The Sentence Is Death

At once he was on the defensive. ‘Why are you asking me that? Why do you want to know?’

‘I’ve told you. Because I’m writing about you.’ I wasn’t sure if I dared ask the next question but this seemed the right moment. I plunged in. ‘Did you know that man in Yorkshire?’

‘Which man?’

‘Mike Carlyle. He called you Billy. Is that really your name?’

Hawthorne said nothing. Briefly, he lowered his head as if wondering what to do. When he looked up at me again, there was something in his eyes that I had never seen before and it took me a few seconds to realise what it was. He was in pain.

‘I told you, I’d never seen him before. He was just someone who was making a mistake.’

‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

And then the shutters came down. That was the thing about Hawthorne. He had a way of cutting off anyone who got too close – he might have been doing it all his life – and when he spoke again it was very softly and with no emotion at all. ‘I’ll tell you something, mate. Suppose I’m having second thoughts about you and me? Suppose I’ve decided this was a bad idea?’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was the one who had been dragged into this. I was the one that didn’t want to be here.

‘This wasn’t my idea,’ I reminded him. ‘It was yours.’

‘We could stop right now. Who gives a toss about another book. There are plenty of books.’ He pointed. ‘You could walk out that door.’

‘It’s a bit late for that. I’ve signed a three-book contract . . . remember? We’ve signed a three-book contract.’

‘You don’t need me. You can make up the next one.’

‘Believe me, I’d love to. It would be an awful lot easier. But I’ve already spent a week on this one and I’m not going to stop until I work out your shape or your pattern, or whatever you want to call it, and find out who killed Richard Pryce.’

We sat there, glaring at each other. Then Hawthorne looked at his watch. ‘We should go downstairs. They’ll be waiting for us.’

‘I’m not your enemy, Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

‘Yeah. Well, you’ve been a lot of help so far.’

He walked away. I had drunk less than half of the rum and Coke. I left the rest behind.

16 The Book Group

We took the lift down together and it was very strange because by the time we arrived, Hawthorne was quite back to his old self. It was as if the sliding door had acted like a wipe in one of those old-fashioned feature films, cutting off all the animosity between us and taking us to a new scene where we were friends again. Certainly, as we stepped out on the third floor, the argument had been forgotten. Hawthorne was jaunty, wired up, a little nervous. I knew how protective he was of his private life. He hadn’t really wanted me to come to his book group – presumably he had been cajoled by the other members. At the same time, though, these weren’t close friends I was about to meet. He had once told me that they’d all come together from the local library. Was that true? At least one of them had a flat in the same block as him. Perhaps they all did.

I smelled Indian cooking as we walked down the corridor. There was an open door about halfway along and we stopped outside. Hawthorne undid the single button of his jacket; his one concession to informality.

‘Who lives here?’ I asked.

‘Her name is Lisa Chakraborty.’

‘The last time I came to this building, I met a young man in a wheelchair . . .’

Hawthorne cast a doleful glance in my direction. It was already more than he wanted me to know. ‘That’s her son.’

Kevin Chakraborty. The boy with muscular dystrophy who had made a joke about reaching the top button in the lift.

We went in.

It was surprising how two flats in the same building, both about the same shape and size, could be so very different. Lisa Chakraborty lived in a space that was the opposite of open-plan. An enclosed, L-shaped corridor led almost reluctantly into a living room that was darker and more cluttered, with heavy furniture, wallpaper, chandeliers. The sofas were fat, smothered in cushions, facing each other like old enemies across the low, ornate coffee table that kept them apart. The carpet actually had a swirly pattern, something I hadn’t seen for some time. There were ornaments everywhere: porcelain figures, vases, glass paperweights, Tiffany lamps, different pieces of silverware. The room was as crowded, and as random, as an antique shop.

I noticed something odd about the layout although it took me a moment to work out what it was. Despite the clutter, a single wide space had been left, leading into the room from the entrance. The doors and corridors were perhaps one-third wider than average. I realised it had been designed that way for Kevin, who would have to manoeuvre his way round in his wheelchair.