A Line to Kill

We walked together from the railway line, the lighthouse ahead of us, standing guard against a hostile sea. Quesnard Cottage stood nearby, dark and solitary, almost silhouetted against a streak of crimson light that had seared itself across a darkening sky. A breeze had sprung up. The trees were writhing and long, wild grass was licking at my feet.

I could tell that Hawthorne was uneasy. He didn’t speak. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. And he smoked – mechanically and apparently without pleasure. He had come to Alderney, he had said, because he wanted to see what had happened to Derek Abbott, but all along there had been much more to it than that and I could see it now. He had the appearance of a man on his way to confront some sort of demon. But was it a demon that he had pushed down a flight of steps in a London police station or one that had entered his life a long time before and which had done him harm in ways that I could not understand? Perhaps I was about to find out.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked as we crossed the main road and entered a track that would bring us to the house.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ he snapped back.

‘You just seem very quiet.’

‘I’m thinking.’ We took a few more steps. ‘You know, maybe it would be better if you didn’t join me for this one.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I stopped. ‘Of course I’ve got to be there.’

‘I can tell you what happens.’

‘No! You can’t!’ For a brief moment, I was actually quite angry. ‘I never get any credit from you,’ I said. ‘I never do anything right. I think you forget that you were the one who came to me in the first place, and to be honest, there are times when I wish you hadn’t. But right now I’m stuck with you. I don’t get very much pleasure out of your company, but wherever you go, I’m going too. I’m going to describe what I see and what happens, and assuming you manage to track down whoever killed Charles and Helen le Mesurier, I’m going to describe that too. But it’s my book! You don’t tell me what happens. That’s my job!’

I think that was the most I had ever said to Hawthorne in one breath and he seemed amused. ‘What are you going to call it?’ he asked.

‘The book? I don’t know. Not Hawthorne Investigates.’

‘Well, be careful with this one.’ Hawthorne nodded towards the house. ‘Don’t trust anything he says. Don’t let him get under your skin.’

We continued on our way.

On closer inspection, Quesnard Cottage was a solid Georgian farmhouse with three, maybe four bedrooms and a large garden. Sadly, the owner had let it slip into disrepair. There were tiles missing from the roof and tufts of moss had insinuated themselves into the gaps. The glass in the windows was dusty and a couple of the smaller panes were cracked. The garden was full of weeds. I wondered if builders, decorators and gardeners had all refused to come here. As we approached the front gate, I heard classical music – Mozart – playing inside. We had to knock several times before the door opened.

Derek Abbott stood in front of us. He was on his own and at home but he was still wearing a suit, albeit without a tie. It was the first time I had actually been close to him and I was immediately struck by his bad teeth, his receding hairline and the curious sheen of his skin, which gave him the appearance of having had plastic surgery multiple times. He did not have the walking stick. Perhaps he didn’t need it when he was in his own house. He was not pleased to see us. No. That’s an understatement. He would have slammed the door if Hawthorne hadn’t reached out and held it open.

‘Get off my land,’ Abbott snarled.

‘We need to talk to you,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Give me one good reason why I should give you any of my time.’

‘I’ll give you two. Charles le Mesurier. Helen le Mesurier.’

Abbott shook his head. ‘No. I’m not fucking talking to you, Hawthorne. You’re not coming into my house. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.’

‘I’m working for the police.’ With his one free hand, Hawthorne produced an envelope I hadn’t seen before. ‘If you don’t believe me, read this. I’ve been officially engaged by Deputy Chief Torode on behalf of the Guernsey police. He knows I’m here now. If you won’t talk to me, he’ll want to talk to you, and the first question he’ll ask you is why you wouldn’t talk to me.’

‘I won’t talk to you because you’re a ****.’ Swear words bore me. I don’t like using them. And he had used one that was unprintable.

‘Suit yourself. But right now you’re the prime suspect in two murders—’

‘Helen’s dead?’

‘You knew that already.’

‘I knew she was missing and an hour ago I saw police cars and an ambulance arrive at the quarry. I’m not stupid.’

‘So are you going to cooperate with a double murder investigation or not?’