The Sentence Is Death

‘The engine’s still warm . . .’

He nodded. ‘Got it in one, Tony.’

He glanced at the passenger window, which was open a couple of inches, sniffed the air, then continued towards the front door of the house and the constable who was guarding it. I thought he would go straight in but now his attention was drawn to the perfectly rectangular flower beds beside the entrance. There were two of them, one on each side, with bulrushes standing dead straight, like soldiers on parade. Hawthorne crouched down and I noticed that, to the right of the door, a few of the plants had been broken, as if someone had stumbled and stepped on them. The killer? Before I could ask him, he straightened up again, gave his name to the constable and disappeared into the building.

I smiled vaguely, nervous that I would be stopped, but the policeman seemed to be expecting me too. I went in.

Heron’s Wake wasn’t built like an ordinary house. The main rooms weren’t divided by walls and doors. Instead, one area seemed to morph into another with a wide entrance hall opening into a state-of-the-art kitchen on one side and a spacious living room on the other. The back wall was made almost entirely of glass, giving lovely views of the garden. There were no carpets; just expensive rugs of various sizes artfully strewn over American oak floors. The furniture was modern, designer-made, the art on the walls mainly abstract. It was obvious that a great deal of care had been lavished on the interior, even if the overall impression was one of simplicity. All the door handles and light switches, for example, were brushed steel, not plastic, and whispered of Paris or Milan. I could imagine them being carefully chosen from catalogues. Most of the house was white but Pryce had recently decided to add a few splashes of colour. There were paint pots and brushes arranged on dust sheets in the hall. An open doorway led into a cloakroom that had become an eye-catching canary yellow. The windows in the kitchen were now framed in terracotta red. I had assumed that the lawyer was married, but the house had the feel of a very expensive bachelor pad.

I caught up with Hawthorne just as a large, unattractive woman appeared, elbowing her way out of the kitchen, dressed in a bright mauve trouser suit with a black polo-neck sweater. What made her unattractive? It wasn’t her clothes or her size, although she was overweight with round shoulders and a face that was thick and fleshy. No. It was mainly her attitude. She hadn’t spoken a word to us but she was already scowling. Either her spectacles were too big or her eyes were too small, but she had managed to make herself look mean and hostile, peering at the world with a malevolence that she wore like mascara. What struck me most about her, though, was her hair. I’m sure it was real but it resembled one of those cheap wigs worn by department-store mannequins, jet black and as glossy as nylon. It didn’t seem to belong to her head. She had a gold necklace around her neck and below that a lanyard resting horizontally on an ample chest identified her as DI Cara Grunshaw of the Metropolitan Police. She moved quickly, aggressively, like a wrestler entering an arena. If I were a criminal, I’d be afraid of her. I hadn’t done anything wrong but she still made me nervous.

‘Hello, Hawthorne,’ she said. To my surprise and despite her appearance, she was quite jocular. ‘They told me you were on your way.’

‘Hello, Cara.’

They knew each other. They seemed to like each other. Hawthorne turned to me. ‘This is Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw,’ he said, unnecessarily. He didn’t tell her who I was. Nor did she seem particularly interested.

‘They sent over the details?’ She had come straight to the point, without any small talk. Her voice was heavy and emotionless, with no particular accent. ‘Initial report? Photographs?’

‘Yes.’

‘They didn’t waste any time! He was only found this morning.’

‘Who found him?’

‘The cleaner. Bulgarian. Mariella Petrov. You can talk to her if you want to but you’ll be wasting your time. She doesn’t know anything. She’d only worked for Pryce for six weeks . . . came through a good agency in Knightsbridge. Lives in Bethnal Green with a husband and two kids. Her first job was to come down from Highgate, bringing in fresh bread and milk for his breakfast. She went into the kitchen and got everything ready. Then she walked into the study and that was where she found him. We’ve moved the body but you can take a look if you like.’

‘Sure.’

‘Here . . .’ She had produced plastic shoe covers and handed them to us casually, like serviettes before a meal.