A Line to Kill

‘Because you have shares in Électricité du Nord. You wanted to raise their value.’

For the first time, Derek Abbott seemed to relax, finding himself on safe ground. He sneered at Hawthorne. ‘That’s another lie and this time I can prove it. You can check out the shareholders of Électricité du Nord. It must be on public record. You won’t find my name. I don’t have any shares in anything any more.’

He reached for his walking stick, as if signalling the end of the interview. I saw that his hand was shaking.

‘Colin Matheson is a prat. He never liked me and now he’s trying to stir up trouble for me. But whatever he says, it’s his word against mine. I never threatened him. I don’t have any photographs of him. I never received anything from him and I didn’t know he was shagging Helen le Mesurier. But since you’ve been so kind as to mention it to me, perhaps I’ll have a word with his wife. I’m sure she’ll be very interested to hear about all this.’

It was his one small victory and in his twisted smile I got a clear picture of the unbridled nastiness of the man. Derek Abbott struggled to his feet, but before he could move away from the table, Hawthorne reached out and grabbed hold of his walking stick, pinning him in place. ‘I haven’t finished,’ he said.

‘Yes, you have.’ Abbott jerked the stick free. ‘You’ve got absolutely nothing on me, just like the last time. Only the difference is, you’re not even a detective any more. You’ve been thrown out, like me, and now you’re on the sidelines, scrubbing around for whatever petty cash you can persuade the police to throw your way and employing a second-rate hack author to write about you because you need the money. That’s what you’ve come to and I’m not afraid of you. Hawthorne Investigates? You’re pathetic!’

The two of them were standing close together and at that moment something very strange happened. Abbott was staring at Hawthorne. All along he had been confident in his anger and his hostility, but right then I saw a look of puzzlement come into his eyes. Was it recognition? Or even fear? It was as if he had become aware of something that had always been there but which he had only just noticed. For his part, Hawthorne twisted away, turning his back on the other man. ‘We don’t need to stay here any more,’ he said to me.

A minute later we were standing outside and I was desperately searching for something to say. I was certain that I had just witnessed something that mattered but at the same time I knew I couldn’t ask Hawthorne what it was. This business between him and Abbott was too convoluted. It ran too deep.

Terry had driven round in the car and neither of us spoke as we walked over to him.

In the background, the recording of Mozart’s Requiem had reached the last section and I heard the words of the Communio sung by an alto voice that seemed to cut through the gloom. Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine. ‘May eternal light shine on them, O Lord.’ And as I listened, it occurred to me that there was some sort of justice in the world and that even if he had escaped a long prison sentence, Derek Abbott had been punished for his past sins. He was utterly alone, not just trapped on a tiny island but further isolated from it in a house to which nobody came. The living room I had seen was exactly that: the room in which he lived his life. Charles le Mesurier might have decided to champion him for his own amusement, but that too was over.

Even the lighthouse had given up on him. That was his fate. To be an outcast, lost and forgotten in a place where the light never shone.

18 The Hercule Programme

If there hadn’t been a glitch with the hotel computer, we would never have seen Maïssa Lamar again. She was arguing with the hotel receptionist when we got back, trying to settle her bill.

‘Please … I have to leave now.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms Lamar. What was your room number again?’

‘I already tell you!’

She was not alone. The fair-haired man I’d seen at Southampton Airport and later in the street outside the cinema was standing next to her. They both had suitcases.

‘You on your way home?’ Hawthorne had already noticed the taxi waiting outside. He closed in on her with relish.

‘Mr Hawthorne!’ She was annoyed and didn’t try to hide it. ‘Yes. I wish to return home at once.’

‘That’s very strange. I thought we’d all been told to stick around.’ He examined the other man. ‘And you must be the toy boy Tony saw at the airport. It seems he was right after all.’

‘Here you are!’ The receptionist had won control of the computer. He hit a button and the printer spat out two sheets of paper.

But it was too late for Maïssa. ‘You talk to me now or I’ll close down your flight,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Don’t believe I can’t do it. And maybe you should drop the pantomime French. I know who you are. I know what you’re doing here. You’ve been interfering in what has now become a double murder investigation. You have no idea how much trouble I can make for you.’