A Line to Kill

by Anthony Horowitz

  I thought Hawthorne would be angry that he had just been snubbed by a French performance poet dressed in torn clothes, cheap jewellery and a punk haircut, but he seemed unperturbed. ‘Where do you go in a hurry when there’s nowhere to actually go?’ That was his only remark as we continued into the hotel.

  We were about to go up to our separate rooms but as we arrived at the reception desk to pick up our keys, we found Special Constable Jane Whitlock waiting for us. She was sitting in a chair with her hat perched on her knees and looked no happier than she had that morning.

  ‘Deputy Chief Torode asked me to see you,’ she said. She produced a thick padded envelope. ‘I have some information for you.’

  ‘Let’s go in the dining room,’ Hawthorne suggested.

  The tables had been made up but we were alone in the room, which was long and bright with an archway leading into the bar. Whitlock looked around her. ‘This is a nice hotel,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t get in,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what they said. But they were probably thinking about the budget. They’ve put us up at a place in St Anne.’ Wherever she was staying, she clearly didn’t like it.

  ‘Have you been to Alderney before?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  She wasn’t a great conversationalist, but I persevered. ‘What does it mean, exactly? Special constable?’

  ‘I’m not a full-time police officer. I’m a volunteer.’

  ‘So what do you do when you’re not with the police?’

  ‘Social work. I’m a community psychiatric nurse.’

  ‘Do you enjoy that?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  Meanwhile, Hawthorne had opened the envelope and was removing a handful of photographs taken at the crime scene – the usual black and white horrors. There were also twenty or thirty pages of text and assorted diagrams. He picked up one of them and read it. ‘You have the time of death at around ten past ten,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. We got witness statements.’

  Hawthorne turned the page. ‘Two of the guests heard le Mesurier cry out, but neither of them knew what it was at the time,’ he told me. ‘The jazz band was playing and they couldn’t hear above the noise of the music. One of them thought it was a screech owl.’ He looked up at Whitlock. ‘Are there screech owls in Alderney?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘The other one thought it was someone in the garden and went out to see but there was nobody there.’ He turned another page. ‘The footprint in the Snuggery. Size five shoes.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘That’s what it says here. That must be a woman.’

  ‘Could be a child.’ Was Whitlock being deliberately difficult? I wondered.

  ‘Is that what Torode thinks?’

  ‘He hasn’t told me what he thinks.’

  Hawthorne continued browsing until he came to the medical report. ‘Death caused by a penetrating stab wound to the neck which severed the common carotid artery, the left internal jugular and both jugular veins. No surprises there. He bled to death.’

  ‘Can I go?’ Whitlock asked.

  Hawthorne glanced at her, surprised. ‘Aren’t you interested in this?’

  She shook her head. ‘I wanted to help people. Community policing – old people and children. This isn’t what I volunteered for … people putting knives in each other and behaving like animals. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘So why did you come to Alderney?’

  ‘Because the DC asked me. If I’d known it was going to be like this I’d have said no.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I’m on duty.’ She stood up and put on her hat as if to prove what she had just said. ‘If there’s anything more, I’ll leave it at the desk.’

  She walked out of the room.

  Hawthorne went back to the report. ‘Cranial blunt force trauma also noted at the back of the head … no weapon found.’ He flicked a page. ‘Well, well, well. That’s interesting. Cocaine!’

  ‘Charles le Mesurier?’

  ‘Who else? There were traces of it in his blood and on the inside of his nose, and look at this.’ He gave me one of the photographs: a view of the drinks cabinet with the door fully open. There was a plastic packet inside – white powder, tightly wrapped – and next to it a chequebook with part of the cover ripped off. A second photograph focused on the surface of the cabinet. It had been taken with a high-resolution camera and revealed an irregular stain. A ruler had been laid beside it to show that it covered an area four centimetres long. ‘They found further traces on the surface of the drinks cabinet and on the edge of le Mesurier’s American Express credit card. So now we know at least one reason why he went to the Snuggery!’

