‘As to Akira being at my home on Sunday night,’ Dawn went on, ‘there’s nothing very surprising about that either. We’re old friends.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At a book festival. In Dubai. A week round the swimming pool at the InterContinental Hotel. It’s a good place to get to know people.’
‘How long was she with you?’
‘Do you really consider this a line of enquiry worth pursuing, Mr Hawthorne? Very well! She came for supper at about six o’clock and once again we had rather too much to drink. You’re going to get the impression that we’re a couple of old soaks but it’s not like that. We weren’t drunk. In fact, we’d been working. But Akira had had two or three glasses with me and I thought it was more sensible if she didn’t drive back so I invited her to stay the night.’
‘You say you were working. What sort of work does she do for you?’
Dawn Adams hesitated just for a moment and I had a feeling that for all her bluster, whatever she was going to say next might not be completely true. ‘She advises me on literary manuscripts,’ she said.
‘You pay her?’
‘Of course.’ Dawn looked at her watch, a very delicate Cartier on a thin gold strap. ‘As I told you on the phone, I’m afraid I can’t give you a great deal of my time.’
Hawthorne ignored this. ‘Why did Akira Anno lie about being with you?’ he asked. ‘Having supper with an old friend, a publisher . . . you’d have thought there was nothing more innocent in the world.’
‘I have no idea. You’ll have to ask her that. Perhaps she found your interview methods offensive and decided to take you for a ride.’
‘Lying to a police officer is an offence.’
‘As I understand it, you’re not a police officer.’
I had to hand it to Dawn Adams. She certainly wasn’t afraid of Hawthorne. But if she’d known him better, she might have been a little less curt with him. I saw the anger stirring in his eyes and it made me think of a crocodile rising from the mud.
‘You say that Ms Anno advises you on literary manuscripts,’ he said. ‘How many literary writers do you actually publish?’
It was a good point. In the window downstairs I had seen one or two well-respected authors, but the books on the shelves in Dawn’s office were less highbrow. I ran my eyes over a children’s picture book, a couple of airport thrillers, the Doomworld trilogy and a book of Greek recipes by Victoria Hislop.
Again, there was just a hint of uncertainty before she recovered. ‘We don’t have any. But it’s an area I very much want to move into. We receive a great many submissions and Akira reads them for me.’
‘Then why not publish her? Since the two of you are such good mates . . .’
‘I’ve suggested it. But Akira has a contract with Virago. I think we’re done here, aren’t we?’ There was a telephone on the coffee table. Dawn picked it up and dialled a single number. ‘Tom,’ she said. ‘My guests are just leaving. Could you come up to the office . . . ?’
‘Actually, I haven’t finished.’ Hawthorne’s voice was cold.
She hesitated, the phone still in her hand. ‘Actually, it’s all right, Tom. I’ll call you in a minute.’ She put the phone down.
Hawthorne paused and I knew from experience that he was about to come out with something extraordinary. Even so, his next statement took me completely by surprise. ‘I’d like to speak to one of your other writers,’ he said.
‘Which one is that?’
‘Mark Belladonna.’
She stared at him. ‘I’m afraid there’s absolutely no way Mark will speak to you.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Well, first of all, he’s got absolutely nothing to do with this. And secondly, he’s very reclusive. He lives in Northumberland and he has acute agoraphobia. He never goes out.’
‘But he was in The Delaunay the night when you had that dinner.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘It’s not impossible, Ms Adams. It’s true. And as it happens he was also involved in the death of a second man . . . Gregory Taylor. Taylor visited Richard Pryce on the day Taylor died. The two of them had known each other for years. And just a short while later Taylor was killed, pushed under a train. But before he died, he bought a copy of a book, the latest Mark Belladonna. He didn’t buy it because he wanted to read it. He bought it to send us the message . . . which is the reason I’m here.’
All of this was news to me. If Hawthorne had checked out who was eating at The Delaunay, he had certainly never mentioned it. But it was true that he had drawn my attention to Prisoners of Blood, which Gregory Taylor had picked up in W. H. Smith at King’s Cross. Why did he buy that book? That was what he had asked.
Dawn Adams had lost control of the situation. Suddenly it was as if the sofa was swallowing her whole. She was almost squirming. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
And then, without warning, the door opened and, of all people, Akira Anno came hurrying into the room. Dawn Adams was as surprised to see her as I was. ‘Akira . . . ?’
‘I came straight over when I got your call.’ Akira looked at us malignantly. ‘I know these two men. I’ve already had confrontations with them. I know their methods and how they will use them to threaten and intimidate you. I didn’t want you to have to see them on your own.’
So Dawn had rung her to say we were coming. It made me think that the two of them must have been colluding . . . but in what?
‘We were just talking about Mark Belladonna,’ Hawthorne went on. He was utterly unfazed by the interruption. It was as if he had expected it, even welcomed it.
Akira went over to a third chair and sat down. She was as immaculate as ever but suddenly she seemed unsure of herself, perhaps even afraid.
‘I want his address and his phone number,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I won’t give them to you.’
‘You can take that stand if you want to, Ms Adams. Then I’ll call Detective Inspector Grunshaw and Detective Constable Mills and we’ll see how you get on when you refuse to co-operate with them.’
‘I can’t . . .’
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t understand. Mark never—’
And then, from the other side of the room came the two quiet words: ‘He knows.’ It was Akira. Her face was ghastly. She was looking down at the floor.
What did he know? And why didn’t I know it too?
‘Why don’t you just come straight out with it?’ Hawthorne exclaimed. ‘Do you think I’m a complete idiot? Did you really think I wouldn’t work it out?’
He paused, waiting for either of the two women to speak, and when neither of them did, he provided the answer for them. ‘Akira Anno is Mark Belladonna, isn’t she! Mark doesn’t exist.’ He rounded on Akira. ‘You wrote those stupid books.’
There was another silence. I don’t know who was more shocked: me because I had never suspected it or Dawn because he had guessed.
‘Are you going to deny it?’ Hawthorne demanded.
I looked at Akira, who was sitting in her chair looking like a puppet that had been thrown aside, its limbs disconnected. On the sofa, Dawn Adams looked genuinely afraid. ‘You can’t tell anybody,’ she whispered.
‘Wait a minute!’ I exclaimed. ‘Akira Anno wrote Excalibur Rising and Prisoners of Blood and . . .’ I’d forgotten the title of the first one.
‘The Twelve Men of Steel,’ Akira muttered, still not meeting my eyes.