The Sentence Is Death

‘Or Richard Pryce. You could walk to either of their places from the same station.’

‘Well, it can’t be a coincidence. He died almost exactly twenty-four hours before the murder.’

‘You’re right there, Tony. It’s not a coincidence.’

He smoked his cigarette in silence. Euston is one of the ugliest stations in London and I felt grubby even standing there, surrounded by fast-food restaurants and concrete. Finally, Hawthorne spoke. ‘Ingleton.’ The way he spoke that single word, I got the impression he’d been there before. And that he hadn’t liked it.

‘What about it?’

‘Are you busy at the moment?’

‘You know I am.’

‘We’re going to have to go there.’ Again, he wasn’t enthusiastic.

He finished his cigarette and we went into the ticket office and bought the tickets, leaving the next day.

10 Ingleton, Yorkshire

Hawthorne wasn’t in a good mood when we met at King’s Cross station the next day – but then, of course, there was nothing unusual about that. When we were together his manner ranged from distant and off-putting to downright rude and I often thought that he had spent so long investigating murderers that some of their sociopathy had rubbed off on him. There were times when I wondered if he wasn’t simply playing the role of the hard-bitten detective . . . that he slipped into it just as he did his collection of white shirts and dark suits. Why was he so reluctant to tell me anything about himself? Why did he never talk about the films he had seen, the people he’d met, what he’d done at the weekend or anything outside the business that had brought us together? What was he afraid of?

Even so, I had been hoping that this trip to Yorkshire would give him a chance to unwind. After all, we would be spending at least four hours in close proximity and surely we might bond over a Virgin coffee and a bacon sandwich? Some chance. As the train pulled out, he sat hunched up, gazing morosely out of the window. There was something in his manner, in those searching brown eyes of his and the tiny, old-fashioned suitcase that he had brought with him, that made me think of a child being evacuated in the war. When I asked him if he wanted something to eat, he just shook his head. I had bought us first-class tickets, by the way. I needed to work and I thought Hawthorne would appreciate the extra space. He hadn’t even noticed.

It was clear that he didn’t want to leave London. Ten minutes later, when we had picked up speed and were rattling through the northern suburbs, he was still staring at the flats and offices that were already thinning out. The green spaces in between seemed to alarm him and it occurred to me that apart from one day in Kent, we had never left the city. I had never seen him wearing jeans or trainers. Did he even take exercise? I wondered.

A ticket collector came along, and I used the interruption to tackle Hawthorne, albeit gently. ‘You’re very quiet,’ I said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No.’

‘I’m looking forward to a couple of days in the countryside. It’s nice to get out.’

‘You know Yorkshire?’

‘I was at university in York.’

He knew that perfectly well. He knew everything about me. He must have meant something else by the question and, running it back, I picked up the dread in his voice and understood what he was implying. ‘You don’t like Yorkshire,’ I said.

‘Not really.’

‘Why is that?’

He hesitated. ‘I spent a bit of time there.’

‘When?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

He pulled a paperback book out of his pocket and slapped it down on the table, signalling that the conversation was at an end. I looked down and saw that he had chosen A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. ‘Is that for your book club?’ I asked.

‘That’s right.’ There was something else he wanted to tell me but we were another ten miles up the track before he forced it out. ‘They want you to come to the next session.’

‘Who?’

‘The book club.’ I looked blank so he added, ‘You’ve written about Sherlock Holmes. That last novel of yours. They want to know what you think.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering how they knew about me . . . I mean, the fact that you know me.’

‘Well, I didn’t tell them.’

‘I’m sure.’

Hawthorne drew a breath. I could tell that he wanted a cigarette. ‘Someone saw you when you came into the building,’ he explained.

‘River Court?’

‘Yes. When you came up in the lift.’

I remembered the young man in the wheelchair and there had also been the married couple I had met on the ground floor. I’ve occasionally been on TV and my photograph is on my book jackets. It’s possible they would have recognised me.

‘They asked me to ask you to come,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Is that what’s worrying you? I’ll be happy to.’

‘I was worried that was what you were going to say.’