Highgate Tube station is built into the side of a hill with a steep flight of stairs leading up to Archway Road. Hawthorne had been waiting for me opposite the newspaper kiosk at the top of the escalators and now we took the lower exit into Priory Gardens, the quiet residential street where Davina Richardson lived. I actually knew the area very well. I’d lived in Crouch End for fifteen years before I moved to Clerkenwell and had often walked down Priory Gardens, taking my children – when they were children – to school. Davina had a pretty Victorian house, tall and narrow, with a tiny front garden and a chessboard front path leading to a door with stained-glass windows. It was on the right side of the road, which is to say the side that backed on to the woodland around Crouch End Playing Fields.
Hawthorne rang the doorbell and after what felt like a long wait it was opened by a woman who gave every impression of being in a constant battle with life without necessarily being on the winning side. She was completely dishevelled, wearing clothes that were hopelessly mismatched: a loose-knit jersey, a long dress, sandals, a chunky bead necklace. She had chestnut hair that tumbled down to her shoulders with a life of its own and slightly desperate hazel eyes. She looked worn out but she was still smiling as she opened the door, as if she had been expecting good news – a man from the Lottery telling her she had the winning ticket, or the arrival of a long-lost brother from Australia perhaps. She was a little disappointed when she realised who we were but did her best to conceal it.
‘Mr Hawthorne?’ she said.
‘Mrs Richardson . . .’
‘Please, come in.’
The hallway was narrow and so filled with clutter that it was hard to pass through. There were coats, bags, umbrellas, junk mail, a bicycle, Rollerblades, a cricket bat, swathes of fabric, colour charts, brochures: the entire life story of an interior-designer mother and her teenaged son told in paraphernalia. A staircase, straight ahead of us, led up to the next floor but she led us through an archway and into the kitchen where a washing machine was churning quietly, spinning the clothes in a slow, sudsy circle. A smell of cigarettes and fish fingers hung in the air.
Davina Richardson might have sophisticated clients with expensive houses but her own tastes were decidedly eclectic. I had never seen so many vivid colours fighting for attention. The hall carpet was a deep mauve, the walls a strident blue. Now I was looking at a bright green Aga and a yellow Smeg fridge. The Murano glass chandelier was lovely . . . but in a kitchen? The shelves were crowded with knick-knacks and it made me wonder which had come first. Was she an inveterate traveller who loved picking up souvenirs and needed somewhere to house them or had she simply built too many shelves and gone around the place feverishly trying to fill them?
‘Will you have a glass of wine?’ she asked. ‘I just opened a bottle of white. I know I shouldn’t but by the time it gets to six o’clock I find I’m gasping. Sorry about the smell. Colin just finished tea. He’s doing his homework but I’m sure he’ll be down in a minute. He got very excited when he heard a policeman was coming.’ She had already taken a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge and suddenly noticed me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t even asked you your name.’
I told her.
‘Are you the writer?’
‘Yes.’
She was puzzled as to why I should be there but at the same time she was delighted. ‘Colin won’t believe it!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s read all your books. He loves them.’
It’s funny but I never quite know what to say when people tell me that they like my books. I almost feel embarrassed. ‘That’s great,’ I muttered. ‘Thank you.’
‘He doesn’t read them any more. He’s into Sherlock Holmes now. And Dan Brown. Colin loves reading.’ She had poured three glasses of wine. She gave one to each of us although I knew that Hawthorne wouldn’t touch his. I’m not sure he actually drank alcohol. ‘This is about Richard, isn’t it ?’ she added.
‘You must have been very upset,’ Hawthorne said in that probing way of his that suggested he didn’t believe it for a minute and that actually all she cared about was the cash.
But she surprised him. ‘I was devastated! When I heard the news I had to go into my bedroom and close the door. I was in floods of tears. He hasn’t just been a friend. He’s been everything to me . . . and to Colin. I don’t know how we’re going to manage without him.’ She took a glug of wine, half emptying the glass. ‘You probably know that he was Colin’s godfather. God! Do you mind if I smoke? I’ve been trying to give up and Colin does go on at me, but I like them too much.’ She pulled a packet of Marlboros and a lighter out of her jersey pocket and lit up. All her movements were nervous and jumbled together so that she seemed to be in a state of constant flux.
‘Richard always looked after us. After Charles died, he helped me pay off the mortgage on this house and he’s been a fantastic support for the business too. I wasn’t working before. At least, I had a few friends I was helping with furniture and design and things like that. But it was Richard’s idea that I should actually set up full-time. He introduced me to quite a few of my clients. And then there were Colin’s school fees! It was going to be either Fortismere or Highgate Wood and I’ve got nothing against either of them but of course Highgate School is in a completely different league. He’s going to be really thrilled to meet you, Anthony. He loves your books. I would never have been able to put him through if it hadn’t been for Richard. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. He’s the last person in the world who anyone would want to harm.’
‘You were helping him with his redecoration?’
‘That’s right. Richard and Stephen bought Heron’s Wake ages ago. It’s in Fitzroy Park – only a ten- or fifteen-minute drive from here. Have you been there?’ She corrected herself. ‘Of course you have. I’m sorry. My head’s all over the place.’ She dragged on her cigarette then reached out and tapped off the ash. ‘The house needed freshening up. The whole place was feeling tired and there was too much white. I always think that white walls are overrated. The trouble is, they don’t have any . . .’ She searched for the word.
‘Colour?’ I suggested.
‘Emotion. Everything in modern life is white and glass and those awful vertical blinds. It’s so hard! But if you go to Venice or the South of France or any of the Mediterranean countries, what do you get? Wonderful blues. Deep purple. Everything vibrant and alive. Just because we live in a cold country, it doesn’t mean we can’t import a little tropical warmth.’
‘I understand that Adrian Lockwood was here the evening Richard Pryce died,’ Hawthorne said, abruptly cutting into this meditation.
‘Who told you that?’ she asked, and I noticed a little tropical red creeping into her cheeks.
‘He did.’
For the first time she fell silent and in that moment it became obvious what sort of relationship the two of them had had. What else would Adrian Lockwood have been doing here on a Sunday evening?
‘Yes, he was here,’ she admitted, eventually. ‘It was actually Richard who introduced us. He was representing Adrian, who was going through a very painful divorce . . .’
‘It didn’t sound too painful, the way he talked about it,’ Hawthorne said with a faint smile.
She ignored this. ‘The two of us became friends and after it was over, if Adrian was on his own and he needed someone to talk to, he would come round here.’ She paused. ‘I also know what it’s like to be alone. Anyway, that was what happened last Sunday. The two of us shared a bottle of wine. Actually, I had most of it. He was driving.’