The Sentence Is Death

‘Adrian Lockwood was here on Sunday evening and I deliberately made sure that the clocks hadn’t gone back. You see, later on I wanted him to be able to say that I’d been here when Richard died. I drove over to Fitzroy Park. I left the car at the top of the street and walked down. I had a knife with me . . . in my handbag. I was going to stab him.’

‘You didn’t walk across the Heath?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘No.’

‘Was Richard Pryce on the phone when he opened the door?’

‘He may have had a phone in his hand. I don’t remember. He was surprised to see me but he invited me in. He pretended he was worried about me. I know now that everything he ever said and everything he felt about me was pretence. We went into the study and he asked me if something was the matter. I hated the way he looked at me, as if he cared about me. It enraged me. I can’t even tell you how I felt. That was when I saw the bottle of wine. I picked it up and hit him with it. I hit him quite a lot of times. I know the bottle smashed at one point and I used the end to cut him.’

‘What about the knife?’

‘I’d forgotten about it. Anyway, I didn’t want to use it. I knew it could be traced back to me.’ She stared into the middle distance. ‘The whole thing was so strange, Mr Hawthorne. When I killed him, I felt absolutely nothing. It was as if I wasn’t even in the room. It was like watching an image of myself on a television screen with the volume turned down. I didn’t even feel any anger or anything. I just wanted him to be dead.’

‘And what then? Why did you write the figure one eight two on the wall?’

‘I remembered the poem that Adrian had shown me. The one written by Akira Anno. I don’t know why – but those words spoke to me. They told the truth about Richard. He had whispered in my ear and in a way he had killed both of us. I decided I wanted to leave a message behind so I went and got a brush and painted that on the wall. It was a stupid thing to do but I wasn’t in my right mind.’

Another long silence. She poured herself some vodka, using the same glass that had held the wine.

‘What do you think happens now?’ Hawthorne asked.

Davina shrugged. It took her a while to find the next words. ‘Does anybody really need to know?’ she asked. ‘You’re not really a detective any more. Do you need to tell anyone?’

‘Adrian Lockwood has been arrested.’

‘But the police will work out that he didn’t do it. They’ll let him go eventually. They’ll have to.’

‘And you’ll get away with murder?’ The edge had crept back into Hawthorne’s voice and I knew without any doubt that he wouldn’t go along with what she was suggesting. ‘Do you really think I’d let that happen?’

‘Why not?’ For the first time, she raised her voice, challenging him. ‘I’m a single mother, a widow, on my own. It wasn’t my fault that my husband, the one true love in my life, was taken away from me. What good will it do, putting me in prison? What will happen to Colin? We have no close relatives. He’ll have to go into care. You could just walk out of this house and say you were unable to solve the case. No one in the world would be any the wiser. Richard will have paid for what he did to Charlie and what he did to me. And that’s the end of it.’

Hawthorne looked at her sadly, but also, perhaps, with respect. ‘I can’t do that,’ he said, simply.

‘Then I’ll get my coat. I’ll have to ask one of the neighbours to come in, but I can leave with you straight away if that’s what you want. And I’ll plead guilty, by the way . . . I’ll make it easy for everyone. I’m sure you’ll be very proud of yourself, Mr Hawthorne. Do they give you a bonus for catching criminals? Just give me a few minutes to say goodbye to my son.’

I have to say, I was completely dumbfounded. The speed of this turnaround had been so sudden, the confession so comprehensive, that I felt I had been left behind – like Charles Richardson in the cave system. On the one hand, I could see exactly why Davina had killed Richard Pryce, but on the other, I still found it hard to make sense of. She had denied coming over the Heath, so who was the man with the light (it wasn’t a torch, Hawthorne had said) that Henry Fairchild had seen? And if Richard hadn’t been on the phone to his husband when he opened the door, who was it that Stephen Spencer had heard? Could it be that someone else had visited the house prior to the murder?

These and a dozen other thoughts spun in a turmoil through my head, only to be interrupted by a slow handclap. It was Hawthorne.

‘You did that very well, Mrs Richardson,’ he said. ‘But I know you’re lying.’

‘I’m not!’

Hawthorne turned to the door. ‘Colin – is that you outside? Why don’t you come in and join us?’