The Sentence Is Death

My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Akira Anno hadn’t just threatened Pryce with murder, she had written about it in a book of poetry. No. That wasn’t fair. She had written a poem about the nature of murder . . . if that was what the haiku meant. I wasn’t completely sure. Even so, the words had to relate to what had happened in the room. The number couldn’t be a clearer signpost.

But if she had killed Richard Pryce, would she have left a clue that incriminated herself so obviously? And if she hadn’t painted the number, who had and why? I wanted to ask Davina if she had read the haiku but she was looking at me completely innocently, wondering why I was so flabbergasted.

It was at that precise moment that the doorbell rang and I realised Hawthorne had arrived. I was relieved. This was one of those few moments when I actually wanted to see him. He could deal with Davina and ask the questions that needed to be asked, and when we left he could make sense of what I had just discovered.

‘That’s your friend!’

‘Yes.’ The doorbell rang a second time. ‘You’d better let him in,’ I said.

Davina seemed unwilling to leave me on my own but got up and drifted out of the room.

I read the haiku three more times, turning all sorts of possibilities over in my mind. At the same time, I heard Davina’s voice out in the hall, explaining that I was already here, and I wasn’t surprised a few moments later to see Hawthorne glowering at me from the doorway.

‘You’re early,’ he said. Not a statement. An accusation.

‘I was waiting outside—’ I began.

‘I saw him and I invited him in.’ Davina came to my rescue.

‘We’ve just been chatting.’ I was trying to reassure him. ‘Mrs Richardson was showing me some poetry.’

Hawthorne still looked suspicious. He sat down, folding his ever-present raincoat over the arm of the sofa. Davina offered him tea, which he refused, plunging straight in as if to make up for lost time. ‘Did you by any chance see Gregory Taylor last weekend? Possibly sometime late afternoon?’

‘Who?’ She looked perplexed.

‘The man who went caving with your husband.’

‘I know who he is. Of course I know who you mean. Why are you asking me about him?’

‘I don’t want to upset you, Mrs Richardson, but he died last Saturday . . . one day before the murder of Richard Pryce.’

She wasn’t upset. She was shocked. ‘Gregory’s dead?’

‘He fell under a train,’ I said and immediately wished I hadn’t as it drew another baleful glance from Hawthorne.

‘You didn’t see it in the newspapers?’

‘I don’t really read the newspapers. It’s all so gloomy. I sometimes watch the news on the TV but I didn’t see anything. Well, they probably wouldn’t report it, would they? If a man falls under a train . . .’

‘I’m not entirely sure he fell.’ Hawthorne was sitting very straight, his legs apart, gazing at her with what might have been a sympathetic smile. With his hair cut so close around the ears and his black suit and tie, he managed to look both innocent and aggressive.

‘What? I don’t understand . . .’

‘He didn’t come here?’

‘No. I’ve just told you. I wasn’t here anyway. I went out at half past four. No. I mean half past three. I don’t know what I mean . . . I keep getting confused! It was half past three and I went over to Brent Cross. I took Colin with me. He’s growing so fast, he needed new football kit. What makes you think Gregory was here?’

‘One of the last things he did before he died was to send his wife a selfie he took on Hornsey Lane.’

She thought about that. ‘That’s quite near here,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t imagine what he’d be doing there. He was still living in Yorkshire as far as I knew.’ She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t seen or heard from him for six years. He sent me a letter after the inquest, offering his condolences, but otherwise we’d had no contact and to be honest with you I’m not sure I would have wanted him to come into my home. I already told you. Richard wasn’t to blame for what happened that day, when Charlie died. But Gregory Taylor was supposed to be in charge. He was the one who decided they should go ahead even though the forecast predicted rain. I don’t think I’d have had anything to say to him.’

‘So what was he doing on Hornsey Lane?’

‘I have no idea. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time coming over here today. I could have told you over the phone. I didn’t see him.’

It hadn’t been a waste of time. I couldn’t wait to tell Hawthorne about the haiku.

Hawthorne picked up his raincoat and got to his feet. ‘Thank you for seeing us,’ he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘I’m sorry to have to ask this, Mrs Richardson, but I need you to tell me. What exactly is your relationship with Adrian Lockwood?’