Close to Death

‘What happened to Adam Strauss?’ I asked.

That threw him. ‘The official story is that he was staying at a hotel in Park Lane, taking part in a chess tournament. He went to his room between games and somehow fell off the balcony. His wife wasn’t with him at the time. There was evidence that he’d been drinking.’

‘Do you believe that?’

He smiled, but not pleasantly. ‘According to Teri Strauss, he never drank when he was playing chess. He needed to keep a clear mind. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing well. He was losing. That might have had a part to play.’

‘Presumably, you investigated.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was called in – because of my prior acquaintance with Mr Strauss. It wasn’t my investigation, though.’

‘And?’

‘Do you want to know because of your concern for the deceased?’ He paused. ‘Or is it because you think your friend ex-Detective Inspector Hawthorne might have had something to do with it?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That thought never crossed my mind.’

‘Well, it crossed mine. He’s got a bit of a reputation for this sort of thing.’

‘He would never kill anyone.’

‘We looked at CCTV footage, but that was a waste of time. Lots of people going in and out of the reception area, but these days it’s all baseball caps, sunglasses and hoodies. Anyway, if someone did want to sneak into the room, they could have got in through the service area and up the backstairs. Security at the hotel was pathetic. You might like to know that we pulled Hawthorne in and we talked to him at length. Of course he played wide-eyed and innocent. But there was no one who could tell us where he was when the supposed accident happened. Home alone, he said. Strange that he didn’t make or receive any calls either. Total radio silence. He said he was assembling an Airfix Supermarine Spitfire Mark One. Makes you wonder what sort of man spends an entire day on his own with a model kit.’

‘I refuse to believe he went anywhere near Adam Strauss.’

‘You can believe what you like. But he’d still concluded, against all the evidence, that Adam Strauss was a killer, and given his past record, it’s hardly a surprise that he decided to take things into his own hands . . .’

‘I think you should leave him alone.’

‘You leave me alone and that’ll make us quits.’

He opened the book I had given him and twisted it round for me to sign. ‘My boy’s name is Nadeem,’ he said.

I dedicated the book and he closed it without looking at what I’d written.

‘Are you still interested in John Dudley?’ he asked, almost as an afterthought.

‘Very much so. Can you tell me anything about him?’

Khan nodded. ‘In a way, he and Hawthorne were made for each other. He’s a sad act – a bright, up-and-coming DC down in Bristol. A lot of people spoke very highly of him. But it all went wrong when his fiancée was killed in an accident. It happened just before Christmas. The driver was a man called Terence Stagg. He was the bar manager at a hotel in Cardiff and not a nice piece of work. He knocked her down on the way to work. The thing is, though, he was on his mobile at the time.’

‘Is he in jail?’

‘He should have got ten to twelve years, but he had smart lawyers and they managed to get him off scot-free. They couldn’t prove he was speeding. He was seen holding the phone, but he claimed he was using it hands-free. And one of the street lights was broken – that was the key to the defence. Anyway, it was enough. He walked away without even paying a fine.

‘These things happen from time to time and you have to live with them, but it didn’t work out that way. Stagg had some mates meet him outside the court and they were all having a laugh, celebrating his release. One of them had even brought a bottle of champagne. Dudley came out and saw them and went berserk. Punched the lights out of one of them and put Stagg in hospital with a broken jaw. He was lucky not to get prosecuted himself, but his work went to pieces after that. He started drinking. There were a couple of other incidents and he was out of the force within a year. He’s spent the last four years working as a security guard . . . something like that. Bit pathetic, really.’

Khan took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He laid it on the table in front of me.

‘Anyway, I managed to track him down for you. This is where he lives – not so far from here. If you visit him, don’t say you got this from me.’

He walked away. I opened the piece of paper and glanced at the address. I recognised it immediately. I knew exactly where it was. I should have known all along.

3

Nineteen B, River Court.