The Sentence Is Death

Lofty slid his chair back and stood up. He had left half the tea. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t tell you,’ he said.

‘You’re still upset!’

‘Yes. I am still upset. Bloody upset. That’s the truth of it. You screwed up my life and I don’t know why I’ve told you as much as I have. Anyway, that’s it. You’ve had all you’re getting for fifty quid. Fuck off and leave me alone.’

He hurried out of the coffee bar.

‘Who was Abbott?’ I asked. I was thinking about the child pornographer Hawthorne had pushed down the stairs, but I knew nothing about what had happened.

‘Just someone I met at work. There was a health and safety issue. Lofty was a staff officer and he got the rap. I don’t know why he blamed me.’

Hawthorne looked at me with eyes that could not have been more perfectly innocent but I knew he was lying to me. Just like he always did.

19 Sword and Sorcery

Adrian Lockwood was unable to see us, or so we were told by the prim young receptionist perched behind a desk shaped like a comma in a small outer office in Leconfield House. Presumably she had replaced the girl who had allowed Lofty in – and she had certainly passed an advanced class in superciliousness.

‘I’m afraid he has a conference call.’

‘We can wait.’

‘He has another meeting straight after.’

We were forty-five minutes late so I suppose this was fair enough. But even so I wondered if Lockwood wasn’t sitting quietly behind one of the closed doors, listening to us being put in our place. In the end we agreed to come back at five o’clock. That left us with a few hours to kill.

Hawthorne was on his mobile before we had even got out into the street. I heard him introducing himself and asking for a meeting with Dawn Adams – ‘a police-related matter’ – and the next thing I knew, we were in a taxi on our way to Kingston Books. Akira Anno had told us that her friend lived in Wimbledon, which was right next to Kingston, but her offices were in central London, in Bloomsbury as it turned out.

The worldwide success of the Doomworld series was evident before we even entered the building. The publishing house occupied a handsome four-storey office on the corner of Queen Square with prominent signage on the front door and about a dozen books on display in the window. They were the only business there and quite possibly owned the whole building. Kate Mosse, Peter James and Michael Morpurgo were just three of the big-name authors who had signed up with them.

The front door led into a generous entrance hall with original Quentin Blake artwork on the walls and a giant glass bowl of sweets and chocolates on the reception desk. The receptionist here seemed much happier to see us.

‘Yes, Dawn is expecting you.’

No surnames here. A young guy, perhaps an intern, appeared and escorted us to an office on the first floor with two windows looking out over the square. There was a desk piled high with books and contracts but Dawn was waiting for us to one side, a very elegant black woman, sitting on a sofa behind a low coffee table with her knees together and her legs folded. She was in her fifties, about the same age as Akira Anno. Everything about her was impressive, from her quietly expensive clothes and the diamond ear studs to the designer glasses on a thin silver chain around her neck.

Two chairs had been placed opposite her and when, at her invitation, we sat down, we found ourselves looming over her. It was quite deliberate, a sort of reverse psychology. We would have to adjust our behaviour if we were not to seem like bullies. Sitting comfortably on her sofa, some distance below us, she had arranged things so that she was quietly in command.

I was surprised when she smiled at me. ‘Anthony, how nice to see you,’ she said. I had no memory of having met her. ‘How are things at Orion?’

‘They’re fine, thank you,’ I said.

‘I really enjoyed The House of Silk. It made me wonder if you’ve read Solo yet?’

William Boyd had just published a James Bond novel – following on from Sebastian Faulks and Jeffery Deaver. ‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘I think it would be a fantastic idea if they got you to write a Bond next. I know the Ian Fleming estate. I could have a word with them if you like . . .’

‘Well, I’d certainly be interested.’ I tried to sound nonequivocal when actually it was something I’d wanted to do all my life.

‘I’ll talk to them.’ She turned to Hawthorne and now she was a little cooler. ‘I’m not sure how I can help you.’

‘I told you on the phone. I’m investigating the murder of Richard Pryce.’

‘Yes. Well, apart from one brief encounter in a restaurant when I didn’t even speak to him, I hadn’t seen Mr Pryce for over a year and I had no further dealings with his practice. I only knew he was dead when I saw the story in the newspapers and I can’t say I shed too many tears.’

‘I can understand that, Ms Adams. You first met him at the time of your divorce.’