  ‘Did you notice the chequebook?’ I asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘He’d torn the cover off to make a tube … to snort the cocaine.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Hawthorne handed me a page from the police report. ‘They found two rolled-up tubes in his trouser pocket.’ He frowned. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About using a chequebook cover to snort cocaine.’

  ‘I’m a crime writer. I have to know about these things.’ I stared at him. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting …’

  ‘All right! All right! I was only asking.’

  I’d already been arrested once in Hawthorne’s company: a shoplifting charge, which, fortunately, had been dropped. It would be nice to think that I could get to the end of a third outing with some of my reputation still intact.

  Hawthorne took out the next document, two pages clipped together, and read it quickly. ‘Background info on le Mesurier,’ he told me. ‘No criminal record. Made his fortune in internet gambling and moved into computer games, software development and TV production. Parents retired in the Isle of Wight. He’s got a brother who lives there too. No children … we already knew that. He was a nasty bastard, but it all seems fairly straightforward.’

  ‘What about the coin?’ I asked. I’d noticed an image of the two-euro coin that Hawthorne had found and left behind.

  Hawthorne searched out the relevant information. ‘No fingerprints, which is interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because how do you carry a coin, take it out of your pocket and drop it on the floor without leaving a fingerprint?’

  ‘Someone must have wiped it clean.’

  ‘Then why leave it behind? And here’s something else to think about. Le Mesurier didn’t have any other coins on him and it looks as if he hadn’t been in France for months.’

  ‘Maybe the two-euro piece belonged to whoever killed him.’

  Hawthorne moved on to another page and read it out word for word: ‘According to initial analysis, the tape used to secure the victim’s feet and one of his hands was Duck Brand HP260 high-performance packaging tape. It’s a fairly common brand, but one not available on the island of Alderney …’

  ‘Suggesting that the killer brought it with him.’

  ‘Or bought it on Amazon. But, yes. I’d say there’s a good chance that he – or she – brought it across.’

  ‘So this was planned,’ I said.

  Either Hawthorne wasn’t listening to me or he’d already worked that out for himself. ‘They found the will!’ he said, and showed me a photocopy that Torode had included with the other documents. At least he was living up to his promise. He was sharing everything he had. Again, Hawthorne scanned the contents. He gave a low whistle. ‘He’s left a bit to his mum and dad and big brother, but it looks as if Helen le Mesurier gets the lot: the houses, the businesses, the private jet, all of it!’

  I was quite surprised. Helen le Mesurier had said that she loved Charles, but from the sound of it he hadn’t been all that close to her, gallivanting around the world and keeping her out of the limelight while she stayed at home. And now she was a multimillionaire! Perhaps it was simply that he didn
’t have anyone else to leave his wealth to. After all, they had no children. Also, of course, he hadn’t been expecting to die.

  I watched Hawthorne slide all the pictures and papers back into the envelope. He’d go over them all meticulously when I wasn’t there. ‘Do you know who killed him?’ I asked.

  He stopped what he was doing, genuinely surprised. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I’m just wondering. The whole thing is completely unfathomable to me and it doesn’t help that there must be half a dozen people who wanted le Mesurier dead, including his wife. But somehow you always work it out and since I’m here, tagging along with you as usual, it would be quite nice to know what’s in your head and whether you’ve solved the mystery yet.’

  ‘Is this for the book?’

  ‘Don’t worry. If there is a book, I’ll leave the solution until the last chapter. All I’m saying is that there’s no earthly reason to keep me in the dark right now. That’s all.’

  He put the last sheets into the envelope. ‘There are an awful lot more than six people who wanted him dead, Tony. I can think of twelve of them and that doesn’t include all the lunatics who’d do anything to stop NAB. That’s something you can put in your book. It’s a line to kill if ever I saw one.’

