A Line to Kill

‘We’ll be bringing out the chicken satay in a moment,’ Kathryn continued. ‘But save some room for the steak and kidney puddings. They’re Marc’s speciality!’

By the time she had finished her recommendations, Abbott had turned his back on us and limped over to the sun lounge. I had to smile. There were now three of us who would have to keep our distance from him to avoid any further embarrassment.

Even so, the evening passed pleasantly enough and, despite my earlier reservations, I was glad I’d come. The music was being provided by three men in striped jackets, white trousers and straw hats; they called themselves The Channelers and according to the advertisement propped up in front of the synthesiser, they could be heard every other Thursday at The Divers Inn. The sun had fully set by now and the garden was shrouded in darkness, but there were pinpricks of electric light on either side of the path and a soft yellow glow behind the windows of the pavilion at the end. To be fair to Marc Bellamy (and to Charles le Mesurier, who had paid for it), there was plenty of food. The chicken satay was followed by Welsh rarebits, chicken vol-au-vent, stuffed Yorkshire puddings, sausage rolls and shrimp skewers – all very retro and ‘cobblers to calories’. The shrimp even came with a Marie Rose dip.

I chatted to several of the guests, including Judith and Colin Matheson, the first time I had actually seen them together. It was strange how unsuited they were. She was a couple of inches taller than him and quite a bit broader and as he stood next to her he shrank into himself even more than usual, glancing nervously around the room whilst clutching a glass of clear liquid.

‘Gin and tonic?’ I asked.

‘Perrier.’ Colin grimaced. ‘I’m the designated driver.’

‘I’ve had very good feedback from your session this afternoon,’ Judith said.

‘I was sorry not to see you there.’

‘I was sorry I had to miss it. I hope Colin told you. I had some issues at home.’

Issues at home. She’d chosen the words carefully, not wanting to give too much away, and she quickly steered her husband into the next room before he could add anything more.

Once again I caught sight of Derek Abbott. It was impossible to avoid him completely. He had retreated to the far corner, lowering himself into an armchair with his walking stick resting against the arm. He was sitting there managing to be both defensive and aggressive. Most people seemed to be ignoring him, but he had been invited and so he had come, to hell with what they thought. That was what he seemed to be saying. If he hadn’t seen me on stage, I might have been tempted to go over and talk to him myself. But he knew who I was and what was I going to say to him? ‘Is it true that Hawthorne pushed you down a flight of concrete steps because you were dealing in child pornography?’ Hardly the perfect ice-breaker at a social gathering like this.

Hawthorne, for his part, never came close. I noticed him in the kitchen, in conversation with Colin Matheson. Although we had arrived together, we had hardly spoken a word all evening. Perhaps we had nothing to talk about. All the time we had spent together – in London, Kent and Yorkshire, in taxis and trains, his home and mine – we had been pursuing an investigation. He was the detective. I was the writer. That was what defined us as far as he was concerned.

Even so, we had come to Alderney as a team. I had thought we might enjoy our time on the island but even that small hope had been dashed by the appearance of Derek Abbott. Was I wrong to have been so angry? The trouble with Hawthorne was that he had his own way of doing things, his own code of conduct. He wouldn’t care if you disagreed with him. But if you tried to argue with him, you’d almost certainly come off worse and maybe that was what I was discovering now.

I was just going over to join him when Charles le Mesurier stepped in front of me, blocking my way. He was closer than I would have liked and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘I enjoyed that little chat of yours this afternoon,’ he said.

‘Thank you. I like your house.’

‘Yes. I had a whole load of designers in, but in the end I came up with most of it myself.’ He was quite drunk, not exactly slurring his words but a little too emphatic in the way he spoke. I noticed that while we had all been given wine or beer, he had a crystal flute of champagne, which he was holding with his thumb and first finger on either side of the rim.

‘What’s the building at the bottom of the garden?’ I asked.

‘That was put there by the Germans in the war. It’s actually a gunnery, but after I bought the place I turned it into a sort of summer house … somewhere private to hang out.’ He leered at me. ‘I call it the Snuggery. I rather like that. Gunnery to Snuggery.’

‘Do you spend a lot of time here?’