A Line to Kill

‘It can be hard, I know, to accept the truth of what I see.’ After what had just happened, Elizabeth Lovell was having to fight to win back the audience, who might easily have turned against her. She touched the fingers of one hand against her heart. ‘Believe me, I feel her pain, but I also know that there will be comfort for her too. We talk about losing people, but the truth is that they are never lost.’

She continued in this vein for another ten minutes but there were no further visitations. Judith climbed back onto the stage and, after thanking Elizabeth and Sid, directed the audience over to the book signing. They were eager to cross to the other side – of the road, that is – and there was quite a scrum at the door. Meanwhile, Sid helped his wife down from the stage. Judith was waiting to escort them to The Georgian House, but for a moment the two of them were in front of me. Colin Matheson was on one side, Hawthorne on the other.

‘That was extraordinary,’ I said.

Elizabeth was leaning on Sid. ‘I hope I didn’t upset Anne,’ she said. ‘It’s not my choice, you know, who comes to me.’

‘She’ll be fine.’ Sid patted her hand.

‘Have you met my friend, Daniel Hawthorne?’ I asked. I wanted to introduce them because I was interested to hear what Hawthorne would say.

She held out a hand vaguely in his direction. He took it and smiled.

‘Very nice to meet you, Mr Hawthorne.’

‘And you, Mrs Lovell.’

‘Did you enjoy my talk?’

‘It was memorable,’ Hawthorne said. ‘You must find it very tiring.’

‘Oh yes. I’m quite exhausted.’ She drew herself up, still resting against Sid. ‘But I’m afraid I have to go. There are books to sign.’

‘Mustn’t keep your fans waiting.’ Was Hawthorne mocking her? I couldn’t tell.

We watched Sid and Elizabeth leave the cinema. He was guiding her with his hand around her waist.

‘Her last book sold half a million copies,’ Colin Matheson muttered, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

‘Online,’ I reminded him.

Hawthorne glanced at me. ‘Yes. But she gets seventy per cent of the royalties.’

And we got much less. It was something we’d discussed more than once before, but I was disappointed that he had chosen this moment to bring it up again.

Suddenly, we were alone in the cinema with just a couple of volunteers clearing up the litter. I looked back at the stage. ‘I don’t know how she did all that,’ I said. ‘But you do realise that she’s a complete fraud?’

‘Oh yes.’ Hawthorne nodded. ‘I saw that from the very start.’ He paused. ‘But those ghosts were definitely real.’

6 The Man in the Third Row

It turned out that the question-and-answer session with Hawthorne and myself had attracted about eighty people; not quite up there with ghosts and mirrors, but still a reasonable crowd. As I took my place on the stage with Colin Matheson in the middle and Hawthorne on the far side, I quickly cast an eye over the audience. First, the absences. Over dinner, Anne Cleary had said she would definitely come, but I could hardly blame her for changing her mind. Marc Bellamy and Kathryn Harris were at The Lookout, preparing their thousand-calorie treats for the evening party. More surprisingly, there was no sign of Judith Matheson and I leaned over to ask Colin what had happened.

‘She sends her apologies,’ he said. ‘We had a problem at the house this afternoon and she had to stay behind to sort it.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘No. Just annoying …’

On the plus side, Elizabeth Lovell and her husband were sitting in the back row with George Elkin. Maïssa Lamar had also decided to show up, although without her mysterious friend from the airport. And Charles le Mesurier had been true to his word. He had arrived at the last moment and was making his way down to two reserved seats near the front.

He was not alone. He had said he was going to come with someone who worked for him and sure enough he was being followed by a second man who was supporting himself with a walking stick. He had clearly done serious damage to his left leg, which moved almost with a life of its own, out of sync with the rest of him. He was at least ten years older than le Mesurier. Dressed, unnecessarily, in a suit and tie, he was already sweating in the crowded cinema. There was something bullish about him: his steel-rimmed glasses, ruddy cheeks and black hair like a streak of oil across his head. He was scowling, perhaps with the effort of keeping up. It didn’t help that he had a reserved seat right in the middle of the third row. Sitting next to an aisle would have been easier. Part of me even wondered if le Mesurier had chosen it deliberately? He was smiling as his friend manoeuvred himself across with difficulty and tumbled rather than sat down.

The house lights dimmed.