The Sentence Is Death

Spencer thought back. ‘No. He didn’t say her name. But he did refer to her. I knew the case had been on his mind . . . he’d talked about it a bit when we were at The Delaunay, although he was very discreet; he never gave me any details. Anyway, one thing he did say when we were on the phone was that he’d spoken to Oliver. That’s Oliver Masefield. They were both senior partners at the firm . . . Masefield Pryce Turnbull. I was going to ask him about that when the doorbell went.’

‘The doorbell here?’ Grunshaw asked.

‘Yes. I heard it at the end of the line. Richard stopped in the middle of a sentence. “Who can that be?” he said. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He told me to hang on a minute and he put his phone down.’

‘He was also on his mobile?’

‘Yes. He must have put it on the table in the hall. There was a long pause and then I heard his footsteps on the wooden flooring and I think I may have heard the door open. Then I heard him speak. “What are you doing here?” That’s what he said. He sounded surprised. “It’s a bit late.”’

Darren had been writing all this down too. He paused. ‘His exact words?’ he asked.

This time Spencer didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m certain of it. “It’s a bit late.” That’s what he said.’

‘And then?’

‘He came back to the phone. He said he’d call me back later and he hung up.’

‘He didn’t tell you anything else about his visitor?’ Darren had a way of ensuring his questions sounded aggressive and intimidating. He could have made you feel nervous just wishing you a good morning. ‘You didn’t hear them say anything else?’

‘He didn’t say anything more. I told you. He just hung up.’ The tears welled up again. ‘I waited for him to call me again but when I didn’t hear from him I thought he must have been busy or something. He was often like that. He would get absorbed in what he was doing. I drove back this morning and when I got to the house I saw all the police cars and I still had no idea . . .’

Hawthorne had been listening to all this with his shoulders half turned towards the window. Now he looked back. ‘Nice car,’ he said. ‘Does it have electric windows?’

‘What?’ Spencer was so thrown by the question that he briefly forgot his tears. I was less surprised. From my experience of Hawthorne, I knew he had a way of firing off seemingly irrelevant observations. He wasn’t being deliberately offensive. It was just that offensive was his default mode.

‘It’s a classic model,’ Hawthorne went on. ‘What’s the date?’

‘Nineteen sixty-eight.’

Spencer was tight-lipped now, looking to DI Grunshaw to take back control. She obliged. ‘You know that your husband was attacked with a bottle of wine. It was a Château Lafite Rothschild. Was that the same bottle of wine given to him by Adrian Lockwood?’

‘I can’t be certain – but yes, I think so. Richard had said it was very expensive. It was also a waste of money because he didn’t drink.’

‘He was a teetotaller.’

‘Yes.’

‘So there’s no alcohol in the house,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Actually, there’s quite a lot of stuff in the kitchen – whisky, gin, beer and so on. I’ll have a drink now and then. But Richard didn’t like alcohol. That’s all.’

Cara Grunshaw smiled at Hawthorne. It didn’t make her look any more attractive. I was becoming aware of an edge of malice behind her good humour. ‘Do you have any other questions?’ she asked.

‘Just one.’ Hawthorne turned to Spencer. ‘You mentioned that Richard was expecting a visitor on Saturday afternoon. Did he say who it was?’

Spencer considered. ‘No. He just said there was someone coming. He didn’t say who.’

‘I think you’ve probably got enough,’ Grunshaw cut in, daring Hawthorne to disagree. ‘Why don’t you run along now while I take a full statement from Mr Spencer?’

‘Whatever you say, Cara.’

I still half admired the way she’d handled herself. She was the complete opposite of Meadows. She wasn’t going to allow Hawthorne to get under her skin and she had made it clear that she was the one in charge. The two of us left, taking the stairs back down and passing through the front door. The moment we were outside, Hawthorne lit a cigarette. While he was doing that, I examined the broken bulrushes a second time, looking for a footprint. Sure enough, there was a small, quite deep indentation in the soil. It might have been made by the tip of someone’s shoe or, more probably (I thought), a woman’s stiletto heel.

‘What a tosser,’ Hawthorne muttered.

‘Grunshaw?’

‘Stephen Spencer.’ Hawthorne blew out smoke. ‘Christ! I couldn’t have stood in that room a minute longer. If his wrists had been any limper, his hands would have fallen off.’

‘You can hold it right there,’ I said. ‘I’ve already told you. You can’t talk about people’s sexuality like that. I’m not having it and I’m not putting it in the book.’

‘You can put what you bloody like in the book, mate. But I wasn’t talking about his sexuality. I was talking about his acting technique. Did you believe any of it? The tears? The hanky? He was lying through his teeth.’