The Sentence Is Death

Hawthorne didn’t seem to have moved. He was still standing there, waiting for me outside Leconfield House when I finally arrived back in the taxi, which had charged me £10 for a circular journey that had got me precisely nowhere. He watched me as I got out and crossed over to him.

‘You didn’t catch him then,’ he observed.

‘No. He got away.’ I was in a bad mood. The rain had stopped but I was damp all over. ‘You weren’t much help,’ I muttered. ‘You could have at least tried to catch him.’

‘There was no need to.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know who he is.’

I stared at him. ‘Then why didn’t you stop me?’

‘I shouted out to you but you didn’t hear me. You went off like a bloody stampeding bull and you didn’t give me a chance.’

‘So who was he?’

Hawthorne took pity on me. ‘You can’t go into Lockwood looking like that,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you a cup of coffee.’

We walked down to a Costa at the bottom end of Curzon Street and I went into the toilet while Hawthorne ordered the cappuccinos. Looking into the mirror, I saw that he was right. The short burst of activity had left me flushed, my hair bedraggled and damp from the rain and the exertion. I made myself as presentable as I could and by the time I came out Hawthorne had chosen a table with, I noticed, three chairs.

‘Are we waiting for someone?’ I asked.

‘We might be.’

‘Who?’

‘You’ll see.’

Something had amused him and it was all the more hilarious because he wasn’t going to share it with me. I understood why a few minutes later when the door opened and someone walked in. He cast around nervously, then saw us and came over. I scowled. It was the man in blue spectacles whom I’d last seen fleeing down St James’s Street in a cab.

‘Hawthorne—’ I began.

But Hawthorne was looking past me. ‘Hello, Lofty,’ he said.

‘Hello, Hawthorne.’

‘You want a coffee?’

‘Not really.’

‘Get yourself one anyway and bring it over.’

Lofty wasn’t his real name, of course, and – equally obviously – it was the last word I would have used to describe the small, lightweight man who had appeared. He couldn’t have been more than five foot three or four, with sandy-coloured hair hanging limply down to his collar, an upturned nose and the pallid skin of someone who didn’t get out often or who ate unhealthily or perhaps both. As he had come towards us, he had taken off the spectacles to reveal frightened eyes that twitched and flickered around him constantly. The skin condition which both Adrian Lockwood’s receptionist and Colin Richardson had mentioned – I was assuming this was the same man – was actually nothing more than a bit of scarring from acne he must have had as a teenager.

‘Lofty?’ I asked as he ordered himself a drink.

‘Lenny Pinkerman. That’s his real name. But we always called him Lofty.’

‘I get that. Is he a policeman?’

‘He used to be.’

‘So what’s he doing here?’ I stopped, remembering my last sighting of Hawthorne as I set off on the chase. He’d been on his mobile. ‘You called him!’

‘That’s right. I’ve got his mobile number. I asked him to join us.’

‘So who is he? What’s he got to do with all this?’

‘He’ll tell you . . .’

Lofty had ordered tea. He sat down at the table and tore open four sachets of sugar which he added to the cup. He stirred it with a plastic spoon. All this happened in a silence that was finally broken by Hawthorne.

‘Nice to see you, Lofty.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s not nice to see you at all, Hawthorne.’ Lofty had a whiney voice and crooked teeth. I think he wanted to sound angry but the best he could manage was petulant. He put the glasses down on the table and looking at them closely, I saw that they were clearly fake with no magnification. He had also taken off the raincoat. He was wearing shapeless corduroy trousers and a paisley shirt, buttoned up to the neck. If he sat on a pavement, people would have been quick to give him their spare change.

‘It’s been a while.’

‘Not bloody long enough, mate.’ He looked balefully across the table, clearly afraid of Hawthorne and disliking him in equal measure.

‘Are you going to tell me what you were doing outside Leconfield House?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘None of your business.’

‘Lofty . . . !’

‘Why should I tell you anything?’

‘Old times’ sake?’

‘Sod that!’ He considered. ‘Fifty quid. I’ll talk to you for fifty quid. Fifty-three quid. You can pay for the tea as well.’ He looked with disgust at the murky brown liquid in front of him. ‘How can they charge three quid for a cup of tea? That’s a bloody liberty.’

‘You really that hard up?’

‘I’m not hard up. I’m doing fine for myself if you really want to know. I’m doing brilliantly. But if you think I’m going to spend one minute with you without being paid for it, you can go take a flying jump. You’re a miserable bastard, Hawthorne. You always were and you still are. That business with Abbott. I shouldn’t have had to take the rap for that. You screwed me over and I’m only doing this fucking job now because of you.’