‘He used to be a detective.’
‘So he’s an unemployed detective! “The Unemployed Detective”. Is that what you’re going to call the book? Do you have a title yet?’
‘No.’
She threw back the wine. ‘I really don’t understand what’s attracted you to this. Do you like him?’
‘Not terribly,’ I admitted.
‘Then why will anyone else?’
‘He’s very clever.’ I knew how feeble that sounded.
‘He hasn’t solved the case.’
‘Well, he’s still working on it.’
The waiter arrived with the main courses and I told her about some of the interviews where I’d been present. The trouble was, apart from the notes I’d taken, I hadn’t written anything down yet and, in the telling, it all sounded very vague and anecdotal … boring even. Imagine trying to describe, in detail, the plot of an Agatha Christie. That was how it was for me.
In the end she interrupted. ‘Who is this man, Hawthorne?’ she asked. ‘What makes him fun? Does he drink single malt whisky? Does he drive a classic car? Does he like jazz or opera? Does he have a dog?’
‘I don’t know anything about him,’ I said, miserably. ‘He used to be married and he has an eleven-year-old son. He may have pushed someone down a flight of stairs at Scotland Yard. He doesn’t like gay people … I don’t know why.’
‘Is he gay?’
‘No. He hates talking about himself. He won’t let me come close.’
‘Then how can you write about him?’
‘If he solves the case …’
‘Some cases can take years to solve. Are you going to follow him around London for the rest of your life?’ She had ordered veal escalope. She sliced into it as if it had caused her offence. ‘You’re going to have to change names,’ she added. ‘You can’t just barge into people’s houses and put them in a book.’ She glared at me. ‘You’d better change my name! I don’t want to be in it.’
‘Look, at the end of the day, this is an interesting case,’ I insisted. ‘And I think Hawthorne is an interesting man. I’m going to try and find out more about him.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a detective I met. I’ll start with him.’ I was thinking about Charlie Meadows. Maybe he’d talk to me if I bought him a drink.
‘Have you talked to Mr Hawthorne about money?’ Hilda asked, chewing on her veal.
It was the question I had been dreading. ‘I suggested fifty-fifty.’
‘What?’ She almost threw down her knife and fork. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You’ve written forty novels. You’re an established writer. He’s an out-of-work detective. If anything, he should be paying you to write about him and certainly he shouldn’t be getting more than twenty per cent.’
‘It’s his story!’
‘But you’re the one writing it.’ She sighed. ‘Do you really mean to go ahead with this?’
‘It’s a bit late to back out now,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure I want to. I was there in the room, Hilda. I actually saw the dead body, cut to ribbons, covered in blood.’ I glanced at my steak, then put down my knife and fork. ‘I want to know who did it.’
‘All right.’ She gave me the sort of look that said that no good would come of this but it wasn’t her fault. ‘Give me his number. I’ll talk to him. But I should warn you now, you’re still under contract for two more books and at least one of them is meant to be set in the nineteenth century. I’m not sure your publishers are going to be interested in this.’
‘Fifty-fifty,’ I said.
‘Over my dead body.’
After lunch, I headed off to Victoria, feeling like a schoolboy playing truant. Why was I suddenly hiding everything from everyone? I hadn’t told my wife anything about Hawthorne and here I was, slipping off to meet him again without having mentioned it to Hilda. Hawthorne was worming his way into my life in a way that was definitely unhealthy. The worst of it was that I was actually looking forward to seeing him, to finding out what happened next. What I’d just said to Hilda was true. I was hooked.
I don’t like Victoria and hardly ever go there. Why would I? It’s a weird part of London on the wrong side of Buckingham Palace. As far as I know, it has no decent restaurants, no shops selling anything anyone could possibly want, no cinemas and just a couple of theatres that feel cut off and separated from their natural home in Shaftesbury Avenue. Victoria station is so old-fashioned you almost expect a steam train to pull in and the moment you step outside, you find yourself lost in a haphazard junction of shabby, seedy streets that all look the same. In recent years, they’ve introduced cheerful guides who stand on the forecourt of the station in bowler hats, giving tourists advice. The only advice I’d give them is to go somewhere else.
This was where Alan Godwin worked, running a company that organised conferences and social events for businesses. His office was on the second floor of a 1960s building that had weathered badly, at the end of a narrow street crowded with unappetising cafés, close to the coach station. It was raining when I arrived – it had been cloudy all day – and with the puddles on the pavements and the coaches spraying water as they rumbled past, I could hardly imagine anywhere I would less like to be. The sign on the door read Dearboy Events and it took me a moment to work out where it had come from. It was a quotation from Harold Macmillan, who had once been asked what politicians should fear. His answer was: ‘Events, dear boy, events.’
I was shown into a small, unevenly shaped reception room and I didn’t need to be a detective to see the way this business was going. The furniture was expensive but it was getting tired and the trade magazines spread out on the table were out of date. The potted plants were wilting. The receptionist was bored and didn’t make any attempt to disguise it. Her telephone wasn’t ringing. There were a few awards on display on a shelf, handed out by organisations I’d never heard of.
Hawthorne was already there, sitting on a sofa with that sense of impatience I was beginning to know so well. It was as if he was addicted to crime and couldn’t wait to begin his next interrogation. ‘You’re late,’ he said.
I looked at my watch. It was five past three. ‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘How was your weekend?’
‘It was all right.’
‘Did you do anything? Did you see a film?’
He looked at me curiously. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’ I was thinking about my lunch with Hilda. I sat down opposite him. ‘Did you know that Raymond Clunes has been arrested?’
He nodded. ‘I saw it in the papers. When he took that fifty grand off Diana Cowper, it looks like he was ripping her off.’
‘Maybe she knew something about him. It could have given him a reason to kill her.’
Hawthorne considered my suggestion in a way that told me he had already dismissed it. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘It’s possible.’
A young girl came into the reception area and told us, in a hopeless tone of voice, that Mr Godwin would see us. She led us down a short corridor past two offices – both of them empty, I noticed. There was a door at the end. She opened it. ‘Here are your visitors, Mr Godwin.’
We went in.
I knew Alan Godwin at once. I had seen him at the funeral. He had been the tall man with the straggly hair and the white handkerchief. Now, he was sitting behind a desk with a window behind him and a view of the coach station over his shoulder. He was wearing a sports jacket and a round-necked jersey. He recognised us too as we came in. He knew that we had seen him at the cemetery. His face fell.
There were two seats opposite the desk. We sat down.
‘You’re a police officer?’ He examined Hawthorne nervously.
‘I’m working with the police, that’s right.’