The Sentence Is Death

‘Mr Pryce characterised me in a way that made that impossible. He belittled me. He made it seem that I had brought nothing to the marriage but had used Adrian as some sort of emotional crutch. I was not the one who was disabled! Yes, I will admit that he had filled a need, but I brought much into his life that had not been there before and he drank deep from the fountainhead that I provided. I was not a parasite!’ These last words were spoken with a blaze of anger. ‘My lawyers were concerned that I was unlikely to be viewed sympathetically if I insisted on a hearing and I needed little persuasion. The law has always been fundamental in the suppression of women. Why should I think it would treat me any differently?’

She fell silent, but DI Grunshaw hadn’t finished yet. ‘Were you aware that Richard Pryce had investigated you?’ she asked. I was surprised she knew that. She must have spoken to Oliver Masefield.

‘No.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘I was advised that he might be interested in my royalties and other earnings, but I didn’t care. I had nothing to hide.’

Grunshaw glanced at Hawthorne, who briefly shook his head. There was nothing more he wanted to ask. ‘We may need to speak to you again, Ms Anno,’ she said. ‘Do you have any plans to leave London?’

‘I’m at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival next week.’

‘But you’re not leaving the country?’

‘No.’

‘Then we’ll be in touch with you soon.’

It might have ended there but suddenly I noticed that Akira Anno was staring at me. I turned away, trying to make myself invisible, but it was already too late. I actually saw the moment when she remembered who I was.

‘I know you!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve met before.’

I said nothing. I was extremely uncomfortable but neither Hawthorne nor Grunshaw chose to help me out.

‘You’re a writer!’ She was not using the word as a compliment. She stood up, her hands resting on the table, balled into fists. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. Her accent, which had been Japanese American, now veered further towards Japanese.

‘Well . . .’ I began, still hoping Hawthorne would step in.

‘Why is he here?’ She turned vengefully on DI Grunshaw.

Grunshaw shrugged. ‘I didn’t invite him. He’s writing a book.’

‘A book about me? He’s putting me in his book? I don’t want to be in his fucking book! I want my lawyer in this room. If he puts me in his book, I’ll fucking sue him.’

‘I think you’d better go,’ Grunshaw said to me.

‘This is a fucking outrage! I don’t give him permission. Do you hear me? If he writes about me, I’ll kill him!’

She was screaming, her voice not exactly loud but high-pitched, her entire body shaking as Hawthorne and I excused ourselves and hurried out as quickly as we could. I had never seen anyone so angry and at that moment it was easy to imagine her picking up the bottle of wine, smashing it over Richard Pryce’s head and then using the jagged end to make mincemeat of his neck.

If there had been another bottle handy, I had no doubt at all she would have done the same to me.

7 His Story

‘I should never have married her!’ Adrian Lockwood threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘It was one of my biggest mistakes, and God knows, I’ve made plenty of those. Mind you, she was a very sexy little piece . . . bloody attractive and the toast of the town. Everyone was talking about her. It was only when we got back from the honeymoon that I discovered she was totally self-obsessed and boring! Actually, I think I may have spotted it on the plane out now I come to think of it. I was on my third G and T before we were at the end of the runway – and I needed it.

‘I really should have seen her for what she was from the start, but, you see, she was an intellectual. I never went to university myself and I’ve always had a respect for people who are good with words. But with her . . . well, there was no stopping her. It was all words, words, words, and I’m not just talking about her writing habits, although God knows she would lock herself away for hours at a time even when she was writing those bloody poems of hers. They only had three lines but I’d hear her pounding away at the computer from dawn to dusk.’

‘Did you take an interest in her work?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’m not sure “interest” is the word I’d use. I read one of her novels but I’m more of a John Grisham fan myself and I couldn’t really see the point of it. She gave me a copy of that haiku book of hers but by then things were already going off the rails. She signed it for me so maybe I can get a couple of quid for it on eBay. I’ve certainly got no other use for the bloody thing.’