A Line to Kill

‘About two o’clock. I drove past her just as she came out of the house. She turned left, heading up towards the quarry.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘I didn’t see anyone else. I thought about offering her a lift, but I was going the other way, and anyway, that slightly defeats the point of being a taxi driver – giving people lifts for free!’

As we turned into the approach road that led to the airport, we were overtaken by another car and I saw Special Constable Whitlock driving with Deputy Chief Torode in the back seat. He was sitting with his head against the window, part of his face pressed flat by the glass. He hadn’t noticed us and I thought he might be asleep, but when we finally drew up in the car park, he got out and came over to us.

‘Hawthorne …’

‘Have you come to say goodbye, Deputy Chief?’

‘I wish. But actually, it seems I may need your help after all.’

We were standing in the car park with the entrance to the airport in front of us. I noticed the minibus that had met us when we’d arrived. Marc Bellamy was just getting out, followed by Kathryn Harris. As usual, she was carrying all the luggage. The aircraft that would take us all to Southampton was waiting beside the runway.

‘We went to arrest Derek Abbott this morning,’ Torode continued.

‘And?’

‘He’s not at home. He’s not answering his phone.’

‘You think he’s done a runner?’ Hawthorne was amused.

‘I would have thought that unlikely. This is an island.’

‘I hadn’t noticed that.’

Torode frowned. ‘Look here, Hawthorne. You talked to him. You know him better than any of us. I thought you might want to come along because you might see something that could help us find him. Or you can get on a plane and piss off home and we can forget we ever met. It’s entirely up to you.’

There were actually a few things that Torode was forgetting, starting with the fact that it was Hawthorne who had supplied him with the information that had enabled him to arrest Abbott in the first place. Also, Torode had reneged on his agreement and had told Hawthorne that he wasn’t going to be paid.

Despite all this, I wasn’t at all surprised when Hawthorne turned to me and asked: ‘What do you think, Tony? Do you mind getting a later plane?’

I was fine with that. I was uncomfortable about running into Marc Bellamy again and I was curious to see more of Abbott’s home. ‘Sure,’ I said.

So off we went, in the back seat of Torode’s car with our luggage in the boot, Torode silent, Whitlock grim, Hawthorne thoughtful. It wasn’t the most pleasant journey across the island, passing the sites of not one but two murders, and I was glad when we finally arrived at Quesnard Cottage and got out. There was a uniformed policeman standing at the door; from Alderney or Guernsey, I had no idea. Whitlock stayed in the car, her hands still gripping the steering wheel as if she was afraid someone would drag her out.

The front door was unlocked. Either Torode had found it that way or he had forced his way in. There was no sign of any damage. It was strange what a difference it made, arriving in the bright midday sunlight without Mozart’s Requiem playing in the background. I’d had a sense of unease when I had approached it the first time – less than twenty-four hours ago. I’d allowed my knowledge of the man who lived there to influence the way I described the place and it was interesting how little impact his home made on me now. Every writer knows about the pathetic fallacy, where the weather, the light and even music can be used to manipulate a reader’s mood. But it seemed that I’d done quite the opposite, allowing my own mood to influence the weather.

We passed into the hallway and I remembered Abbott standing there, ugly and defensive, swearing at Hawthorne before we were allowed in. This time, Torode led us into the living room, Abbott’s ‘safe space’ and the very heart of the house. As well as the chairs and the sofas, the TV and the sound system, there was a large desk with a computer, indicating that this was where Abbott worked as well as relaxed. If there were any clues to his current whereabouts, they would be found here.

Hawthorne quickly checked the surface of the desk. There was a diary open at yesterday’s date, but the page was blank. A selection of postcards with views of Alderney were lying on top of an in tray that also contained various household bills. A single rollerball pen lay to one side, the lid missing. ‘Have you searched the place?’ he asked.

‘Not yet.’ That surprised me, but Torode explained: ‘I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. That’s why I thought you might help. The computer’s locked, by the way, and there’s no convenient password this time. Anyway, it’s probably full of porn. To be honest with you, I haven’t got the stomach for it. Maybe Whitlock’s right. I can’t wait to get back to Guernsey.’

‘Does Abbott have any friends on the island? Anyone he might have contacted?’