A Line to Kill

Hawthorne looked at me bleakly. ‘Not even one,’ he said. ‘That’s the law. If he’d been done for the manufacture or distribution of child pornography – I told you – that could have meant twenty years, which is what the bastard deserved. Unfortunately, all they could get him for was possession, which carries a maximum two-year sentence.’ He paused. ‘Because of his injuries, which put him in hospital, and the fact that his lawyers made a formal complaint about his treatment in custody, the judge did him a favour. He was given six months, which destroyed him and brought down every single one of his businesses – but it still wasn’t enough.’ Hawthorne rolled the cigarette between his thumb and finger. The smoke twisted away in the wind. ‘Not nearly enough.’

I thought for a moment before I spoke.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can understand your frustration. But I still don’t see what you hoped to gain by coming here.’

‘I didn’t plan to come here until we were invited,’ Hawthorne reminded me. ‘But … all right. I was interested to see what had happened to him.’

‘Why?’ Hawthorne didn’t answer, so I tried again. ‘You must have met lots of unpleasant men who’ve committed crimes that are just as bad. What’s so special about this one?’

But Hawthorne had said enough. He held up the cigarette and allowed the wind to snatch it out of his fingers. Then he turned on his heel and set off across the sand. I followed him, and without saying another word, we climbed back up to the waiting car.

11 Shades of Grey

Our driver’s full name was Terry Burgess. He was twenty-six years old, worked for his father’s taxi company and had spent most of his adult life ferrying passengers from the airport to Braye and back again, with occasional excursions to Fort Clonque or Gannet Rock. His clients were either tourists who ignored him or elderly residents who criticised his driving. On Saturday nights he picked up the occasional drunk and fined them £10 if they threw up in the back of his car.

Hawthorne’s arrival had given Terry a new sense of purpose. In the ten minutes it took him to drive us from the beach to the hotel, he managed to tell us his entire life story and give us the background he was certain we’d need to crack the case.

‘It’s this power line. NAB. Ever since they said they were going to dig up the island, everyone’s been at each other’s throats. I bet that’s why someone did in Mr le Mesurier.’

I thought Hawthorne would be irritated, but he seemed amused. ‘Why do you say that?’

Terry adjusted his driving mirror so he could look into the back where we were sitting. He had curls of ginger hair, blue eyes and a boxer’s nose. ‘Nothing ever happened on this island without his say-so,’ he explained. ‘Talk about a finger in every pie! He’s got shops, restaurants, pubs, the post office … he was even talking about setting up his own taxi service! And as for that house of his, you know he spent five million quid building it? How he got planning permission right on the edge of the sea, and his own private pillbox, is anyone’s guess.’

He hooted at another car. Not because it was in the way but because he knew the driver.

‘Did I tell you I was actually outside The Lookout last night? I was working all evening. And I must have been parked there when … it happened. It’s incredible, really. Crazy! There’s never been a murder in Alderney before.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Hawthorne said.

I was glad the journey wasn’t any longer. It was already mid-morning and, like Deputy Chief Torode, we’d left without breakfast. We pulled up in front of the hotel and Hawthorne instructed Terry to wait outside while the two of us went in, making for the restaurant.

It wasn’t to be. Anne Cleary was sitting in the reception area. She had been waiting for us. The moment she saw us, she stood up and came over.

‘Is it true?’ she demanded. ‘Charles le Mesurier has been killed?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Hawthorne didn’t sound too sorry, but then, of course, the murder had provided him with another case – and perhaps another source of income.

‘And none of us can leave the island?’

‘They’ve sent a couple of officers over from Guernsey and that’s their instruction … yes.’

Anne Cleary was on the edge of tears. ‘But I have to get back to Oxford. I have a doctor’s appointment first thing tomorrow.’

‘It’ll have to wait.’

‘It can’t wait. You don’t understand.’

Hawthorne just looked at her blankly, so I stepped in. ‘We were just going to have breakfast. Would you like to join us?’

‘I think they’ve stopped serving.’

She was right. By the time we went into the restaurant it was after eleven o’clock and the tables had been cleared. Even so, we sat down next to a window with a view of the harbour and I managed to persuade a waitress to provide us with two pots of tea, some toast for me and a black coffee for Hawthorne.