The Sentence Is Death

Adrian Lockwood was the sort of man who was hard to dislike although he was doing everything he could to help us on our way. Lying back on the sofa with one denim-covered leg crossed over the other, a shining, black leather Chelsea boot dangling in front of us and his arms spread over the cushions, he looked every inch the shark he undoubtedly was. He had mean eyes that lurked behind sunglasses similar to those of his ex-wife, although in his case they were Porsche or Jaguar: racing-car chic. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail that didn’t suit him at all – he was well into his fifties – and he had a deep tan that must have come from his yacht in the Camargue. As well as designer jeans, he was wearing a dark blue velvet jacket that showed just a few flecks of dandruff on the shoulders, and a soft white shirt, open at the neck.

We had met him that same afternoon at his home in Edwardes Square, a twenty-minute walk from the police station through Holland Park. It was one of a terrace of houses that were not just similar but seemed to have been purposely designed to have no variations – the same proportions, the same arched doorways, the same black railings and, almost certainly, the same class of multimillionaire owners. We could tell which one was his from the car that was parked outside: a silver Lexus sedan with the registration number RJL 1.

Lockwood was on his own although the house showed signs of a cleaner and maybe even a housekeeper too, with expensive flower arrangements in vases, rigorously hoovered carpets and not a spot of dust to be seen. He had met us at the door, taking Hawthorne’s coat and hanging it on an art deco coat stand with a skull-handled umbrella – Alexander McQueen no less – poking out beneath. From there we had gone past an office and a home cinema and up to the first floor, which consisted of a single large space stretching the entire length of the building and offering views onto the square with its communal garden at the front and the smaller, very ornate, private garden behind.

This was the main living area, with an open-plan kitchen attached. A burst of October sunlight had flooded in, illuminating a thick, oyster-pink carpet, solid, quite traditional furniture, heavy, drooping curtains and a scattering of books on shelves. These included Two Hundred Haikus by Akira Anno, the book he had mentioned. A marble counter separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. The units could have come from one of those companies that manage to put three zeros on even a pedal bin and looked as if they had never been used.

‘This was your second marriage,’ Hawthorne said. He wasn’t impressed by the house or its owner. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, facing Lockwood, his hands clenched below his knees and his whole body tense, as if about to pounce.

‘That’s right.’ He was sober for a moment. ‘As I’m sure you know perfectly well, my first marriage came to a very unhappy end.’

Lockwood’s first wife had been Stephanie Brook, a Coronation Street actress who had reached the finals of Strictly Come Dancing. She had died of a drug overdose while she was on his yacht in Barbados and the tabloid press had been full of gossip about suicide – something he had always denied. I had looked at the stories on my phone before I had got here. Stephanie had been, according to one headline, ‘big, blonde and bubbly’. The opposite of Akira.

‘How did you meet your second wife?’ Hawthorne continued.

‘At Ronnie Scott’s. Someone introduced us.’

‘And you were married . . . ?’

‘On the eighteenth of February 2010, three days after my birthday, as it happened. That was the last happy birthday I was going to have for a while! Westminster registry office and then lunch at the Dorchester for two hundred people. It’s lucky I stipulated no presents or I’d have to send them all back!’ Again, he laughed at his own joke. ‘I have to tell you that when the police told me they were investigating a murder, for one brief, joyous moment I assumed someone must have done her in.’

‘Why is that?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Because she’s horrible, that’s why! She reminds me of a cat I used to have . . . a Siamese. It looked beautiful curled up in front of the fire and it would purr when you reached out to stroke it. But then a minute later, for no reason at all, it could twist round and sink its teeth into your hand. You never knew what was on its bloody mind.’

I remembered the way Akira had turned on me. ‘What happened to the cat?’ I asked.

‘Oh. I had it put down.’

‘So you must have been surprised when you were told that the victim was your solicitor, Richard Pryce,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I’ll say!’ He held up a finger, contradicting himself. ‘Well, he was a lawyer. And you know what they say about lawyers! What do you call a thousand lawyers chained together at the bottom of the ocean?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘A good start!’