Close to Death

Another address with a river in the name – but this was a building I had been to many times. Hawthorne lived here on the twelfth floor and now it turned out that Dudley had a flat on the first. Had Hawthorne arranged it for him or did he have Morton to thank for his accommodation? I would have been really interested to know just how many of the flats belonged to Fenchurch International and what other refugees, criminals or aliens of one sort or another they had hiding out here.

As I arrived at the front door, I was in two minds. Who should I call on: Hawthorne or his former assistant? It was a decision easily made. Neither of them wanted to see me, but there was more chance that Dudley would open the door. What did he have to lose?

I rang the bell.

Silence.

Then . . .

‘Hello?’ It was quite something to hear his voice. A lot of writers say that their characters talk to them but very few of them mean it literally.

‘John Dudley?’

‘Yes.’

I told him who I was. ‘I work with Hawthorne,’ I explained. ‘Can I come in?’

There was another long pause and I wondered whether he was going to ignore me. He might be calling Hawthorne. He might have gone out a back way. Then I heard a buzzing sound. I pushed the door and it opened. He had let me in.

I walked up to the first floor. Dudley was waiting for me outside an open door, about halfway down a corridor that was identical to Hawthorne’s: the same neutral colours and discreet lights. Everything was very quiet. I walked up to him.

‘Does Hawthorne know you’re here?’ he asked.

It was interesting that this should be his first question. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Probably just as well. Did Detective Superintendent Khan give you my address?’

How did he even know we’d met? I decided to tell him the truth. ‘Yes. I gave him a signed book.’

‘I’m surprised he’s so cheap.’ He examined me for a few moments. Then he came to a decision. ‘Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in.’

I walked into a flat that was as empty as Hawthorne’s – but for a different reason. There were three suitcases by the door, a pile of cardboard boxes over by the window, the sort removal men use to pack up your life. A single plate, a knife and a fork sat beside the sink in the open-plan kitchen. The furniture had been reduced to the bare necessities. This wasn’t how he always lived. He was leaving.

‘You’ve just caught me,’ he said.

‘Where are you going?’

‘The Cayman Islands. Tomorrow.’

That made me think of Lady Barraclough. ‘Will you be gone for long?’ I asked.

‘It may be a one-way ticket.’ I felt him examining me, although his face gave nothing away. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked.

‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

He opened a cupboard that contained a jar of instant coffee, two mugs, a bag of sugar. He put the kettle on and took a carton of milk out of the fridge. And all the time I watched him with the uncanny feeling that in a strange way I was watching myself. I had taken his place! And looking at his brown eyes, his dark – definitely lank – hair, it occurred to me that in some ways he looked rather like me, although I was older and perhaps more smartly dressed. Neither of us spoke while he made the coffee. Maybe he was waiting for me to go first.

‘You know I’m writing about Hawthorne,’ I said as he sat down.

‘I’ve read the first two books,’ he said. ‘I hear they’ve done quite well.’

I got a faint sense of disapproval. ‘I feel I’ve stepped into your shoes,’ I suggested.

‘I don’t agree.’ Dudley added three teaspoons of sugar to his coffee. ‘You’re writing about him. I worked for him. I’d say we had very different roles.’

‘Did he tell you that I’m writing about Riverview Close?’

Dudley paused, mid-stir. ‘No. I heard about that – but not from him.’

‘Then who?’

‘From Alastair Morton.’ He looked around him at the empty flat. ‘In case you’re wondering, it’s no coincidence that I’m packing up and I’m on my way. It’s thanks to you.’

‘How come?’

‘You talked to Khan.’ That made no sense to me so he continued. ‘You’ve been asking questions about me. You’ve found your way to my home. Did you know that Fenchurch International owns half the flats in this building? It’s meant to be a safe space – but not any more. Morton wants me out of the way. And so I’ve got to go.’

He had spoken without malice but I still felt terrible. ‘Does he really have such a hold over you?’ I asked.

‘He employs me. Hawthorne got me the job, but Morton signs the cheques.’

‘I’m very sorry . . .’ I didn’t know what to say.

‘Don’t be. I don’t mind a bit of sunshine and I’ve always fancied trying my hand at fraud – white-collar crime. It’ll be an experience.’

There was a brief silence.

‘You must see quite a lot of Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘Living in the same building.’

‘I used to – but you could say we had a difference of opinion. Sometimes we see each other coming in, going out. But we tend to keep our distance.’

‘Where did the two of you meet?’

I hadn’t expected him to answer and I was surprised when he did.

‘In Reeth.’

‘You grew up there?’