‘Well, at least give me a little help! I’ve been everywhere you’ve been. I’ve seen everything you’ve seen. And yet I haven’t got the faintest idea who killed him. Just tell me one clue that I’ve missed – one clue that makes it all make sense.’
‘It’s not like that, Tony.’ I could tell that Hawthorne wanted a cigarette but he couldn’t smoke, not when he was surrounded by someone else’s fittings and furniture. ‘I’ve told you before. You’ve got to find the shape. That’s all.’
I frowned, not following him.
‘I’d have thought it’s the same when you write a book. Isn’t that how you start … looking for the shape?’
I was thrown by what Hawthorne had said because he was absolutely right. At the very start of the process, when I’m creating a story, I do think of it as having a particular, geometrical shape. For example, I was about to start work on Moriarty, my Sherlock Holmes sequel, and it had occurred to me that the twisting narrative, which would turn in on itself at the end, was rather like a Möbius strip. The House of Silk had the appearance of a letter Y. A novel is a container for 80,000 to 90,000 words and you might see it as a jelly mould. You pour them all in and hope they’ll set. But it had never occurred to me that a detective might see his world in the same way.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘So exactly what shape does the murder of Richard Pryce have?’
‘It wasn’t just Richard Pryce who died. You’ve got to remember Gregory Taylor went under that train and there are three explanations for that.’
‘It was an accident. It was suicide. Someone deliberately killed him.’
‘That’s right. And each one of those possibilities changes the shape of the whole thing.’
My head was spinning: Hawthorne wasn’t making a great deal of sense. Or perhaps it was the rum. ‘Did you always want to be a detective?’ I asked him.
The question took him by surprise. ‘Yes.’
‘Since you were a child?’
At once he was on the defensive. ‘Why are you asking me that? Why do you want to know?’
‘I’ve told you. Because I’m writing about you.’ I wasn’t sure if I dared ask the next question but this seemed the right moment. I plunged in. ‘Did you know that man in Yorkshire?’
‘Which man?’
‘Mike Carlyle. He called you Billy. Is that really your name?’
Hawthorne said nothing. Briefly, he lowered his head as if wondering what to do. When he looked up at me again, there was something in his eyes that I had never seen before and it took me a few seconds to realise what it was. He was in pain.
‘I told you, I’d never seen him before. He was just someone who was making a mistake.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you.’
And then the shutters came down. That was the thing about Hawthorne. He had a way of cutting off anyone who got too close – he might have been doing it all his life – and when he spoke again it was very softly and with no emotion at all. ‘I’ll tell you something, mate. Suppose I’m having second thoughts about you and me? Suppose I’ve decided this was a bad idea?’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was the one who had been dragged into this. I was the one that didn’t want to be here.
‘This wasn’t my idea,’ I reminded him. ‘It was yours.’
‘We could stop right now. Who gives a toss about another book. There are plenty of books.’ He pointed. ‘You could walk out that door.’
‘It’s a bit late for that. I’ve signed a three-book contract … remember? We’ve signed a three-book contract.’
‘You don’t need me. You can make up the next one.’
‘Believe me, I’d love to. It would be an awful lot easier. But I’ve already spent a week on this one and I’m not going to stop until I work out your shape or your pattern, or whatever you want to call it, and find out who killed Richard Pryce.’
We sat there, glaring at each other. Then Hawthorne looked at his watch. ‘We should go downstairs. They’ll be waiting for us.’
‘I’m not your enemy, Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to help you.’
‘Yeah. Well, you’ve been a lot of help so far.’
He walked away. I had drunk less than half of the rum and Coke. I left the rest behind.
