The Sentence Is Death

‘You really are a complete bastard, Hawthorne,’ I said. He was still so pleased with himself that he seemed indifferent to my comment. ‘You knew I was wrong all the time. You used me to get back at Grunshaw.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased, mate. She’s going to have egg all over her face. The Assistant Commissioner isn’t going to be pleased.’

‘But she’ll destroy me! She’ll hurt the production—’

‘She won’t do anything. Cara is all mouth and no trousers. Believe me. You won’t hear from her again. She’s made so many mistakes in her career that after this little mishap they may even boot her out. I told you. She’s thick! Everyone knows it.’

‘Not as thick as me,’ I said. I was depressed. It wasn’t just that my moment of glory had been snatched away from me. I still didn’t see how I had got it so wrong.

Hawthorne and I were sitting together in a taxi, crawling through the rush-hour traffic. London has a congestion charge but it clearly doesn’t work as most of the time you could limp faster than you can drive. I’ve often walked from my flat to the Old Vic without being overtaken by a single bus and generally I go everywhere on foot. Just for once, though, I didn’t mind being stuck, even if the meter was ramping up the fare. I wanted time alone with Hawthorne. I needed him to explain.

‘You weren’t thick,’ he said and just for once he sounded almost sympathetic. ‘You just didn’t think it all through.’

‘I looked at every angle,’ I insisted. ‘The pills. The bilberries. The glasses. The bottle. If there was a single flaw in my thinking, where was it?’

‘Well, I could mention a couple,’ Hawthorne replied.

‘Go on!’

He pursed his lips like a doctor about to deliver bad news. ‘All right. Let’s start with this eye disease of his. What did you call it?’

‘Nyctalopia.’

‘You got that off the internet.’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head. ‘Maybe he has got it. I don’t know. He could have been eating those bilberries because he likes bilberries. And people take vitamin A for all kinds of things: it’s good for the teeth, the skin, for fertility . . .’

‘Did you get that off the net?’

‘No. I just know. And maybe he wears sunglasses because he thinks they look trendy – like the ponytail and the Chelsea boots. But the thing is, if he couldn’t see in the dark, do you really think he would have walked all the way across Hampstead Heath, even with a torch? He could have parked the car in Highgate and walked down the hill. There are street lights all the way. Or he could have taken a cab.’

There was, I suppose, some truth in that. ‘What else?’ I asked.

‘The motive – or what you think is the motive. Adrian Lockwood had three million quid’s worth of wine hidden away in Wiltshire. But according to him, Richard Pryce never said anything about it. Yes, he discovered it was there. Yes, he was unhappy about it. But they’d never actually come to blows.’

‘He would say that,’ I insisted. ‘He didn’t want us to know Pryce had been investigating him. He was lying!’

‘In that case, why would he tell us that someone had broken into his office and hacked into his computer? Think about it, Tony. He knew Pryce had forensic accountants working for him. He probably even knew about Lofty. After all, Lofty had been spying on Akira too. So if he’d known he was being investigated, he would never have shared that information with us. It was the last thing he’d want us to know.’

Again, I couldn’t deny Hawthorne’s logic.

‘What about the umbrella? What about the hole in the flower bed?’

‘Lots of people have umbrellas, but it’s irrelevant because it wasn’t made by an umbrella in the first place. And for that matter, Henry Fairchild got it wrong. It wasn’t a torch.’

‘Then what—’

Hawthorne held up a hand. ‘I don’t want to have to say it all twice, mate. Let’s wait until we get there.’

I hadn’t heard Hawthorne tell the driver our destination but had noticed that we had crossed the Euston Road and were heading north. I assumed that we were going back to Pryce’s house in Fitzroy Park . . . full circle, as it were. But we went up Archway and turned right on to Shepherds Hill and when I paid the fare – a £30 journey, including tip – I was somehow unsurprised.

Davina Richardson opened the door to us. She looked very anxious. ‘I hear they’ve arrested Adrian. Is it true?’ she demanded.

Hawthorne nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. Adrian would never have hurt anyone. He’s just not that sort of person. And anyway, he couldn’t have. I told you. He was here with me!’

‘Do you think we could come in, Mrs Richardson?’

‘Yes. Of course. I’m sorry . . .’