Close to Death

‘And where are you now?’

She seemed puzzled by the question. ‘I will show you!’ There was a blur as she moved across the kitchen and turned the camera round to show a street that was distinctly Asian. Khan could see trams, crowds of people passing in front of shops, banners with Chinese characters. ‘This is Hong Kong!’ She turned the phone round again. ‘Why are you asking? Why do you want to know?’

‘We were just checking something, Ms Yeung. I’m sorry to disturb you.’

Khan handed the phone back to Strauss, who spoke briefly. ‘I’ll explain later, Wendy. It’s nothing to worry about.’ He clicked it off, then looked at Khan defiantly. ‘There is one other thing I would like to mention as I found it personally offensive,’ he said. ‘Mr Hawthorne suggested that I killed Wendy because I didn’t want to pay her alimony. It’s true that I’ve had financial difficulties. It’s the reason I downsized. But if you like, I can arrange for my bank manager to send you details of a standing order that I’ve been paying every month for several years now. It’s one thousand pounds, paid directly to an account in Hong Kong. You may not think twelve thousand pounds a year is overgenerous, but it’s all I can afford and it’s all Wendy needs. She gets plenty of support from the family, and since Teri is part of that same family, it’s an arrangement that suits everyone. Is there anything more you want to know?’

There was a long silence. Khan turned to Hawthorne with a look of utter contempt.

‘Detective Superintendent . . .’ Hawthorne began.

Khan held up a hand for silence.

‘I think we’ve heard enough, thank you, Hawthorne.’ He stood up. ‘I owe you an apology, Mr Strauss.’

‘You don’t need to apologise, Detective Superintendent. You weren’t the one making the accusations. And if there’s any further information you require – bank details, whatever – please let me know.’

‘Ten moves ahead . . .’ Hawthorne muttered.

‘We’ll show ourselves out,’ Khan said.

Nine Endgame

1

Was this the ending that Hawthorne had warned me against?

Hawthorne hadn’t wanted me to write the book. He’d said he wasn’t happy about the way it had turned out – both the case and his relationship with John Dudley. Dudley was part of the fallout. I already knew that because, of course, I’d taken his place. Roland Hawthorne had also tried to get me to stop. And when I was at Fenchurch International, Morton had described the whole exercise as a mistake I would come to regret. He must have known that Hawthorne’s conclusions would be thrown out by the police and that Adam Strauss would never be arrested or brought to trial. In which case, all the work I’d done so far had been a complete waste of time. It was the one thing I’d always feared. That I’d get to the end of the book and realise that I didn’t have one.

I called Hawthorne three times once I’d listened to Dudley’s recording, but got no reply, not even a voice message. He must have deactivated his phone because he knew how I’d feel and didn’t want to talk to me. I sat at my desk, unable to concentrate on Riverview Close, James Bond or anything else. All I could think about was how much time I’d wasted on a book that was never going to be published. It was incredible to think that when I’d set out, I’d thought it was going to be easy!

Was it possible that I’d missed something, that there was some clue I’d overlooked? I went through everything I’d been given and everything I’d written so far. In particular, I examined what Hawthorne had said in front of Detective Superintendent Khan at The Stables. It had all sounded so credible – until the letters and New Year’s card had been produced. And then that FaceTime call! Could it be that Adam Strauss had committed the two murders, but for a different reason, that if Wendy Strauss wasn’t buried under the magnolia tree, something else was concealed there?

But then I had to remind myself that Strauss had never been brought to trial. He was a chess grandmaster and a television celebrity of sorts: it would have been a huge story if he had been. Instead, he had died in an accident, falling off a hotel balcony. I shuddered. Giles Kenworthy, Roderick Browne, Raymond Shaw, Ellery the dog, and then Adam Strauss . . . How could a quiet residential close in a nice part of London have been responsible for so much death?

Had it been an accident?

Adam Strauss, accused of murder, somehow plunging to his death. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but I knew it was too much of a coincidence. He had been murdered. There was no escaping it. And that led me to an inescapable thought.