The Sentence Is Death

‘It was exactly the same reason,’ I said. ‘He might not have planned it originally but he got the idea seeing the paint pots in the hallway. He knew that Akira had written a poem about murder . . . a haiku. He remembered the number because it was the same date as his second marriage. Incidentally, you might like to look into what happened to his first wife in Barbados. This isn’t the first time he’s been involved in a violent death. Anyway, he was very happy to tell us that Akira was unstable, that she wasn’t afraid to kill. He wrote the number knowing it would lead us eventually to the words she had written: The sentence is death. He wanted us to believe that she was exulting in what she’d done.’

There was a long silence.

I was very much enjoying the sight of Grunshaw and Mills as they took this all in. It was my moment in the sun. I tried to remember if I had left anything out. But no, it was all there.

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ Grunshaw asked.

‘Only Hawthorne. I’ve told him, of course.’

‘Have either of you approached Lockwood?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t.’ She glanced at Mills, who nodded as if at some unspoken thought. ‘We’ll take it from here,’ she went on. ‘I’m not saying your theory is correct. There may be one or two holes in it.’ I knew she was lying when she said that. I had gone over the whole thing several times through the night and Hawthorne had corrected me on a few points. It was watertight. ‘But we’ll interview Mr Lockwood and see what he has to say.’

‘Fine.’ I stood up. ‘But now I hope you’ll leave Foyle’s War alone. And for what it’s worth, it would be nice if you gave Hawthorne a little credit.’

Cara Grunshaw looked at me almost with pity. ‘Just for your information, I haven’t gone anywhere near your stupid television series,’ she said. ‘As to what I’m going to do or what I’m not going to do, you can piss off, all right? And if you want my advice, you’ll steer clear of Hawthorne. He’s trouble. Everyone knows that. You stick around with him, you’re going to get hurt.’

I was a little deflated as I left Notting Hill police station but I had cheered up by the time I got home. I would have preferred it if Lockwood hadn’t been the killer – at the end of the day, it had been extremely likely from the start – but what did it matter? The case was over. I had enough material for a book. Now all I had to do was write it.

I’d found a new lease on life and quickly dealt with the script revisions for Foyle’s War. I finished them by the middle of the afternoon and emailed them to the office. I tried ringing Hawthorne a couple of times but only got his voicemail. At four o’clock, I decided to go out. There was an exhibition of paintings by Daumier at the Royal Academy which I’d heard was worth seeing. I could pop in there for an hour and then see a film and have dinner with Jill.

The doorbell rang. I picked up the intercom. It was Hawthorne. ‘Can I come up?’ he asked.

I buzzed and let him in.

It was only the second time he had been to my flat. For different reasons, we were both eager to keep each other out of the places where we lived. When he stepped out of the lift, he was looking very pleased with himself. ‘So you saw Cara Grunshaw,’ he said.

I was already on the defensive. ‘You said you didn’t mind.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Did she call you?’

‘No.’ He was carrying an edition of the Evening Standard, which he unfolded and spread out on my table. I put on my glasses and read a small article at the bottom of page two:

POLICE MAKE ARREST IN HAMPSTEAD MURDER

This morning police have arrested a 58-year-old male in connection with the murder of divorce lawyer Richard Pryce who was found dead in his Hampstead home last week. Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw said: ‘This was a particularly brutal murder but after a meticulous and wide-ranging police investigation, we are very glad to bring the perpetrator to justice.’ No further details have been released.

I finished reading, then glanced up at Hawthorne. He was leaning over the newspaper, smiling. Something inside me went cold. I read the article a second time. Hawthorne was still smiling. It was a grin that went almost from ear to ear.

I knew.

‘I got it wrong, didn’t I,’ I said. I was feeling sick.

He nodded.

‘It wasn’t Adrian Lockwood.’

He shook his head. ‘Poor Cara,’ he muttered. ‘She’s only gone and arrested the wrong man.’

22 One Hundred Minutes