The Sentence Is Death

‘That’s right. Richard and Stephen bought Heron’s Wake ages ago. It’s in Fitzroy Park – only a ten- or fifteen-minute drive from here. Have you been there?’ She corrected herself. ‘Of course you have. I’m sorry. My head’s all over the place.’ She dragged on her cigarette then reached out and tapped off the ash. ‘The house needed freshening up. The whole place was feeling tired and there was too much white. I always think that white walls are overrated. The trouble is, they don’t have any . . .’ She searched for the word.

‘Colour?’ I suggested.

‘Emotion. Everything in modern life is white and glass and those awful vertical blinds. It’s so hard! But if you go to Venice or the South of France or any of the Mediterranean countries, what do you get? Wonderful blues. Deep purple. Everything vibrant and alive. Just because we live in a cold country, it doesn’t mean we can’t import a little tropical warmth.’

‘I understand that Adrian Lockwood was here the evening Richard Pryce died,’ Hawthorne said, abruptly cutting into this meditation.

‘Who told you that?’ she asked, and I noticed a little tropical red creeping into her cheeks.

‘He did.’

For the first time she fell silent and in that moment it became obvious what sort of relationship the two of them had had. What else would Adrian Lockwood have been doing here on a Sunday evening?

‘Yes, he was here,’ she admitted, eventually. ‘It was actually Richard who introduced us. He was representing Adrian, who was going through a very painful divorce . . .’

‘It didn’t sound too painful, the way he talked about it,’ Hawthorne said with a faint smile.

She ignored this. ‘The two of us became friends and after it was over, if Adrian was on his own and he needed someone to talk to, he would come round here.’ She paused. ‘I also know what it’s like to be alone. Anyway, that was what happened last Sunday. The two of us shared a bottle of wine. Actually, I had most of it. He was driving.’

‘Did he tell you where he was going?’

‘I think he was going home. He didn’t say.’

‘But you can tell us when he left.’

‘As a matter of fact, I can tell you to the minute. Bertha told me.’ She pointed into the corner and I noticed an art deco grandfather clock looking slightly incongruous, wedged between the washing machine and the door where we’d come in. No – it was too slender to be a grandfather clock and apparently it was known as Bertha. A grandmother clock. ‘She chimes the hour,’ Davina went on. ‘Adrian left here just after eight o’clock.’

When Adrian Lockwood had spoken to us, he had put the time at eight fifteen but his story more or less tallied with hers, meaning that neither of them could have killed Richard Pryce – unless they had planned it together. But what possible motive could they have had? OK, perhaps they were having an affair, but Pryce wasn’t in their way. Quite the opposite. He had brought them together. And he had given them both what they needed. Adrian Lockwood had his low-cost divorce. She had her business, her school fees and all the rest.

Hawthorne was about to ask her something else when Davina looked up sharply and called out, ‘Colin? Is that you?’

A moment later, a boy appeared in the doorway. He was about fifteen years old, dressed in the black trousers and white shirt that were part of the Highgate School uniform. The distinctive tie, with its red and blue stripes, had been pulled down loose so it hung about halfway down his chest and his collar was open. He looked nothing like his mother. He was thin and gangly, tall for his age, with curly hair and freckles. He was caught somewhere between the boy he had been and the man he might become, as if his body hadn’t quite made up its mind which way to go. The beginnings of a moustache showed faintly on his upper lip; although he hadn’t started shaving yet, he needed to. When he spoke, it was with a hard, sandpapery voice that had only recently broken. There was an acne spot on his chin.

‘Mum?’ he asked.

‘Colin! Were you listening on the stairs?’

‘No. I heard voices. I came down.’

‘This is the policeman I was telling you about. He’s asking questions about poor Richard.’

Colin took this as an invitation to slouch into the room and slump into a chair.

‘Do you want an apple juice?’ his mother asked. I noticed that she had quickly stubbed out her cigarette.

‘No, thanks.’

Then she remembered. She told him my name, adding: ‘He writes those books you used to like.’

‘What books?’

‘The Alan Rider series.’

‘Alex Rider,’ I said.

Colin’s eyes widened when he heard that. ‘They were great!’ he said. ‘I read them at prep school. I liked Point Blanc best.’ He frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

I pointed at Hawthorne. ‘I’m helping him.’

‘Are you writing about him?’

‘Yes.’ For once, it seemed unnecessary to deny it.

‘Cool! You could do a detective series like Alex Rider! Have you found out who killed him yet?’ Colin didn’t seem at all put out by the death of his godfather. To him it was just another page in an adventure story.