The Sentence Is Death

‘One night, Richard and I got very drunk together – this was before he stopped drinking – and he actually broke down and all the pain and the guilt and the unhappiness that he had been feeling came flooding out. I realised then that I’d been unfair to him and that in a way he had been as much a victim of what had happened as Colin and me . . . and even Charlie. After that, I sort of gave in. I let him help me. When he offered to take over Colin’s school fees, I didn’t argue. Charlie had left me a bit of money but not a lot. There wasn’t any point being cynical about what Richard was doing and anyway, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He really was acting for the best.’

‘Were you aware that he’d left you money in his will?’

‘Yes. I don’t know how much. But he always said I’d be all right if anything happened to him. He was very rich and Stephen must make a fortune from his gallery. I’m going in to see Oliver Masefield tomorrow. He’ll tell me what happens next.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I hope you don’t mind but if you don’t have any more questions, I really have to get on. I want to make sure Colin is doing his homework. And I have to do some mood boards for a client . . .’

‘Of course.’ Hawthorne got to his feet. The cigarette was still in his hand. ‘We may need to talk to you again.’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help.’

She waited until we had left the kitchen, then followed us out. We said goodbye at the door, then stepped back out into the street. It was quite dark by now, although Priory Gardens always did seem quite a shadowy place, tucked away beneath the hill. We walked back to the station. For a while, Hawthorne didn’t speak.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘Tony, mate, I’ve told you this before. I don’t like you asking questions. That’s not why you’re there.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ I replied. ‘What possible harm could I have done?’

‘I don’t know yet. But let’s not forget what happened last time. You asked one stupid question and you almost destroyed the whole bloody case!’

‘You’re not telling me you think Davina Richardson had anything to do with the death, are you?’

‘I’m not telling you anything, mate. I just don’t want you to interfere.’

We entered the station. I plucked an Evening Standard off the pile, which was my way of saying that I didn’t expect there to be any conversation on the journey. It was a redundant gesture anyway as we took different Tubes. Hawthorne left first on his way to Waterloo. I took the King’s Cross branch. I would change there for Farringdon.

But we did have one last exchange, standing together on the platform.

‘Colin said that Richard Pryce was being followed by someone,’ I said. ‘Do you think it could have been the same man that Adrian Lockwood told us about, the one who broke into his office?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘The kid said there was something wrong with his face . . .’

‘He said that was what Richard told him.’

‘Well, if that was the case, you’d have thought the receptionist at Lockwood’s office would have noticed.’

‘She said he had a skin problem.’ It wasn’t quite the same thing but it was close enough. ‘Maybe that was why he was wearing the blue glasses. You said it yourself. He could have worn them on purpose to distract attention.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose. But Colin actually said something much more interesting.’

‘What was that?’

‘He used to read your books.’

Was Hawthorne trying to tell me something or was he just being annoying? Or both? I wasn’t going to find out because that was when the first Tube came exploding out of the tunnel and ground to a halt along the platform’s edge.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Hawthorne said.

The doors slid shut behind him.

My Tube came four minutes later. I found a seat and opened the newspaper I had picked up. I read the front cover and the first couple of pages. I’d just reached Kentish Town when a tiny article, buried in the corner, caught my eye.

DEAD MAN IDENTIFIED

Police have named the man who was killed at King’s Cross station on Saturday 26 October when he fell in front of an oncoming train. Gregory Taylor, who worked as a finance manager, was from Ingleton in Yorkshire. He was married with two teenaged daughters. The inquiry continues.

9 PUT

I’ve always had a fascination with secret passageways and places you’re not allowed to go. When I was a child, my parents used to take me to expensive hotels and I still remember sneaking into the service areas: I loved the way the plush carpets and chandeliers suddenly stopped and everything was grubby and utilitarian. In Stanmore, north London, my sister and I would crawl under the fence to sneak around the office complex next door to our home and even today, in a museum, a department store, a theatre, a Tube station, I’ll find myself wondering what goes on behind those locked doors. I sometimes think that it’s actually a good definition of creative writing: to unlock doors and take readers through to the other side.