‘Why? I do all the work.’
‘Yes. But it’s a full-time job making you look sympathetic.’
He looked at me with eyes that were suddenly offended. I’d seen it before, that occasional flicker of vulnerability, reminding me that he was human after all. Separated from his wife and son, living alone in an empty flat, making Airfix models in some echo of a doubtless traumatic childhood, Hawthorne wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be, and perhaps the most annoying thing about him was that, no matter how difficult he was, I still found him intriguing. I wanted to know more about him. When I sat down to write, I was as interested in him as in the mysteries he set out to solve.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I just need you to come to the publishers. It’s really not that much to ask. Promise me that you will.’
‘Half an hour?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘All right. I’ll be there.’
But he wasn’t.
I waited for him for ten minutes in the reception area until finally an intern arrived to take me up to a conference room on the fifth floor. I hoped I might find him there but when the door was opened and I was shown into a square, windowless room, there was no sign of him. Instead, four people sat waiting behind a long table with coffee, tea and ‘family favourite’ biscuits on a plate. They looked at me, then past me. They were unable to hide their disappointment.
My editor had been sitting at the head of the table but he got up when he saw me. ‘Where’s Hawthorne?’ His first words.
‘I thought he’d already be here,’ I said. ‘He’s probably on his way.’
‘I assumed you’d come together.’
Of course, he was right. We should have. ‘No,’ I said. ‘We agreed to meet here.’
Graham looked at his watch. It was quarter past eleven. ‘Well, let’s give him a few minutes. Take a seat …’
I still wasn’t sure what to make of Graham Lucas, who had only recently joined Penguin Random House as a senior editor. He was about fifty, slim, with a narrow beard that made him look like an academic. He was wearing a blazer and a roll-neck sweater that might have been cashmere and certainly looked expensive. He had a gold band on his fourth finger and as I sat next to him I detected the flowery scent of an aftershave that didn’t really suit him. I think it’s fair to say that we had a close relationship, but only professionally. I had no idea where he lived, what he did in his spare time, if he had children and – more importantly – if those children read my books. When we were together, all he ever talked about was work.
‘Have you started the second book?’ he asked now.
‘Oh yes. It’s going very well,’ I lied. I’d already told my agent, Hilda Starke, that I would probably be late delivering.
She had arrived ahead of me but she hadn’t got up when I came in. She was sitting at the table, puffing on one of those vape devices, which was odd because I could never remember her actually smoking cigarettes. I knew she didn’t want to be here. She was sitting, bare-armed, with her jacket on the back of her seat, sipping coffee. She had left a bright red crescent moon on the side of the cup.
In a moment of weakness and without telling her, I had agreed to split the royalties fifty-fifty with Hawthorne. That was what he had demanded from the start and I’d found myself acquiescing without consulting her first. Hilda was also annoyed because she had failed to persuade Hawthorne to let her represent him. They had spoken once on the telephone but she hadn’t met him yet. So she was stuck with ten per cent of fifty per cent … which was a much smaller percentage than she would have liked.
Tamara Moore, sitting opposite her, was Random House’s publicity director: a very intense and formidable woman in her early thirties. There was a laptop open in front of her and her eyes hadn’t left the screen. At the same time, she was holding a fountain pen, twisting it in her slender fingers as if it were a weapon. Briefly, she looked up. ‘How are you, Anthony?’ she asked. Before I had a chance to answer, she introduced me to her assistant. ‘This is Trish. She’s just started.’
‘Hello.’ Trish was about twenty years old and looked tired. She had a wide face with frizzy hair and an easy smile. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I loved High Fidelity.’
‘That’s the next meeting,’ Tamara muttered, quietly.
‘Oh.’ Trish fell silent.
We spent the next ten minutes chatting but it was hard enough to make even the smallest of small talk when all of us were waiting for the door to open and for Hawthorne to appear. Inwardly, I was seething that he had let me down. Finally, Graham turned to me, tight-lipped. ‘Well, there’s not a great deal to talk about without Daniel here, but we might as well get started.’
‘Nobody ever calls him Daniel,’ I said. ‘He’s just Hawthorne.’ This was met with silence. ‘I could try his mobile, if you like,’ I added.
‘I don’t see that there’s any point.’
‘I have a lunch at twelve thirty,’ Hilda said, giving me no support at all.
‘We’ll get you a cab,’ Graham said. ‘Where to?’
Hilda hesitated. ‘Weymouth Street.’
‘I’ll see to it.’ Trish tapped the instructions into her iPad.
Tamara pressed a button on her keypad and an image of the front cover of The Word is Murder flashed onto a screen. It was a signal for the business to begin.
‘We can at least talk about our strategy for the end of the year,’ Graham said. ‘When can we expect proofs, Tamara?’
‘They’ll be in at the end of the month,’ Tamara replied. ‘We’ll be sending fifty copies to bloggers, reviewers and key customers.’
‘Radio? TV?’
‘We’re just making approaches …’
‘What about festivals?’ I asked. ‘There’s Edinburgh, Harrogate next month, Norwich …’ Everyone looked at me blankly so I went on: ‘I enjoy doing festivals. And if you really want people to meet Hawthorne, surely that’s the best way?’
Hilda sniffed and blew out a cloud of steam that instantly disappeared. ‘There’s no point doing festivals until you’ve got the book to sell,’ she said, stating the obvious.
‘And we can’t make any decisions about that until we’ve actually met Hawthorne,’ Graham added, pointedly.
Right then, to my enormous relief, the door opened and the intern came back in, followed by Hawthorne himself. From his blank look and slightly quizzical smile, he seemed to have no idea that he was thirty minutes late. He was wearing his usual combination of black suit, white shirt and narrow tie. I suddenly felt shabby in my sweatshirt and jeans.
‘This is Mr Hawthorne,’ the intern announced. She turned to Graham. ‘Your wife has called twice. She says it’s important.’
‘I can tell her you’re in a meeting,’ Trish said, glancing from Tamara to Graham as if she needed a consensus.
‘No, it’s all right,’ Graham said. ‘Tell her I’ll speak to her later.’ He got to his feet as the intern left. ‘How do you do, Mr Hawthorne. It’s very good to meet you.’
‘The pleasure’s mine.’ Perhaps Hawthorne was sincere. Perhaps he was being sarcastic. It was impossible to tell. The two men shook hands. ‘It’s been a while since I was in this part of town,’ he went on. ‘I once busted a brothel in Causton Street – half a dozen sex workers from Eastern Europe. Just round the corner from the Lithuanian embassy. Maybe that’s where they got their visas … not that we ever made a connection.’
‘How fascinating.’ Graham was immediately hooked. ‘It’s extraordinary what can happen right on your doorstep without you even knowing.’
‘Maybe Tony will write about it one day.’
‘Tony?’