A Line to Kill

‘No. I’m perfectly well. How was Alderney?’

She was obviously keen to change the subject and I just hoped that whatever the problem was, it had sorted itself out. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. Quickly, I described the festival and the two murders that had followed. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to write the third book in the series,’ I concluded.

‘Why ever not?’

‘I’ve just explained. Derek Abbott was the killer and he committed suicide rather than go back to prison.’

‘What’s the problem with that?’

‘Well, it’s just not a very satisfying ending. He was always the most obvious suspect, so it’s not much of a surprise, and he was a thoroughly unpleasant man, so who’s going to care? Worse than that, Hawthorne didn’t really solve the murder. I mean, he did – but most of the information was handed to him on a plate.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I thought you might have a word with Random House. Maybe I can write something else.’

She sighed. ‘I did warn you against starting this series of books,’ she said. ‘I always said it was bad idea.’

‘It wasn’t my idea!’

‘And you’ve got a problem now. Everyone at Random House loved meeting Hawthorne. Graham sent me a note to say how impressed he was. If you don’t want to write the third book, I’m afraid they’ll look for someone else who will.’

‘They can’t do that, can they?’

‘You don’t own Hawthorne, Anthony. If anything, he owns you.’

I sat there gloomily while she let this sink in.

‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be worrying about the third book,’ she continued, eventually. ‘You haven’t finished the second one yet. Have you got a title, by the way?’

‘Yes. I want to call it Another Word for Murder.’ She made no response so I added: ‘After all, it is a sequel to The Word is Murder.’

She nodded. ‘That’s the problem,’ she said. ‘It sounds like a sequel. People will think they have to read the first one. If I were you, I’d think of something else.’

‘But I like it,’ I protested.

‘I don’t.’

A few minutes later, I was back in the street. It hadn’t been a brilliant meeting. I’d been told my publishers preferred my main character to me. I’d lost the title of my second book. And Hilda wasn’t going to offer me any help with the third one.

My telephone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Hawthorne.

‘Yes?’

‘Tony, are you around?’

‘I’m in town.’

‘Do you fancy coming to Oxford? I’m taking that pen back to Anne Cleary and she’s invited me to lunch.’

‘Did she invite me?’

‘No. But she likes you. She’ll be glad to see you.’

‘What time are you leaving?’

‘There’s a train at eleven fifteen.’

It was ten fifteen now – but that was typical of Hawthorne. He had a sort of myopia that possibly extended to the entire world, but certainly to me. I would be available when he needed me, although of course it didn’t work the other way round. I was tempted to say no, to tell him I was busy – but what was the point? I was only twenty minutes from Paddington Station and I had nothing much to do.

‘I’ll meet you on the train,’ I said.

In fact, Hawthorne was waiting for me at the platform and we travelled together in silence. He was still reading The Little Stranger, the book he had brought with him to Southampton, and I noticed that he wasn’t many pages further in, but then I could imagine him being not just a slow reader but a methodical one, going over every sentence and every paragraph so that he would be up to scratch when he met with his book club.

It was only in the taxi, driving through Oxford, that I asked him: ‘Did you tell Anne I was coming?’

‘No. I’m sure she won’t mind.’

‘But if she’s making lunch—’

‘You can have mine!’

Anne Cleary lived in exactly the sort of house I would have imagined for her, part of a curving terrace in a quiet area of Oxford with lots of trees. It was Victorian, red brick, with sash windows and a flight of steps leading up to the front door, the kitchen and dining room below street level. Even before we went in, I knew it would have the original cornicing, stripped wooden floors and high ceilings. There’s something about Oxford that has always appealed to authors and it seems to me that it has somehow seeped into their work. Think of Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Iris Murdoch and, more recently, Philip Pullman. It’s hard to imagine them living anywhere else.

Anne was surprised, but seemed pleased to see me and led us both into a comfortable front room. She collected Wedgwood porcelain figurines – milkmaids, ballet dancers, Little Bo Peep. They were displayed on shelves along with books, photographs, an ornamental clock, piles of letters and perfumed candles. The room managed to be simple and cluttered at the same time. Anne looked very much at home here. She was the sort of woman who liked to be comfortable, who would wear clothes that were sensible, never expensive. I suspected she had lived there for most of her adult life.