A Line to Kill

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Drop my stuff … then I thought I’d go out and explore.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. It’s all right, mate. I’ll catch you later.’

  The other writers had piled in behind Hawthorne, eager to get to their rooms, and I wandered into the lounge, where I found myself alone with Judith. For a few moments we looked at each other uncertainly. I decided to break the ice. ‘So this is your first festival,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. We have the history festival earlier in the year, but this is our first crack at general fiction and poetry.’

  ‘Have you always lived in Alderney?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s a wonderful place. I hope you’re going to find time to explore. You can’t miss Gannet Rock, and there are some lovely walks. We have a house at Les Rochers.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My husband, Colin. Plus three children, although two of them are away at boarding school. Actually, you’ll meet Colin tomorrow. He’s agreed to interview you and Mr Hawthorne.’ I already knew this from the programme. ‘I had to twist his arm,’ she went on. ‘He would have preferred to do George Elkin.’

  I wasn’t sure how to take this so I smiled and said: ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What does “Ban Nab” mean?’ Her face fell and she seemed unwilling to answer. ‘It’s just that I saw it on a couple of signs …’ I tried to make light of it.

  She fumbled with her pearl necklace, at the same time giving me a nervous smile. ‘I rather hoped you wouldn’t notice. It’s actually quite upsetting. Alderney is normally such a close community, but I’m afraid this has completely divided us.’

  I waited for her to go on. She did so reluctantly.

  ‘NAB stands for Normandy-Alderney-Britain. A company called Électricité du Nord is planning to build an electric power line to connect France and the UK and they want to route it through Alderney. It will actually benefit the island in lots of different ways. Cheaper electricity, cheaper internet and a payment of £60,000 a year, but naturally there are some people who’ve decided it’s a bad idea and they’ve been demonstrating against it.’

  ‘Why?’

  She sighed. ‘This is rather difficult for me, Anthony,’ she explained. ‘Colin happens to be the head of the NAB committee that’s been deciding on the issue and so he’s very much at the centre of things. He’s a barrister and he’s also a member of the States, which is what we call the island’s parliament, so he was a natural choice. But it has rather put our heads above the parapet.’

  ‘And he’s for it?’

  ‘There was a vote and although it wasn’t unanimous, the committee recommended that we go ahead.’

  ‘So what is it that people don’t like?’

  ‘Well, there are some issues.’ Judith Matheson glanced around her as if afraid of being overheard. ‘There will be some local disruption and there are questions over which route the line will take. Generally speaking, people in Alderney are hostile to change.’ As she spoke, she had been looking past my shoulder in the direction of the balcony and suddenly she beamed. ‘Oh, look! Mrs Lovell and her husband are sitting in the sunshine. Why don’t you let me introduce you? She’s a remarkable woman.’

  It was obvious that Judith had grabbed the moment to change the conversation, but before I knew it, I found myself being ushered outside.

  The terrace ran the full length of the hotel with really lovely views. There was a stretch of wild grass, then a sandy beach curving round in a bay and, on the other side, a rocky hillside with another ancient fort holding its own against an enemy that had never actually bothered to arrive. The only invaders were the clouds, a puffy armada floating across an otherwise blue sky.

  Elizabeth Lovell and her husband were finishing their lunch at a table about halfway along. Elizabeth had her back to the sea, but then she had no interest in the view: her round black glasses spoke for themselves and in the loudest possible way, making it difficult to focus on any other part of her face, which was perhaps just as well. She did not look healthy, with pale skin, sunken cheeks, grey lips. Her black hair was tightly permed. Despite the warm weather, she was wearing a long-sleeved dress and a shawl. Her husband – in polo shirt and baggy cotton trousers – was small, plump and bald and was drinking a glass of wine. She had ordered soup. He had been eating lobster. The broken shell and claws were all around him.

  ‘Hello, Elizabeth. Have you had a good lunch?’ Judith had regained her good cheer.