16
The Book Group
We took the lift down together and it was very strange because by the time we arrived, Hawthorne was quite back to his old self. It was as if the sliding door had acted like a wipe in one of those old-fashioned feature films, cutting off all the animosity between us and taking us to a new scene where we were friends again. Certainly, as we stepped out on the third floor, the argument had been forgotten. Hawthorne was jaunty, wired up, a little nervous. I knew how protective he was of his private life. He hadn’t really wanted me to come to his book group – presumably he had been cajoled by the other members. At the same time, though, these weren’t close friends I was about to meet. He had once told me that they’d all come together from the local library. Was that true? At least one of them had a flat in the same block as him. Perhaps they all did.
I smelled Indian cooking as we walked down the corridor. There was an open door about halfway along and we stopped outside. Hawthorne undid the single button of his jacket; his one concession to informality.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked.
‘Her name is Lisa Chakraborty.’
‘The last time I came to this building, I met a young man in a wheelchair …’
Hawthorne cast a doleful glance in my direction. It was already more than he wanted me to know. ‘That’s her son.’
Kevin Chakraborty. The boy with muscular dystrophy who had made a joke about reaching the top button in the lift.
We went in.
It was surprising how two flats in the same building, both about the same shape and size, could be so very different. Lisa Chakraborty lived in a space that was the opposite of open-plan. An enclosed, L-shaped corridor led almost reluctantly into a living room that was darker and more cluttered, with heavy furniture, wallpaper, chandeliers. The sofas were fat, smothered in cushions, facing each other like old enemies across the low, ornate coffee table that kept them apart. The carpet actually had a swirly pattern, something I hadn’t seen for some time. There were ornaments everywhere: porcelain figures, vases, glass paperweights, Tiffany lamps, different pieces of silverware. The room was as crowded, and as random, as an antique shop.
I noticed something odd about the layout although it took me a moment to work out what it was. Despite the clutter, a single wide space had been left, leading into the room from the entrance. The doors and corridors were perhaps one third wider than average. I realised it had been designed that way for Kevin, who would have to manoeuvre his way round in his wheelchair.
He was not there, but an assortment of people stood clutching drinks, looking awkward in the way guests always do when they choose to stand together even though they’re surrounded by places to sit. My first impression, possibly unfair, was that they seemed to be quite freakish – mainly because they were all so very different. A very tall woman with a very short man. A pair of identical twins. A plump lady in a sari. A silver-haired, distinguished-looking man, perhaps South American. An extravagantly bearded man in a kilt, another small and shrimpy man with round glasses, in tweed. There were about a dozen of them in all. If I hadn’t known they were connected by books it would have been difficult to find a reason for them being in the same room.
The woman in the sari stepped forward, beaming. She had black hair streaked with grey and wide, searching eyes. I had never seen anyone with so much silver jewellery: three necklaces, rings on every finger and one in her nose, a sari brooch shaped like a peacock and earrings that brushed against her shoulders. She was about fifty years old but her skin was unlined and she positively radiated warmth and good humour.
‘Mr Hawthorne!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re very naughty! We were beginning to think you weren’t going to come. And this
is your friend?’
I introduced myself.
‘We are so delighted you could join us. Come in, come in. I’m Lisa Chakraborty but you must call me Lisa, please, and I shall call you Tony.’
‘Well, actually—’
‘I’m afraid I’m on my own tonight. My husband never takes part in our little gatherings. He has actually no interest at all in books. He’s gone to the cinema.’ She spoke as if she was in a hurry, the words falling over each other in their enthusiasm to leave her mouth. ‘We’re starting with a little glass of wine and some food and then we’ll get down to business. Sherlock Holmes, no less! And to have a real investigator and an author who has written about the great detective himself – it’s a very special treat! Mr Brannigan! Have you a glass of wine for our guest?’
Mr Brannigan was the short husband with the tall wife. He had been smiling as I came in and the smile was still there, fixed into place and giving him a slightly manic quality. He was almost completely bald, with a round, eager-to-please face and a moustache that trembled on his upper lip. ‘Hello there!’ he barked, thrusting a glass of lukewarm white wine into my hand. ‘Kenneth Brannigan. Very nice to meet you, Tony. Very good of you to come. Let me introduce you to my better half. This is Angela.’
