The Twist of a Knife

‘Hawthorne,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘I need to stay here tonight. I can’t go home. Cara Grunshaw was there. She was with my wife! I can’t check into a hotel. I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘I’m not sure, mate. If the police have issued a warrant for your arrest, I’d be breaking the law by sheltering you. It might make me an accessory.’

‘You’re worried about breaking the law?’ I nearly screamed at him. ‘You got thrown out of the police for pushing a paedophile down a flight of steps, and later on you persuaded him to commit suicide. You regularly hack into the police computer system! You are kidding me, aren’t you? Apart from being a detective, you have no respect for the law at all. You’ve got to help me. I thought we were a team. I’ve been in hospital twice because of you. All the things we’ve done together – don’t they mean anything to you?’

To my horror, I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes. It had been another very long day. I couldn’t believe that this was where I’d ended up.

‘Relax, mate. You want a drink?’

‘What have you got?’ I prayed it wouldn’t be another rum and Coke.

‘I think I’ve got some grappa.’

‘Grappa?’

‘It’s Italian brandy.’

‘I know what it is.’ I forced myself to calm down. ‘Yes, please. I’d love some grappa.’

‘Just wait here a minute.’

He left the room and I examined the model in front of me. It was either a tank or some sort of mobile rocket launcher. He hadn’t assembled enough for me to be sure and I was in no mood to make sense of the eighty or ninety scattered pieces that remained. The rest of the room was as empty as it had always been. Hawthorne hadn’t drawn the curtains. There were no curtains. I could just make out the glint of the River Thames. There must be a full moon, although I hadn’t noticed it before.

He returned with a glass of clear liquid and a single lump of ice. He was holding a small bowl in his other hand. He set them both down. ‘Here you are, mate. I thought you might like a Twiglet.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

There were perhaps a dozen Twiglets in the bowl. They reminded me that I hadn’t had dinner and why I was here. ‘Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘Tell me who killed Harriet Throsby.’

He grimaced. ‘I wish I could.’

‘You must know! We’ve talked to everyone. We’ve been to Moxham Heath. You always know by now …’

‘Well, this one’s been tricky. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got three main suspects.’

‘Don’t tell me I’m one of them.’

He avoided my eye.

‘I don’t know why I bother.’ I threw back some of the grappa. It was sweet and a little cloying. It burned the back of my throat. The alcohol had no effect on me at all. ‘I might as well hand myself in,’ I said.

‘There’s no need to be defeatist.’ Hawthorne tried to sound cheery.

‘What else can I do? If you’re not going to let me stay …’

Finally, he seemed to take pity on me. ‘Look, mate. I’m not used to having guests overnight. It’s just not what I do. And there’s only one spare bedroom.’

‘I only need one bed!’

‘It’s not that …’ He was wrestling with himself. Finally, he seemed to arrive at a decision. ‘All right. I’ll put you up for one night. But only because it’s you. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.’

‘Thank you.’ I really meant it. I don’t think I’d have been physically able to leave.

‘You want some dinner?’

‘I can’t eat.’

‘Just as well. There’s nothing in the fridge.’

‘Hawthorne, please tell me. Three suspects. Two if you don’t count me. You must have a good idea …’

‘Let’s talk about this in the morning. I’ve got an early start.’

‘But surely you’ve got all the facts!’

‘Actually, mate, that’s exactly the problem. The facts. That’s what’s been getting in my way. There are too many of them and they can’t all be right. That’s what I need to sort out.’

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he didn’t want to say any more and I wasn’t going to push my luck by putting more pressure on him. I threw back the rest of the grappa, hoping it would help me sleep, and followed Hawthorne out through the kitchen and into a short corridor on the other side. There were three doors that I’d never seen before.

Hawthorne pointed to the one at the end. ‘That’s my room. There’s a spare bathroom next door. I’ll dig out a toothbrush for you. And you’ll be in here.’

He opened the nearest door.

‘I don’t want you talking about how and where I live. All right? And I definitely don’t want to read about it in your book.’

‘I’m not writing a book.’

He didn’t say anything. I went in.

It was his son’s room. I saw that at once. The single bed with its Arsenal duvet. The stuffed giraffe. The Marvel superhero posters. The books. Unlike the rest of the flat, it was actually decorated, and suitable for a young boy. The room was small and cosy with a little desk in one corner. The walls were painted blue. There were stars and planets stuck on the ceiling.