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’ Elizabeth turned towards us, craning her neck awkwardly. Her words sounded strangled, as if they were trapped in her throat.

  ‘I’m with Anthony. He’s just arrived with the other writers.’

  ‘Dark hair, untidy, going grey. Jewish. Late fifties. Didn’t shave this morning. Short-sleeved shirt, linen trousers … crumpled. Doesn’t look too pleased to be here.’ This not entirely flattering portrait of me was rattled out at speed and without emotion by her husband. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he went on. ‘Liz likes to know who she’s talking to.’

  How could I be offended? ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I said.

  But it wasn’t. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in an afterlife. And it’s always been my feeling that anyone who calls themselves a professional medium can only be exploiting the all-too-real sadness of people who have suffered a loss. I once had dinner in an expensive restaurant with an actor whose wife was supposedly psychic. She insisted that my mother, who had been dead for thirty years, was standing next to me and continued to pass across messages from her. My mother was happy. She hoped I was happy too. It quite put me off my fish pie.

  I didn’t say any of this to her, of course. Instead, I asked her, ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Flew from St Helier,’ her husband added. ‘Via Southampton and Guernsey. Took half the day. The ferry’s no better.’

  ‘Well, we’re delighted you’re here,’ Judith said. ‘Have you got everything you need?’

  ‘Top-notch.’ Sid picked up a lobster leg, gripped it between his teeth and sucked out the meat. ‘Will you join us, Anthony?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve just got off the plane. I’m sure we’ll see each other later.’

  Why did I say that? Why is it that whenever I meet someone who has lost their sight, I’m unfailingly clumsy? Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. Her husband poked around for another piece of flesh. She ate her soup. I nodded at Judith and left.

  Judith came back with me to the reception area. By now all the other writers had taken their keys and mine was the only one remaining.

  ‘I’ll see you at four thirty,’ she said. ‘And then afterwards at The Divers Inn. Call me if there’s anything you need.’

  I took my key and my suitcase and went up to the second floor. The rooms at the hotel had been given various designations – Platinum, Silver, Premium and so on. I noticed from the card that had been given to me with the key that mine was simply a Guest Room. It was small, with two single beds, two chairs, two pictures of Braye and, disappointingly, a view over the car park. But it was comfortable enough and I would only be here for two nights.

  I unpacked and took out my laptop but I was too tired to work. It had been a long day and I’d had to get up early to meet Hawthorne at Waterloo. I had a book to read but in the end I dozed off, stretched out on the bed.

  I was woken by a loud banging on the door. As I opened my eyes and stumbled to my feet, slightly ashamed to be found asleep in the middle of the afternoon, I realised that it was not actually my door but the one belonging to the neighbouring room. It opened and closed again.

  Almost at once, an argument began on the other side of the wall. Some of the words were indistinct, but as the two people raised their voices I was able to hear whole sentences.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d be her
e?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Marc. I didn’t know.’

  ‘You accepted the invitation.’

  ‘I asked you! You said it was all right!’

  It was Marc Bellamy and his assistant, Kathryn Harris. He was the one who had knocked on the door so the room must be hers. His voice grew louder and more violent.

  ‘I can’t bloody stay here!’

  ‘I’m sorry …’ She sounded on the edge of tears.

  ‘You’ve really screwed up.’

  I heard the sound of an impact. He had either kicked something or thrown something at her and it was enough to get me to open my door, half afraid for her safety.

  I was just in time to see Marc Bellamy go storming past. He didn’t notice me. His fists were clenched. He was staring straight ahead.

  He had murder in his eyes.

  4

  The Ace of Spades

  I’m afraid I missed George Elkin and the occupation of Alderney. I should have gone to his talk, but I’d managed to sleep for two hours and I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up with my emails, texts, Twitter feed and WhatsApps – my tenuous links with the outside world. The welcome drinks began at half past six and that was when I came down. I asked for Hawthorne at reception but he hadn’t got back from his walk.