  ‘So has this got something to do with NAB?’

  ‘You really want to know?’ Hawthorne wagged a finger in my direction. ‘I’ll tell you this, Tony. You need to start with the chair. Charles le Mesurier was tied to a chair by his feet and his left hand. But his right hand was kept free. Why was that? If you can work that out, the rest of it will fall into place.’

  ‘Are you saying that the hand was deliberately left free?’

  ‘I don’t think they ran out of tape, if that’s what you mean.’

  I’d hoped he’d say more but just then we were interrupted by the arrival of Elizabeth Lovell, as ever accompanied by her husband, Sid. It was far too early for dinner, but it turned out that wasn’t why they were here. ‘There he is!’ Sid muttered, as he led Elizabeth towards us. ‘Sitting with the writer. Just the two of them.’

  Hawthorne got to his feet and pulled back a chair. He was clearly the one they had come to see so I stayed where I was. ‘Mrs Lovell …’

  She felt for the chair and sat down. ‘Mr Hawthorne! I was hoping I’d find you.’ I hadn’t seen the medium since the party at The Lookout and we hadn’t spoken then. I remembered how upset Anne Cleary had been and part of me recoiled at seeing Elizabeth now. She had used the death of Anne’s son as a sort of parlour trick. That was what she did for a living. The fact that she was blind made no difference to me. She and Sid were as bad as each other.

  ‘I was wanting to talk to you too.’ Hawthorne plunged straight in. ‘I saw you at the party, sitting in the garden.’

  ‘Then you know I have a vice.’

  ‘I smoke too. It’s quite handy sometimes. Gets you out of the crowd. It made me wonder if you heard anyone go past. In particular, Charles le Mesurier went to the Snuggery sometime just before ten o’clock. I wonder if there was anyone with him? Was he talking to anyone?’

  ‘Liz wasn’t close enough,’ Sid said. ‘I sat her well away from the other guests. Sometimes she likes to be on her own.’

  It was true. I had noticed her some distance away from the main lawn and the path.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear anything,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about that evening?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘Obviously, you have an unusual perspective. But it could be very helpful.’

  ‘There’s not very much I can tell you, I’m afraid, Mr Hawthorne. Parties are quite difficult for me, as you might imagine. All the voices tend to blend into each other and there’s no room to move around. I didn’t stay there very long. What time did we leave, Sid?’

  ‘We got there at about seven fifteen, left just before ten.’

  So she hadn’t been there when the murder happened.

  ‘How did you get back to the hotel?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘We took a cab,’ Sid replied. ‘The driver was a kid with ginger hair. I’m sure he’ll remember us.’

  ‘He never stopped talking,’ Elizabeth added.

  I smiled. That had to be Terry.

  Hawthorne didn’t have any more questions, so Elizabeth weighed in. ‘We want to help, Mr Hawthorne. Or rather, I do. And if you’re willing to consider something rather unorthodox, there may be something I can do.’

  ‘And what’s that, Mrs Lovell?’

  ‘Elizabeth, please.’ She drew a breath. Suddenly, I knew what was coming. ‘I have helped the police once or twice in Jersey,’ she continued. ‘Nothing as serious as murder, but they have called on me and found me useful from time to time.’

  ‘There was that kid that disappeared,’ Sid reminded her.

  ‘Yes. We found him. He’d managed to lose himself in the nature reserve at Les Mielles. His parents were extremely grateful.’

  ‘Are you suggesting going to the other side of the mirror?’ Hawthorne asked.

  He was asking her if she intended to talk with the dead and he was being careful to use her own way of expressing it. I was shocked. It was obvious to me that Elizabeth Lovell was a fraud and that if she did manage to involve herself in the investigation it would only be for the publicity she would gain. Surely he wouldn’t accommodate her? But Hawthorne hadn’t dismissed her out of hand. On the contrary, he seemed intrigued. I tried to remember what he had said when we came out of the cinema, moments after we had both seen Anne Cleary leave in tears. He had agreed with me. I was sure of it.

