The Sentence is Death Page 9

  ‘I hope you don’t mind—’ I was about to make some excuse as to why I wasn’t going to invite her upstairs when she suddenly grabbed hold of me by the lapels of my jacket and slammed me into the wall with such force that the breath was punched out of my lungs and my spine did the neural equivalent of a Mexican wave. Suddenly her face was close to mine; so close that I could smell the fried food she’d had for lunch. Her little eyes were flaring and her mouth was twisted in an ugly grimace.

  ‘Now you listen to me, you little fuck,’ Grunshaw said. Her voice was thick with contempt. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, some smarmy kids’ author, walking into my murder scene and thinking you can treat it like a chapter out of Alec Rider—’

  ‘Alex Rider,’ I managed to gurgle.

  ‘It’s bad enough Hawthorne being called in but at least he’s a fucking detective. Or was until they threw him out. But if you think that gives you the right to go poncing around in a police investigation, you’ve got another think coming.’

  ‘You should take this up with Hawthorne,’ I gasped. She was still holding me, pinning me to the wall with fists like cannonballs. I had thought she was a big woman but I hadn’t realised how much of that was muscle. Being gripped by her was like having a double heart attack. Meanwhile, Darren was watching all this with complete disinterest.

  ‘I’m not talking to Hawthorne. I’m talking to you.’ She relaxed a little, allowing my shoulder blades to scrape a few inches down the wall. ‘Now, you listen to me,’ she said again. ‘There’s only one reason I’m going to let you hang around. There’s only one reason I’m not arresting you for obstructing a police officer in the course of their duty. And that’s because you’re going to help me.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything!’

  ‘I’m aware of that. It’s bloody obvious.’ She examined me with distaste. ‘But here’s the thing. There’s no way Hawthorne is going to rain on my parade. I’m not having it. He’s not walking away with the credit for this, the same way he’s done before. This is my case and I’m going to be the one who makes the arrest.’

  ‘Fine. But I don’t see—’

  She leaned forward, once again pressing me into the brickwork. Her lips were inches from my face, her breath moist on my cheek. ‘You’re going to tell me everything he knows and everything he does. Anything he finds out, you’re going to be straight on the phone. Am I making myself clear? And if you tell Hawthorne I was here, you give him even an inkling we’ve had this conversation, I’ll make your life hell.’

  ‘She can do it,’ Darren said, with a smile. They were the first words he’d spoken to me and I believed him.

  ‘Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yes!’ What else could I say?

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She let me go and straightened up. At the same time, she took out a business card and shoved it into my top pocket, almost tearing the material. ‘This is my mobile number. Ring it any time. If I don’t answer, leave a message.’

  ‘Hawthorne never tells me anything,’ I protested. ‘If he does work out anything, I’ll be the last to know.’

  ‘Call me,’ Grunshaw said. It was an order. It was a threat.

  The two of them left.

  I stood where I was, hardly believing what had just happened, watching their shadows disappear on the other side of the glazed front door.

  I was still unsettled when I met Hawthorne a few minutes after six and of course he noticed it at once. ‘What’s wrong, Tony?’

  ‘Nothing!’ I had already worked out what I was going to say while I was being carried through the tunnels on the Northern line. ‘I’ve been working on the script.’

  ‘Michael Kitchen still giving you problems?’

  ‘Michael hasn’t even seen it yet. It’s ITV.’

  ‘You should stick to books, mate.’

  I didn’t mention the visit. I hadn’t decided yet if I was going to do what Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw had ordered, but I didn’t think it would help informing Hawthorne that she had come to my home and threatened me. What could he do? Would he even try to protect me? More to the point, what would she do if I defied her? Speeding tickets? Some sort of interruption to Foyle’s War? It was impossible to shoot in London without the co-operation of the police and it might well occur to a malign, borderline psychotic detective (I’d seen her now in her true colours) to throw all sorts of problems in our way. I’d already caused the production enough difficulties. I was behind with my script revisions. If co-operating with her would help them, surely I had no choice.

