Close to Death

‘So what happened in Riverside . . . or Riverview Close?’ I waited while he smoked in silence. I was actually getting quite annoyed. ‘Who was murdered?’

‘A man called Giles Kenworthy. He wasn’t very nice . . . some sort of hedge fund manager. Old Etonian. Right-wing, borderline racist. He had a wife and a couple of kids, though, and they weren’t too happy about him dying.’

‘It sounds like a great start,’ I said. ‘Why was he killed?’

‘He didn’t get on with his neighbours.’

I wondered if Hawthorne was being sarcastic. ‘Did you keep your notes from the case?’ I asked. ‘Can you remember all the details?’

‘I had an assistant. He took notes. And he recorded the interviews.’

Hawthorne said this in a way that was completely matter-of-fact and didn’t seem to notice how much it affected me. I’d spent weeks with him, following in his footsteps, and then months writing about him. He’d never once mentioned or even hinted that he’d had a different sidekick before he met me.

‘What was his name?’ I asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because if we go ahead with this, I suppose I might just end up writing about him.’

‘John Dudley,’ Hawthorne said, reluctantly. ‘He helped me with the case. He did the same job as you. Not the writing, though. He was more . . . professional.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I muttered. ‘Where is he now?’

‘We haven’t seen each other for a while.’

‘Why did he stop working with you?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘He had other things to do.’

That was a non-answer if ever I’d heard one.

‘Well, I don’t think we have any choice,’ I went on, repeating what Hilda had told me. ‘We’ve only got five months to deliver because the publishers want the next book out at the end of next year. Of course, we could sit back and wait for another murder, but it sounds as if things have been quiet for you recently, and even if someone does get killed, there’s no saying it’ll be interesting enough for book five.’

‘Can’t you make something up?’

‘And put you in it? I don’t think that would work. Look, what we’ve got here is a case you’ve already investigated – and solved. Why can’t you just tell me what happened?’

Hawthorne thought for a few moments as he finished smoking. ‘I suppose I could describe it for you,’ he said eventually. He ground out the cigarette and dropped it into the plastic lid. ‘But I’d want to see what you were writing.’

‘You mean . . . while I was writing it?’

‘Yes.’

The thought horrified me. I wasn’t sure I could work with Hawthorne peering over my shoulder. I’d have to censor half the things I said about him. Worse than that, he would have the upper hand. He had met all the suspects. He’d been there, whereas, to some extent, I would be groping in the dark. Inevitably, I’d have to make a lot of it up and I could see us arguing about every word, every description. It might take years to complete. ‘Why would you want to do that?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘I trust you so much, I don’t even read you. But this time I’d have to make sure you got it right. We’d be writing it together.’

‘That’s not how I work . . .’

‘But this is different!’

He had a point. I could look at photographs, read police reports, listen to recordings, get Hawthorne to describe everything he’d seen . . . but I’d still be writing from a distance. The book would be in the third person (he/they) and not the first (I). As every writer knows, this would completely change the way the story was presented. It would have a universality, a sense of disconnection. It would not be my story, my arrival on the scene, my first impressions. Everything would have to be channelled through Hawthorne and he was right to say that it would be, to some extent, a collaboration.

I still didn’t like the idea.

‘We’re not writing it together,’ I said. ‘You’re supplying the basic information, but I’m the one doing the writing. It’s my style. My descriptions. And,’ I added, ‘my name on the cover.’

He looked at me innocently. ‘I know that, Tony.’

‘No shared credit.’

‘Whatever you say, mate.’

‘And you’ll give me everything you have.’

‘You can have it all.’ He paused. ‘One step at a time.’

My cappuccino had gone cold. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I just think it’ll be easier that way. I’ll give you everything you need – but in instalments. You write two or three chapters. I read them. Then we talk about them. If you get anything wrong, I can steer you back on the right track. Like – you know – fact-checking.’

‘But you will give me the solution!’

‘No. I won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You never know the solution, mate. That’s what makes your writing so special. You don’t have a clue.’

Had any compliment ever been more backhanded? I thought about what he was offering and came to a decision. Like it or not, there was no other way of delivering a book to my publishers in time. I reached down and opened my workbag. I took out a notepad and a pen.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Where do we begin?’

3