip out of Starbucks without being noticed.’ That was Olivia. ‘You could have gone on a cigarette break.’