  Highgate Tube station is built into the side of a hill with a steep flight of stairs leading up to Archway Road. Hawthorne had been waiting for me opposite the newspaper kiosk at the top of the escalators and now we took the lower exit into Priory Gardens, the quiet residential street where Davina Richardson lived. I actually knew the area very well. I’d lived in Crouch End for fifteen years before I moved to Clerkenwell and had often walked down Priory Gardens, taking my children – when they were children – to school. Davina had a pretty Victorian house, tall and narrow, with a tiny front garden and a chessboard front path leading to a door with stained-glass windows. It was on the right side of the road, which is to say the side that backed on to the woodland around Crouch End Playing Fields.

  Hawthorne rang the doorbell and after what felt like a long wait it was opened by a woman who gave every impression of being in a constant battle with life without necessarily being on the winning side. She was completely dishevelled, wearing clothes that were hopelessly mismatched: a loose-knit jersey, a long dress, sandals, a chunky bead necklace. She had chestnut hair that tumbled down to her shoulders with a life of its own and slightly desperate hazel eyes. She looked worn out but she was still smiling as she opened the door, as if she had been expecting good news – a man from the Lottery telling her she had the winning ticket, or the arrival of a long-lost brother from Australia perhaps. She was a little disappointed when she realised who we were but did her best to conceal it.

  ‘Mr Hawthorne?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Richardson …’

  ‘Please, come in.’

  The hallway was narrow and so filled with clutter that it was hard to pass through. There were coats and bags, umbrellas, junk mail, a bicycle, Rollerblades, a cricket bat, swathes of fabric, colour charts, brochures: the entire life story of an interior-designer mother and her teenaged son told in paraphernalia. A staircase, straight ahead of us, led up to the next floor but she led us through an archway and into the kitchen where a washing machine was churning quietly, spinning the clothes in a slow, sudsy circle. A smell of cigarettes and fish fingers hung in the air.

  Davina Richardson might have sophisticated clients with expensive houses but her own tastes were decidedly eclectic. I had never seen so many vivid colours fighting for attention. The hall carpet was a deep mauve, the walls a strident blue. Now I was looking at a bright green Aga and a yellow Smeg fridge. The Murano glass chandelier was lovely … but in a kitchen? The shelves were crowded with knick-knacks and it made me wonder which had come first. Was she an inveterate traveller who loved picking up souvenirs and needed somewhere to house them or had she simply built too many shelves and gone around the place feverishly trying to fill them?

  ‘Will you have a glass of wine?’ she asked. ‘I just opened a bottle of white. I know I shouldn’t but by the time it gets to six o’clock I find I’m gasping. Sorry about the smell. Colin just finished tea. He’s doing his homework but I’m sure he’ll be down in a minute. He got very excited when he heard a policeman was coming.’ She had already taken a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge and suddenly noticed me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t even asked you your name.’

  I told her.

  ‘Are you the writer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was puzzled as to why I should be there but at the same time she was delighted. ‘Colin won’t believe it!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’
s read all your books. He loves them.’

  It’s funny but I never quite know what to say when people tell me that they like my books. I almost feel embarrassed. ‘That’s great,’ I muttered. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘He doesn’t read them any more. He’s into Sherlock Holmes now. And Dan Brown. Colin loves reading.’ She had poured three glasses of wine. She gave one to each of us although I knew that Hawthorne wouldn’t touch his. I’m not sure he actually drank alcohol. ‘This is about Richard, isn’t it ?’ she added.

  ‘You must have been very upset,’ Hawthorne said in that probing way of his that suggested he didn’t believe it for a minute and that actually all she cared about was the cash.

