The Sentence Is Death

Lockwood hesitated, knowing where this was heading. ‘That’s right. I was there.’

‘With Davina Richardson.’

Lockwood sighed loudly. ‘Yes. I told you . . . I went round for a drink.’

‘Just a drink?’

‘I don’t quite understand what you’re implying.’

‘Then let me put it more simply, Mr Lockwood. Were you and Mrs Richardson going to bed together?’

‘That’s an extremely impertinent question. Just because you’re a detective – or an ex-detective, rather – does that give you the right to poke around in my private life?’

Hawthorne looked bored. ‘It’s a yes or no question. We’re all grown-ups here.’

‘What possible difference does it make?’

‘It might tell me if she was prepared to lie to protect you.’ Hawthorne paused. ‘Or the other way round.’

Lockwood considered, but not for long. ‘All right, damn you. Yes. We’d been sleeping together for a while.’

‘While you were still married?’

‘Yes.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t as easy as you might think. You may say we’re all adults but you’re forgetting she had a teenager in the house: her son, Colin. Obviously, we couldn’t go canoodling while he was around and I couldn’t bring her back to Edwardes Square while Akira was there. Anyway, Akira had a nose like a bloodhound. She’d have known if there had been another woman in the house. So we went to hotels – which I didn’t much care for, if you want the truth. It just felt shabby.’

‘Did Akira ever discover you were having an affair?’

‘No.’

‘How about Richard Pryce? Did you tell him?’

‘Why would I have told Richard? Do you think I had to put that in my Form E? Nobody knew.’

‘And now that you’re a free man, is she going to move in?’

Lockwood laughed out loud. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Davina’s an attractive woman, perfect for a quick squeeze. But there’s no way I’m jumping through that hoop again. My first marriage . . . well, I just told you. It was a tragedy. My second was a farce. I think that’s enough drama in one life.’

He’d had enough. I saw his mood change as abruptly as if a switch had been thrown. ‘I think I’ve told you everything you need to know,’ he said. ‘So if you don’t have any further questions . . .’

‘Actually, I have some information for you.’ Hawthorne was in no hurry to leave. ‘The person who broke into your office . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘We found him.’

By now, Lockwood had learned not to trust Hawthorne, particularly when he was at his most co-operative. ‘And . . . ?’

‘His name is Leonard Pinkerman. It turns out he’s a private investigator of sorts. You might be interested to hear that he was working for Richard Pryce.’

‘I’m sorry? He was working for Richard?’

‘You gave Mr Pryce a bottle of wine. Is that right?’

‘I already told you that.’

‘And of course you know that a bottle of wine was used to kill Mr Pryce, that he was bludgeoned to death with it.’

Lockwood was stunned. Any trace of the conviviality with which he had greeted us had been completely stripped away. ‘Are you saying it was the same bottle?’

‘A 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild, Pauillac.’ I wasn’t surprised that Hawthorne had remembered the marque and the date.

‘Yes. I gave him that.’ It took Lockwood a few moments to realise that nobody was speaking, that he was expected to offer more. ‘Richard had done an exceptional job on my behalf and I wanted to thank him. I’d paid his fees, of course, and they were considerable. But not having to go to court obviously saved me a small fortune and I thought I’d show my appreciation.’

‘With a £2,000 bottle of wine?’

‘I have a lot of wine.’

‘How much exactly?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You keep your wine at a company called Octavian in Corsham, in Wiltshire. How much wine do you actually have?’

A slow smile spread across Lockwood’s face but it wasn’t a pleasant one. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you, Mr Hawthorne?’

Hawthorne waited for the answer.

‘I have a collection of mainly French wine and champagne which has a market value of around two and a half million pounds. You’re going to ask me why I didn’t declare it, and obviously poor Richard was worried about it if he sent his man round to break into my office . . . Hardly very ethical, I must say!

‘Well, I didn’t declare it because the wine was actually purchased by a company of mine and can no longer be classed as an asset as I’ve used it as collateral against a very large loan. This is for a project of mine, a new housing development in Battersea. It’s all perfectly straightforward and if Richard had ever asked me about it, I’d have been happy to tell him, but I can assure you I had absolutely no idea he was concerned. He never said anything to me.’ He laid his hands, palms down, on the desk. ‘Now, is there anything else?’

This time, Hawthorne stood up. I did the same. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Lockwood.’

‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.’ The words were carefully measured.

Hawthorne took a step towards the door, then seemed to remember something. ‘One last thing. You said you left Davina Richardson’s house at around eight fifteen. How can you be so sure of the time?’

‘I suppose I must have looked at my watch.’