His wife – gaunt and imperious-looking – had joined him. ‘How nice to meet you,’ she said. She had a cut-glass voice and didn’t smile. ‘You write the Eric Rider books?’
‘Alex Rider, yes.’
She gave me a sad look. ‘I don’t think our children ever read them, I’m afraid.’
‘Hammy did!’ Kenneth contradicted her. He blinked at me. ‘Hammy read quite a few of them when he was twelve. Artemis Fowl. That was his favourite.’
‘Actually, that was Eoin Colfer,’ I said.
‘I’ll be interested to hear what you think about Sherlock Holmes,’ Angela said, going on quickly before I could tell her. ‘I find him very difficult, personally. I don’t know why he was chosen.’
‘Not our cup of Horlicks at all,’ Kenneth agreed. ‘But we’ve all been watching Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock on the telly. I suppose it might be interesting to see where it all began.’
Gradually, I made my way around the room. I met a veterinary surgeon, a psychiatrist and a retired concert pianist. Hawthorne hadn’t joined me. He was standing on his own, watching me warily from the side. But if he was afraid I was going to find out more about his private life, he needn’t have worried. I did try to dig a little, asking some of the people I met about him, but nobody seemed to know anything very much, or perhaps it was just that they were reluctant to tell me. He was simply Hawthorne, the man who lived on his own upstairs, who used to be a detective. I got the sense that he was as much a mystery to everyone else as he was to me. Only the man in the kilt (a meat trader, working at Smithfield Market, as it turned out) added a little more. Lowering his voice, he complained that Hawthorne was the only member of the group who didn’t allow them to meet in his flat. ‘I don’t know what he’s hiding,’ he muttered in clipped tones. ‘But I don’t think it’s right.’
Meanwhile, Lisa Chakraborty was bustling around with plates of food that included samosas, croquettes and other Indian snacks that were actually more pastry than anything else. Brannigan dutifully followed her with the wine. I didn’t feel like eating or drinking and I was relieved when Lisa announced that the discussion would begin in five minutes. As various members of the group took their seats, I picked up a couple of dirty plates and followed her into the kitchen.
‘You’re very kind, Tony. Thank you. Please put them by the dishwasher.’
‘How did the book group begin?’ I asked her as I carried them across.
‘It was my idea. I put an advertisement in the local library. We’ve been going now for almost five years.’
‘Has Hawthorne always been a member?’
‘Oh yes. Absolutely! From the very beginning. I met him in the lift, you know. He lives on his own upstairs.’
We were interrupted by a soft whirring sound and, looking around, I saw Kevin appear at the doorway, wheeling himself in. He seemed pleased rather than surprised to see me standing there with his mother, but then of course it was he who had been responsible for my invitation. He had not only recognised me in the lift, he had also known who I was visiting – which meant that Hawthorne must have told him about me. I wondered what he must have thought of my going all the way back down to the ground floor like that. He quickly let me know.
‘Hello,’ he said. He had quickly recognised me and smiled knowingly. ‘Have you been up and down and up and down in any more lifts?’
‘It’s nice to meet you again, Kevin,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fairly terrible. Mustn’t complain.’
Lisa cut in. ‘The book group is about to begin, my dear. Is there something that you want?’
‘Are there any samosas left?’
‘Of course.’
‘And can I have a Coke?’
She went to the fridge, took out a can and opened it for him. She added a straw, then placed it in a holder on the side of his wheelchair. She arranged three samosas on a plate and rested it on his lap.
Kevin looked up at me cheerfully. ‘I flick them into my mouth,’ he said, answering a question I hadn’t asked. ‘Like tiddlywinks.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ his mother scolded him. ‘And you shouldn’t tell jokes like that! Kevin has Duchenne muscular dystrophy,’ she explained to me, barely taking a breath. ‘But he still has some movement in both his arms. Enough to eat.’ She waggled a finger. ‘And he eats too much.’