  But she surprised him. ‘I was devastated! When I heard the news I had to go into my bedroom and close the door. I was in floods of tears. He hasn’t just been a friend. He’s been everything to me … and to Colin. I don’t know how we’re going to manage without him.’ She took a glug of wine, half emptying the glass. ‘You probably know that he was Colin’s godfather. God! Do you mind if I smoke? I’ve been trying to give up and Colin does go on at me, but I like them too much.’ She pulled a packet of Marlboro and a lighter out of her jersey pocket and lit up. All her movements were nervous and jumbled together so that she seemed to be in a state of constant flux.

  ‘Richard always looked after us. After Charles died, he helped me pay off the mortgage on this house and he’s been a fantastic support for the business too. I wasn’t working before. At least, I had a few friends I was helping with furniture and design and things like that. But it was Richard’s idea that I should actually set up full-time. He introduced me to quite a few of my clients. And then there were Colin’s school fees! It was going to be either Fortismere or Highgate Wood and I’ve got nothing against either of them but of course Highgate School is in a completely different league. He’s going to be really thrilled to meet you, Anthony. He loves your books. I would never have been able to put him through if it hadn’t been for Richard. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. He’s the last person in the world that anyone would want to harm.’

  ‘You were helping him with his redecoration?’

  ‘That’s right. Richard and Stephen bought Heron’s Wake ages ago. It’s in Fitzroy Park – only a ten- or fifteen-minute drive from here. Have you been there?’ She corrected herself. ‘Of course you have. I’m sorry. My head’s all over the place.’ She dragged on her cigarette then reached out and tapped off the ash. ‘The house needed freshening up. The whole place was feeling tired and there was too much white. I always think that white walls are overrated. The trouble is, they don’t have any …’ She searched for the word.

  ‘Colour?’ I suggested.

  ‘Emotion. Everything in modern life is white and glass and those awful vertical blinds. It’s so hard! But if you go to Venice or the South of France or any of the Mediterranean countries, what do you get? Wonderful blues. Deep purple. Everything vibrant and alive. Just because we live in a cold country, it doesn’t mean we can’t import a little tropical warmth.’

  ‘I understand that Adrian Lockwood was here the evening Richard Pryce died,’ Hawthorne said, abruptly cutting into this meditation.

  ‘Who told you that?’ she asked, and I noticed a little tropical red creeping into her cheeks.

  ‘He did.’

  For the first time she fell silent and in that moment it became obvious what sort of relationship the two of them had had. What else would Adrian Lockwood have been doing here on a Sunday evening?

  ‘Yes, he was here,’ she admitted, eventually. ‘It was actually Richard who introduced us. He was representing Adrian, who was going through a very painful divorce …’

  ‘It didn’t sound too painful, the way he talked about it,’ Hawthorne said with a faint smile.

  She ignored this. ‘The two of us became friends and after it was over, if Adrian was on his own and he needed someone to talk to, he would come round here.’ She paused. ‘I also know what it’s like to be alone. Anyway, that was what happened last Sunday. The two of us shared a bottle of wine. Actually, I had most of it. He was driving.’

  ‘Did he tell you where he was going?’

  ‘I think he was going home. He didn’t say.’

  ‘But you can tell us when he left.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I can tell you to the minute. Bertha told me.’ She pointed into the corner and I noticed an art deco grandfather clock looking slightly incongruous, wedged between the washing machine and the door where we’d come in. No – it was too slender to be a grandfather clock and apparently it was known as Bertha. A grandmother clock. ‘She chimes the hour,’ Davina went on. ‘Adrian left here just after eight o’clock.’

  When Adrian Lockwood had spoken to us, he had put the time at eight fifteen but his story more or less tallied with hers, meaning that neither of them could have killed Richard Pryce – unless they had planned it together. But what possible motive could they have had? OK, perhaps they were having an affair, but Pryce wasn’t in their way. Quite the opposite. He had brought them together. And he had given them both what they needed. Adrian Lockwood had his low-cost divorce. She had her business, her school fees and all the rest.