  The sun was dipping down towards the horizon as I left the hotel and in the evening light the island seemed to have retreated even further into the past. Two rows of terraced houses painted the colours of Neapolitan ice cream mirrored each other across a narrow street joined by a line of bunting that zigzagged from one side to the other. The road didn’t seem to go anywhere. In the distance, a hillside rose steeply, blocking anything that might tell me which century I was actually in. There was nobody around. The shops had already shut and I couldn’t help wondering what everyone actually did with themselves in the evenings in such a small place. I suppose a literary festival was a welcome diversion.

  I didn’t have far to go. The Divers Inn was right next to the hotel, actually part of the same building. There was a brand-new Mercedes coupé parked outside, pristine white, with the registration CLM 16. It looked a little incongruous, sitting on its own, with seagulls wheeling overhead. It was as though it had been driven into the wrong advertisement.

  The Divers Inn was a traditional bar with wooden tables and a dartboard, bells and bottles, and arched ceilings lined with ships’ badges. A Victorian diving suit, complete with helmet and faceplate, sat propped up in a corner. There were drinks laid out on the bar – red and white wine, orange juice and water – as well as a few plates of snacks. About thirty people had gathered inside but the space was small enough to make them feel like a crowd.

  I immediately saw Marc Bellamy and his assistant, Kathryn, standing next to each other. He was nibbling a cocktail sausage. She had a stick of celery. They were avoiding each other’s eye and although several hours had passed since their argument, some of its rancour had followed them here. Anne Cleary, the children’s author, was talking to the festival organiser, Judith Matheson, and another man standing at her side. He had the look of an academic, bald and bearded with fanatical eyes, wearing a jacket with patches on the elbows. Colin Matheson? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine them together as a pair. I looked for Maïssa Lamar, but she wasn’t in the room and nor was there any sign of the man in the black leather jacket whom I’d seen at the airport. I hadn’t yet told Hawthorne about that. I was sure he would only make fun of me.

  In fact, Hawthorne had seen me come in and made his way over to me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked him.

  ‘Out and about.’ His eyes were innocent. Nothing else was. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘You work too much. You should have come out and had some fun.’

  He was saying that now. Earlier he had been less keen on my joining him. Even so, I was glad to have caught up with him. Like it or not, we were a double act – at least while we were on the island – and without him I felt very alone. We went over to Anne Cleary and Judith Matheson, who introduced me to the other man. ‘This is George Elkin,’ she said, adding, ‘I was sorry not to see you at his talk. It was a brilliant start to the festival.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘We had to work …’

  I had included Hawthorne in my excuse and I thought he’d be grateful but he looked at me in surprise. ‘No. I was there, Tony. I found it very interesting.’ He turned to Elkin. ‘You mentioned that your grandfather was in the Sylt concentration camp.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘He was one of the very few Channel Islanders who refused to leave in 1940, although my grandmother did make it to England. It was only when she arrived that she discovered she was pregnant.’ It was a story he had told many times and there was little emotion in his voice. ‘My grandfather was considered a troublemaker and was sent to Sylt. We don’t know when he died.’

  ‘Was Sylt a labour camp or a concentration camp?’ Anne asked. ‘I can never remember the difference.’

  ‘It was run by the SS. It followed a policy of Vernichtung durch Arbeit, which means “extermination through work”. There was almost no chance of survival.’

  ‘So it was a concentration camp.’

  Elkin frowned. ‘You could say that the entire island was a concentration camp. More than forty thousand people died. They’re buried all over Alderney, but mainly in the area of Longis Common.’

  It was a cheerful conversation for a literary drinks party and I was searching for a way out of it when there was a bray of laughter and a voice called out: ‘My God! I don’t believe it! It’s Tea Leaf!’

  We all looked round.

