‘It still bothers me.’ Hawthorne made his decision. ‘Ask DS Khan for any CCTV footage from Richmond station last Friday morning – or nip round yourself. It might be interesting to see what really happened . . .’
7
There was a pub, the Fox and Duck, on the other side of the Petersham Road and after they left The Stables, Hawthorne and Dudley walked over there and found a table outside for a late lunch. The two of them had met very early that morning and had travelled to Richmond together. Neither of them had had time to eat. Dudley ordered a pie and chips with a glass of lemonade and didn’t seem aware of Hawthorne watching him over a black coffee and a cigarette. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until the food had been served. Then Hawthorne leaned forward.
‘Thoughts?’ he asked.
‘Not a bad pie,’ Dudley replied.
‘That’s not what I meant, mate.’
‘Well, of course, they’re all lying . . . the whole lot of them. I agree with you that Lynda Kenworthy was shagging the French teacher. Roderick Browne is in meltdown either because he committed the murder or because he knows who did. The wicked witch with the silver jewellery thinks her husband did it, and she’s certainly talked about killing Giles Kenworthy at some time, even if she wasn’t being completely serious. And I wouldn’t have thought anything happens in Riverview Close without Adam Strauss and his wife knowing about it. I hated that bloody chess set, by the way, but then I never much liked The Lord of the Rings either. Hobbits and talking trees? Not for me, thanks.’
Hawthorne examined his assistant with both curiosity and concern. ‘So, how are things going with you?’ he asked.
‘I’m all right.’
‘How’s the flat working out?’
‘It’s great. I’m very grateful to you.’ Dudley paused. ‘How much longer am I going to be able to live there?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘As long as you like.’
‘And rent-free? How does that work?’
‘The people who own it aren’t short of cash.’
‘Well, it’s very handy. And if I ever need a cup of sugar, I know where to go.’
‘I don’t have any sugar.’
‘I was talking about the Waitrose round the corner.’
Dudley continued to eat, almost mechanically. There could have been anything on his plate. Hawthorne finished his cigarette. He was very rarely ill at ease, but he hesitated before asking: ‘Are you still seeing Suzmann?’
Dudley stopped, the fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Now and then,’ he said.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you mind me asking?’
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’ Dudley put down his knife and fork, making sure they were parallel on the plate. ‘It’s been a year now since it happened. Bristol courthouse and all the rest of it. But I’ve got things under control, largely thanks to Dr Suzmann. And thanks to you, Danny. I like doing this job and I’m grateful to you. I’m getting things together in my own way, one day at a time. All the rest of it’s behind me, so I’d appreciate it if you’d leave it alone.’
‘I only asked,’ Hawthorne said, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘I appreciate it.’
‘So what do you suggest we do next?’
‘It would be nice to get hold of the barrister – Pennington. He arranged the big get-together everyone’s been talking about. And there was something about his flowers getting trashed.’
‘And Sarah Baines.’
‘Oh yeah. The gardener.’ Dudley took out his notebook and turned to a page. ‘Accused of theft and some sort of financial espionage. She had access to Roderick Browne’s house and she was in and out all the time. She’s also sending text messages to Mr Browne and it may have been her who threw that poor bloody dog down the well.’ Dudley snapped the book shut. ‘Yes. I’d definitely like to speak to her.’
8
There was a single policeman standing guard at the entrance to Riverview Close, keeping away any sightseers, but otherwise the whole place was eerily empty by mid-afternoon, when Hawthorne and Dudley returned. All the investigating officers, including Khan, had disappeared, as if, just a couple of days after a particularly violent and unusual murder, they had decided there was nothing more for them to do.
‘Have they made any arrests?’ Hawthorne asked the young constable – who at least knew who he was.
‘No, sir. Not that I heard.’
They walked through, into the close.
‘You think they’ve pulled Roderick Browne in?’ Dudley asked.
Hawthorne nodded. Dudley could have been reading his mind. ‘I’m not sure he murdered Giles Kenworthy – although he did his best to convince us otherwise. But I don’t think DS Khan will be able to resist it. Pull him in. Give him a night in police custody. Hope to terrify him enough into talking.’
The door of Well House was the first they came to and Dudley rang the bell. It was opened by Andrew Pennington, who seemed to know exactly who they were and had been expecting them. ‘Adam called me after you spoke to him,’ he explained. ‘He said you might want to speak to me.’ He leaned out and looked around the close. ‘It looks as if everyone else is out.’
‘Do you talk to each other a lot?’ Dudley asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You and Mr Strauss. It seems to me that the whole lot of you are pretty tight. You keep each other informed of what’s going on.’
‘We’re all friends, if that’s what you mean. At least, we were until the Kenworthys arrived. Please, come in . . .’
Andrew Pennington’s home was neat, comfortable, old-fashioned. The sitting room had a desk in one corner, a matching three-piece suite, bookshelves filled with mainly nineteenth-century English, French and Russian classics. The colour scheme tended towards the dark – walls painted in shades of green and mauve, with oak and mahogany furniture, thick carpets and curtains. Triple French windows at the back looked out into the garden, but only allowed a little afternoon sun to trickle in.
It was immediately obvious that he lived alone. The house had a sense of emptiness. It felt stuck in time, as if nothing had changed, but it was immediately obvious what was missing. There were photographs on every surface, mounted in a variety of frames, but all of them showing the same subject: a beautiful woman, always smiling, her face filled with life. Iris Pennington at work, Iris on the beach, Iris and Andrew arm in arm on a swing chair, Iris and Andrew dancing, Iris making a heart sign with both hands, Iris in bed, ill and wasted but still smiling for the camera. Well House spoke equally of her death and her surviving husband’s life.
Andrew was in his early sixties, a handsome, softly spoken black man with hair that was tinged with white around his ears. It would be easy to imagine him in court. He would be courteous, precise . . . but he would miss nothing. Those grey eyes of his would pick up the slightest nuance and when he sensed a weak spot he would strike with lethal accuracy. Of course, all of that was far behind him now. He had not so much embraced retirement as allowed it to engulf him. The slippers he was wearing, the cardigan pushed out of shape by the bulge of his stomach, the glasses, the tiredness in his face . . . He was tumbling into old age.
‘Can I get you tea or coffee?’ he asked as he showed them to a seat.
‘No, thank you. We just had lunch.’ Hawthorne picked up on what Dudley had been asking. ‘We’ve been told that you and your friends had a meeting,’ he said. ‘You were going to confront your new neighbours about their behaviour.’
‘You’re referring to the meeting we had six weeks ago at Adam Strauss’s house. But I don’t think “confront” is the right word.’