I was listening to this with a sense of dread. I remembered well that one of Hawthorne’s less endearing traits was an unapologetic homophobia, which he had expressed after we had visited a suspect together during our first case. And from the way she had pronounced that last word, Cara Grunshaw might have had similar feelings. But then again, maybe it was just Hampstead folk that she didn’t like.
‘The husband’s name is Stephen Spencer,’ she went on. ‘I can’t tell you very much more about him yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk properly to him. But it’s fairly certain that he was the last person to speak to Pryce before he died.’
‘He phoned?’
‘At eight o’clock last night.’ She watched as Hawthorne digested this. ‘Yes. The killer must have been just outside the house, maybe approaching it, when the call took place. The neighbour, Mr Fairchild, saw someone going in at more or less exactly that time, although he can’t provide any description. It was too dark. He was too far away. Pryce ended the call and let them in – it looks like it was someone he knew. He offered him a drink.’
I glanced at the two cans of Coke on the glass table.
‘They didn’t drink any of the wine, then,’ Hawthorne said.
‘The bottle hadn’t been opened. You saw the report? It came with a price tag of two thousand quid!’ Grunshaw shook her head. ‘That’s what’s wrong with this country. You’ve got food banks in the north and down here in Hampstead there are people who don’t think twice about spending a fortune on a fucking bottle of wine. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Richard Pryce didn’t drink.’
‘According to Spencer, it was a present from one of his clients. I managed to get that much out of him. The client was called Adrian Lockwood.’
‘Akira Anno’s husband,’ I said. I remembered the name from the report I’d heard on the radio.
‘Her ex-husband. Pryce represented him in the divorce and apparently she wasn’t too happy about the outcome.’
She had threatened to hit him with a bottle of wine. It seemed an extraordinary coincidence. And yet, if she had made such a declaration in public, in a busy restaurant, surely it would have been completely mad to follow through, using exactly that method to kill him.
Meanwhile, Hawthorne had turned his attention to the green figures painted on the wall. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked.
‘A hundred and eighty-two? I haven’t got the faintest idea.’ DI Grunshaw sniffed. ‘You should be happy about that, Hawthorne. That was why you were called in. We’ve obviously got some tricky bastard who thinks he’s having a laugh.’ She folded her massive arms across her chest. ‘There are two possibilities, the way I see it. One is that Pryce painted it himself, trying to leave some sort of message. But it would have had to be before his head was smashed in. Or more likely, the killer did it after the event. But to be honest, that doesn’t make any sense. What sort of killer leaves an obvious clue? He might as well have signed his initials.’ She paused. ‘I did wonder if it might relate to the wine.’
‘A 1982 Château Lafite,’ I said.
‘It’s the same figures, minus the nine.’ Grunshaw glanced at me as if noticing me for the first time. Her small eyes rested on me for a moment, making me feel distinctly uneasy. Then they flickered away. ‘I’ll leave you to work that one out, Hawthorne,’ she continued. ‘Personally, I don’t like murder when it comes with all these fancy bells and whistles attached. I leave that sort of thing to Mr Foyle’s War here.’
She had noticed the back of my jacket even though I had done my best to keep it concealed from her. I wondered if Hawthorne had told her who I was.
‘Fingerprints?’ Hawthorne asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sod all. Everything has been wiped down, including the unopened Coke can. Pryce was the only one who had any. We’ve got his DNA on the can and there were traces of the liquid on his lips.’
‘So what are your thoughts?’
‘You really think I’m going to share them with you?’ Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw looked Hawthorne straight in the eyes but there was no real malice in her voice. ‘I’ll leave you to earn your daily rate,’ she went on. ‘If they feel they need you, which, incidentally, I don’t, they might as well get their money’s worth.’
She stood there, her fingers drumming against the side of her arm. Then she seemed to relent.
‘It looks to me as if Miss Anno is going to be our first port of call. We haven’t been able to locate her yet – her mobile is switched off – but I’ll let you know when I’ve tracked her down. I’m going up to talk to Pryce’s husband and you can join me. After that you should have a word with the neighbour. If you need me, you’ve got my mobile, but here’s the deal, Hawthorne.’ She jabbed a stubby finger in his direction. ‘I want to know what you know. All right? You keep me informed if there are any developments and I want to be the one who makes the arrest. If I find you’ve been undermining me, I’ll rip your testicles off and use them as conkers. Is that clear?’
‘You don’t need to worry about me, Cara,’ Hawthorne said, with an innocent, almost beatific smile. ‘I’m only here to help.’
I didn’t believe him. Hawthorne was a lone wolf if ever there was one. I was sure that DI Grunshaw would only know there had been an arrest when she read about it in the newspapers.
‘Let’s do it, then.’
Grunshaw marched off. I was happy to follow her. I had become aware of the sickening smell in the room, the mixture of blood and wine. I was beginning to feel queasy and knew I would be in all sorts of trouble if I actually managed to throw up at the scene of the crime. I couldn’t wait to get out. But Hawthorne was still lingering.
‘I’d watch out for her if I were you,’ he muttered.
‘DI Grunshaw?’
‘Do me a favour and don’t say anything in front of her. Take my word for it. She’s not a nice human being.’
‘She seemed all right to me.’
‘That’s because you don’t know her.’
We went upstairs.
4 Last Words
The stairs leading up the first floor were white slabs, jutting out of the wall with no visible means of support. A steel bannister swept alongside, something to hold on to as you went. Cara Grunshaw stumped up to the top with Hawthorne padding more quietly behind, and we finally arrived at a galleried area with a view down to the living room and, on this floor, a series of doors leading off to the left and right.
There was another detective waiting for us, leaning against the colonnade that prevented visitors from plunging into the living room. He was thinner and smaller than Grunshaw, with tufts of sand-coloured hair and a moustache. He was wearing a brown leather jacket that might have been inspired by an old television series; Hutch to her Starsky, or perhaps the other way round.
‘He’s in there, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Darren.’
Grunshaw went first, ignoring the paintings on the wall, which were very different from the ones downstairs. I studied art history at university and recognised a watercolour by Eric Ravilious and a series of wood engravings by Eric Gill. A collection of Erics. The top floor of the house was altogether more formal. The floor was carpeted, the layout more enclosed. Grunshaw knocked at the door Darren had indicated and without waiting for an answer went into a room that turned out to be a library, filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves separated only by two windows looking out over the front drive, and a widescreen TV mounted on the wall. There were two white leather sofas, several glass tables and a fake – or perhaps I should say faux – zebra-skin rug on the floor.