A Line to Kill

Looking ahead, I saw the floor-to-ceiling windows had also been slid aside. Light from the interior spilled out onto emerald-green lawns and perfectly cut flower beds, while a gravel path lit by tiny lights set in the ground continued all the way to the bottom of the garden. A square stone building with two windows – some sort of pavilion – had been built at the very end. I could hear the soft murmur of the sea beyond.

This wasn’t a house. It was a movie set. The art, the hardwood floors, the rugs, the grand piano, the Italian lighting and furniture, they had all been chosen to make an impression. It suited the character of Charles le Mesurier – or what I knew of him. The big fish in the small pond. When you visited him at home, he wanted you to know what he was. This wasn’t just a home. It was a monument to himself.

I glanced at Hawthorne. He didn’t seem particularly impressed by his surroundings, but he would never have shown it if he was.

About a hundred people, some of them in black tie, had already arrived and Marc Bellamy was working the room, having appointed himself master of ceremonies. He was dressed in the full regalia of a traditional chef: white jacket with two rows of buttons, baggy grey trousers and a red bandana. All that was missing was the hat.

He saw us and came over.

‘How do!’ He began with the inevitable greeting. ‘How are you, Tony? And you, Mr Hawthorne? Busy day?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I hope you’ve brought your appetites with you. What are you going to have to drink?’ He waved a hand at Kathryn, who was carrying glasses on a tray. She was wearing a black dress and a white apron, like a French waitress. It was as if the two of them had decided to come in fancy dress. ‘What do you think of this place, then? Not quite my cup of Tetley’s, but it must have cost a bob or two. Versailles on the island of Alderney.’ His pronunciation of the French chateau moved it directly to Yorkshire. ‘Let’s hope the locals don’t rise up and chop off the owner’s head!’ he added with a twinkle.

He sauntered over towards some other new arrivals and I looked past him into the room. Charles le Mesurier was standing beside the piano, dressed tonight in a loose-fitting silk jacket, T-shirt and white trousers, talking to a group of people who were hanging on his every word. Elizabeth Lovell was sitting on a sofa with Sid next to her. He was whispering descriptions of the other guests, cradling what looked like a large whisky on his lap. There was one particular person I was looking for and I spotted him at once, standing next to the entrance to the kitchen. Derek Abbott was leaning on his walking stick, talking to a woman I didn’t know: short, strawberry blonde hair, lots of make-up, expensively dressed. Hawthorne had seen him too.

‘Did you know he’d be here?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Are you going to stay?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Why should I leave?’

It was true that there was plenty of space for them to avoid each other. In fact, we still hadn’t made it out of the hallway and Abbott might not even have seen us. Just then, I heard a car door slam on the drive and looked round in time to see Anne Cleary and George Elkin getting out of the dusty green Volkswagen that had brought them here. I waited for them to come in. Elkin hadn’t made any effort to dress up for the party. He was wearing the same jacket with the elbow patches and a check shirt. He didn’t look happy to be here.

I smiled at Anne. ‘Did you manage to find your …?’ I began.

But Anne wasn’t looking at me. She seemed stunned. I followed her eyes and realised that she was staring at Derek Abbott and the woman. She was shocked.

‘Anne?’ I asked. ‘Are you all right?’

She noticed me for the first time. ‘That man …!’ she faltered. ‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Derek Abbott,’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I’ve seen him … somewhere.’

‘Maybe you met him in prison,’ I suggested.

It was a stupid thing to say. But Anne and I had spent quite a bit of time talking about her prison charity, Books Behind Bars, and there was a part of me that wanted to stir things up. I was still annoyed with Hawthorne and my comment was actually a gentle stab in his direction. He didn’t respond.

But Anne had gone quite pale. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘I think you’re right. That’s exactly where I met him. He was in one of my reading groups … I’m sure of it!’ She turned to Elkin. ‘I wonder if I should even stay here. What do I say to him if he remembers me?’

‘Best not say anything,’ Elkin muttered. ‘Nobody really talks to him anyway. I’m surprised he’s here.’

‘I don’t know …’

She was saved by the arrival of Kathryn Harris, who had come hurrying out of the living room and now imposed herself between us with the drinks tray. ‘Red, white or rosé,’ she announced cheerfully. ‘Or there’s beer on the far table, as well as lemonade and sparkling water.’

Anne and I each picked a glass of wine. Hawthorne chose lemonade.