‘It’s your fault. You shouldn’t be such a good cook.’
‘You’re going to be too heavy for that wheelchair and then where shall we be?’
‘Bye, Anthony!’ Kevin grinned and spun round. The kitchen was designed, like the rest of the house, so that there was plenty of space for him. We both watched him as he wheeled himself back down the corridor, the electric motor humming. There was a door open at the end but I couldn’t see anything of his room. He disappeared inside.
‘His arms are getting weaker,’ Lisa said, more quietly. ‘And there will come a time when he won’t be able to eat either. After that it will just be liquid food. We both know that but we try not to talk about it. That’s the trouble with Duchenne. It’s one thing after another, really.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ I muttered. I was embarrassed. I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
‘You don’t need to be. He’s a lovely boy. Handsome, like his father. I’m very lucky to have him.’ She was beaming at me. ‘Of course, he gets depressed sometimes and we ask ourselves how we’re going to cope. We have our up days and our down days. But your friend Mr Hawthorne has been an absolute godsend. He’s a remarkable man. From the moment he entered our lives, it’s hard to explain the difference he’s made. He and Kevin are best friends. They spend hours together.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I do sometimes think that Kevin might have given up, actually, if it wasn’t for him.’
I glanced into the living room. Hawthorne was engaged in conversation with the South American man and had forgotten about me. ‘But Kevin helps Hawthorne too,’ I said.
‘Oh yes. Mr Hawthorne is always asking for him.’
‘What exactly does he do?’
I do think Lisa Chakraborty was about to tell me but at that exact moment Kenneth Brannigan put his head round the door. ‘All set and ready!’ he announced.
‘I’ll just bring the coffee.’
It was already made. Lisa brushed past me, carrying it out. I followed her, aware that I had just missed an opportunity to open a back door into Hawthorne’s life. At the same time, I now knew where Kevin’s room was to be found and already a plan was formulating in my mind. The evening wasn’t over yet.
Everyone had sat down in a rough circle around the coffee table, which was now scattered with copies of A Study in Scarlet that had appeared from nowhere. There weren’t quite enough seats
so several of the guests were crushed together on the sofas while the twins were cross-legged, in identical positions, on the floor. An upright chair had been left free for me, next to Hawthorne. I went over to it and sat down.
‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘I was in the kitchen. With Lisa. I met Kevin.’ I watched his eyes when I said that but he showed no interest.
‘Don’t talk about the case,’ he muttered darkly.
‘Do you mean the murder of Enoch Drebber in Lauriston Gardens?’ I asked.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Lisa Chakraborty opened the proceedings before Hawthorne could say anything more. ‘Good evening, everybody. I am very happy to welcome you to my apartment tonight as we discuss A Study in Scarlet, written in 1886 by Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle. Before we begin our discussion, let me say how fortunate we are to have a very famous writer with us. Tony has worked on Agatha Christie’s Poirot, Midsomer Murders and Foyle’s War. He has also written many detective stories of his own, for adults and for children. I’m sure Anthony has many interesting insights he can share with us and I do hope we’ll have time to hear him speak. But let’s all begin by giving him a River Court Book Club welcome!’
There was a patter of applause, which was embarrassing with so few people in the room, but I smiled gamely. Hawthorne did not join in.
‘And so let’s move straight away to the adventure that has brought us all together …’
I had realised by now that I had no interest whatsoever in what anyone in the room thought of A Study in Scarlet and somehow I wasn’t at all surprised that although they had all enjoyed the BBC television series, and despite what Lisa had said, not a single one of them seemed to like the source material.
‘I was disappointed … it’s so clumsily written!’ This was Kenneth Brannigan, kicking off the proceedings. ‘It’s meant to be narrated by Dr Watson. He’s set up as the narrator but halfway through you suddenly find yourself transported to the Sierra Blanco in North America and before you know it, you’ve gone back thirty years before the story even began and you’ve got this ridiculous gang of Mormons—’
The Sentence is Death Page 18