  Hawthorne was about to ask her something else when Davina looked up sharply and called out, ‘Colin? Is that you?’

  A moment later, a boy appeared in the doorway. He was about fifteen years old, dressed in the black trousers and white shirt that were part of the Highgate School uniform. The distinctive tie, with its red and blue stripes, had been pulled down loose so it hung about halfway down his chest and his collar was open. He looked nothing like his mother. He was thin and gangly, tall for his age, with curly hair and freckles. He was caught somewhere between the boy he had been and the man he might become, as if his body hadn’t quite made up its mind which way to go. The beginnings of a moustache showed faintly on his upper lip; although he hadn’t started shaving yet, he needed to. When he spoke, it was with a hard, sandpapery voice that had only recently broken. There was an acne spot on his chin.

  ‘Mum?’ he asked.

  ‘Colin! Were you listening on the stairs?’

  ‘No. I heard voices. I came down.’

  ‘This is the policeman I was telling you about. He’s asking questions about poor Richard.’

  Colin took this as an invitation to slouch into the room and slump into a chair.

  ‘Do you want an apple juice?’ his mother asked. I noticed that she had quickly stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Then she remembered. She told him my name, adding: ‘He writes those books you used to like.’

  ‘What books?’

  ‘The Alan Rider series.’

  ‘Alex Rider,’ I said.

  Colin’s eyes widened when he heard that. ‘They were great!’ he said. ‘I read them at prep school. I liked Point Blanc best.’ He frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I pointed at Hawthorne. ‘I’m helping him.’

  ‘Are you writing about him?’

  ‘Yes.’ For once, it seemed unnecessary to deny it.

  ‘Cool! You could do a detective series like Alex Rider! Have you found out who killed him yet?’ Colin didn’t seem at all put out by the death of his godfather. To him it was just another page in an adventure story.

  ‘We’ve only just started investigating,’ I said. I quite liked that ‘we’. I didn’t often get a chance to use it.

  ‘There were loads of people who didn’t like Richard,’ Colin said.

  ‘Colin!’

  ‘That’s what he said, Mum. He often used to say that he made an enemy every time he did a divorce, because someone had to win and someone had to lose.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you tell them he was being followed?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Colin turned to Hawthorne. ‘He said he was being followed. He told me when he was here.’

 
‘When was that?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘He came over the day before my birthday. My birthday’s the thirteenth of October and he came over on the twelfth. He bought me a telescope. It’s in my bedroom. You can see it if you like.’

  ‘Colin is interested in astronomy,’ his mother explained.

  ‘He stayed for tea and that was when he talked about it.’ He glared at her accusingly. ‘You were here!’

  ‘The two of you were talking for ages. And I didn’t hear what he said.’

  ‘Did he describe the man who was following him?’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘Not really. No. He said he looked ill. He said that was why he noticed him, because there was something wrong with his face. It was ghastly. He said he’d seen him two or three times.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He was sitting at the table. Right where you are now.’

  ‘No. I mean, where had he seen him?’

  Colin screwed up his face in concentration. ‘Well, it was outside his house at least one of the times. He said he saw him out of one of the upper windows. And he may have been at the office too.’

  ‘You’re not making this up, are you, Colin?’ Davina asked. ‘I’m sure Richard would have said something to me.’

  ‘You were there!’ Colin insisted. ‘Anyway, he didn’t make a big deal about it. He just said it had happened. That was all.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw your godfather?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘When I just told you. That was the last time.’

  ‘I saw him more recently than that,’ Davina said. ‘I was at Heron’s Wake last week. I went over with some colour samples for him to choose.’

  That reminded me. ‘I don’t suppose the number one eight two means anything to you?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Why?’

  Hawthorne was glaring at me. He hated it when I took the initiative. But I plunged on anyway. ‘It was written on the wall in green paint,’ I explained. ‘Where the body was found.’