  The speaker was a very handsome man with thick, prematurely grey hair falling in waves from a high forehead. He had already announced himself with a loud public-school accent and it fitted his aristocratic looks: clean-shaven with an aquiline nose and bright blue eyes. He was expensively dressed. It was impossible not to notice the cashmere polo neck, the Armani jacket, the brand-new jeans and loafers, the chunky Rolex watch weighing down his wrist. He had the perfect tan of the yachtsman or the millionaire. He was quite probably both. He was about forty years old, slim, athletic, pleased with himself.

  He had rounded on Marc Bellamy, who was gaping at him with a mixture of shock and resignation. The crowd had parted as if to give them space for the encounter.

  ‘How do, Charles,’ Marc said. He still used the Yorkshire epithet but all the confidence that he had shown at Southampton Airport had, for the moment, drained away. Why didn’t you tell me he’d be here? I had no doubt that this was the ‘he’ Marc had been referring to.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name on the programme. You’ve done very well for yourself! I love your show, by the way. You always did like to get your hands on a steak pie. Even when you were thirteen.’ The new arrival spread his hands, explaining himself to the crowd. ‘Tea Leaf and I were at school together at Westland College.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’ Anne asked.

  ‘We all had stupid nicknames for each other,’ Marc replied, before Charles had time to embarrass him further.

  ‘We haven’t seen each other for …’ Charles tried to work it out.

  ‘Twenty-five years.’

  ‘You left so suddenly!’

  ‘Well, life moves on …’

  They had been to the same school, but they were very far from old friends. I could feel the tension between them.

  ‘Did you ever marry?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Married and divorced.’

  So I had been right about that.

  ‘I never thought you’d end up as a TV celebrity. I always remember you as being the quiet type, stealing up into the dorm! What’s your show called?’

  ‘Lovely Grub.’

  ‘That’s the one!’ Charles laughed. ‘Never watch it myself but Helen says it’s a lot of fun. It’s great to see you, Tea Leaf. We’v
e got to catch up and have a proper chat.’ He turned to the assembly. ‘The stories I could tell you about this chap!’

  It was all said in jest with plenty of smiles, but as Charles walked over to us I could see Marc Bellamy gazing at him with complete loathing. Kathryn Harris was watching the two of them with dread. She was the one who had brought Bellamy here. This was her fault.

  Charles reached us and once again Judith did the introductions. ‘This is Charles le Mesurier. He lives on the island and it’s thanks to him that this festival is happening.’ The words sounded well practised but they were unenthusiastic. She kept her distance from him. ‘It’s his company that’s sponsored us and we’re very grateful.’

  ‘Always happy to give something back to this island.’ Charles had developed a certain bonhomie that was entirely surface. I had seen it in his dealings with Marc Bellamy. He’d been complimentary enough, but every word he had spoken had carried its own little knife. ‘It was my parents who first brought me to this island. Or rather, they sent me with the bloody nanny! Never thought I’d end up living here, but I’m hoping you’re all going to come up to my place tomorrow night. We only completed The Lookout last year and it’s quite spectacular. The weather forecast couldn’t be better. It’s the big party, with Marc knocking off the snacks! Seven o’clock to ten thirty. You’re all invited.’

  ‘Will Helen be there?’ Judith asked in a tone of voice that made me wonder if she would actually be happier if she wasn’t.

  A shadow of annoyance crossed Charles’s face. ‘She’s stuck in Paris. A shopping trip that won’t end until there’s nothing left in the bloody shops. She said she’d be back in time for tonight, but I guess we won’t see her until tomorrow.’

  The drinks lasted about another forty minutes, although Hawthorne slipped away long before the end. He didn’t tell me he was going but I guessed he wanted to eat alone in his room and then hang around in the car park, smoking. Maybe I’d see him later. Meanwhile, Anne Cleary had invited me to join her for dinner and I’d accepted gratefully, hoping to make up for my clumsiness at the airport when I’d failed to remember her.