The Sentence Is Death

‘How can I help you?’ he asked. ‘I take it you’re not here to buy art.’ He was being starchy with us and I could understand why. The last time we had seen him, he had been at his most vulnerable, in tears, and Hawthorne hadn’t exactly been sympathetic. There was a simmering hostility between them even now. Hawthorne was homophobic. It was his least endearing trait. I’m sure Spencer had picked up on it.

‘I want to know where you were last weekend,’ Hawthorne said. His voice and manner were unsparing.

Spencer turned to his assistant. ‘Why don’t you go back into the office, Faraz?’

‘Stephen—’

‘It’s all right.’ Spencer waited until the other man had gone, then answered: ‘I already told you.’

‘You lied to us. I’ve spoken to your mother at the St Osyth Care Home in Frinton. She has no memory of you visiting her.’

Spencer bristled. ‘My mother is in the fairly advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. There are times when she doesn’t even remember who I am.’

‘And have all the nurses got Alzheimer’s too? None of them remember seeing you either.’

I thought Spencer would deny it but he was cleverer than that. He considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘All right. I was lying.’

‘You were with your boyfriend, Faraz. Where is he from, by the way? Iran?’

‘Yes. He is. But what makes you think—’

‘Please don’t treat me like an idiot, Mr Spencer. This is a murder investigation and right now you could be done for obstructing a police officer.’

‘You’re not a police officer.’

‘You lied to DI Grunshaw and you certainly don’t want to get on the wrong side of her!’ That was true, as I knew only too well. ‘That’s a very distinctive aftershave your Iranian friend wears and your car stank of it.’ Hawthorne sniffed. ‘I can smell it on you now. You didn’t wait very long for your husband to pass on, did you? Has he moved into your place in Hampstead?’

‘No!’

‘But Richard Pryce had found out about the two of you, hadn’t he? The marriage, the civil contract, whatever you want to call it, was all over as far as he was concerned. He wanted you to move out.’

‘That’s not true! Who told you that?’ Spencer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was it Oliver Masefield?’

‘As a matter of fact, it was.’ Hawthorne continued before Spencer could interrupt: ‘Your late husband’s law partner is also the executor of his will. He was actually very discreet but he did mention that the two of them had discussed the contents just a few weeks ago. Now there’s only one reason you talk about a will and that’s if you’re going to change it. And given the fact that you and Davina Richardson are the main beneficiaries and she hasn’t done anything to piss him off, while you’ve been gallivanting around at the weekends with Ali Baba out there’ – he jerked a thumb in the direction of the office and I closed my eyes, quietly adding casual racism to the charge sheet against Hawthorne – ‘it was a fair bet that he’d rumbled you and that he was about to do something about it.

‘The telephone call that you made to Richard at eight o’clock on Sunday evening originated in Chiswick, which is, by coincidence, where your mate Faraz Delijani lives. Cara Grunshaw already knows that and I’m surprised she hasn’t been round here already. So before that happens you might as well tell me what you were really up to – you can spare me the graphic details, if you don’t mind – and with a bit of luck it’ll persuade me that you didn’t creep home and commit murder.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone!’ There was a bottle of mineral water on a shelf. Spencer went over and twisted it open. I heard the rush of escaping gas. He poured himself a glass. ‘Richard and I had been having difficulties. Yes. We’d talked about spending time apart. And yes – I spent the weekend with Faraz in his flat in Chiswick. Lots of people saw us. On Sunday night we had dinner at a place called L’Auberge on the Upper Richmond Road.’ He took out his wallet and produced a slip of paper that he offered to Hawthorne. ‘Here’s the receipt, but you can ask them if you like. We had a table in the window.’

‘I will ask them.’ Hawthorne took the receipt.

‘This may surprise you, Mr Hawthorne, but I loved Richard very much and I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him.’

‘Except for sleeping around behind his back.’

‘We had an open marriage. We tolerated each other’s indiscretions. And if Richard was going to change his will, it could just as easily have been to do with Davina as me.’

‘Why would he have done that?’

‘Forget it.’ It was clear that Spencer had decided he’d said too much and was regretting it.

‘I think you’d better tell me, Mr Spencer.’