  But he had thought that the ghosts were real.

  ‘I don’t like the word séance,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s been used too much in popular culture and it reeks of Harry Houdini and Noel Coward. I don’t do table-rapping and I don’t turn out the lights and hold hands or anything like that. But if after dinner you would like to meet with me – just the four of us – then it’s possible that I’ll be able to find a contact, a friend on the other side of the mirror who may agree to help us.’

  Get rid of her! I was silently pleading with Hawthorne. I refused to believe that he would take her at her word. He was cleverer than that. He was one of the most cynical people I’d ever met.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. ‘Would ten o’clock be too late?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She made a gesture and Sid helped her get to her feet. ‘They have a private screening room in the hotel. I can ask the reception to reserve it for us.’

  ‘Ten o’clock, then.’

  I watched them leave. They were barely out of the room before I turned on Hawthorne. ‘Are you serious?’ I exclaimed. I wasn’t just thinking how stupid the idea was. If he actually went through with it, I’d have to describe it and I wasn’t sure how I’d find the words. ‘This is all just part of her act! She doesn’t call them ghosts or spirits. She calls them reflections. And she doesn’t say they’re séances – that’s too Noel Coward – so she invites us to go to the other side of the mirror, like Alice in Wonderland.’

  ‘Actually, that’s not Alice in Wonderland. That’s Alice Through the Looking-Glass.’

  ‘Hawthorne …!’

  He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Let’s talk about it at dinner, mate. It’s a tricky case. You said it yourself. A dozen people wanted to kill Charles le Mesurier, so maybe we should use any help we can get. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. But if you do decide to show up …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Hawthorne beamed at me. ‘I wonder if you’d pop into the kitchen and get me a box of cling film?’

  14

  Some Thoughts

  As I reached the door of my hotel room, I heard my telephone ringing. I quickly went in and snatched up the receiver. ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is reception.’ I had walked past only moments ago. ‘We have a call for you. A Mr McKinley.’

  The name meant nothing to me. ‘Do you know what he wants?’


  ‘He asked to speak to Mr Hawthorne, but he’s not in his room so he asked to speak to you.’

  Hawthorne must have gone outside for a cigarette. McKinley? Suddenly, it came to me. He was the driver of the minibus that had taken guests from the hotel to the party and back again. ‘Put him through,’ I said.

  There was a click and a moment later a man came onto the line. He had a soft, hesitant voice. ‘Hello? Is that Anthony?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Tom McKinley. I’m sorry I can’t come round right now, but Terry said you wanted to ask me something so I thought I’d give you a call.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Tom.’ I had already opened a notepad, knowing that Hawthorne would want an accurate account of whatever was said. ‘We were wondering if you remembered seeing a particular guest last night.’

  ‘Mrs Cleary? Yes, I did.’

  How did he know this was the information we needed? And how had he been able to recognise her?

  He explained: ‘Terry heard you talking in the back of his cab and he told me you wanted to know about someone called Anne Cleary so I googled her. Dark-haired lady. Late forties. Writes children’s books?’

  ‘Yes. That’s her. She said she spoke to you.’

  ‘That’s right. She was coming out of the house and she asked me when we were leaving. She was nervous about getting back to her room. She said she had something important.’

  ‘Did she say what it was?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘And the bus wasn’t full.’

  ‘It was busy, but not full. I can’t tell you how many passengers there were, to be honest with you, because I didn’t look and anyway, it was too dark. We can seat eleven. Maybe eight or nine?’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘Not really. I was going back and forth all night, so I was carrying a lot of people. I wouldn’t have remembered Mrs Cleary if she hadn’t talked to me.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. You’ve been very helpful.’

  I hung up.

  Could Anne Cleary have murdered Charles le Mesurier? I wondered. She had left the party a full forty-five minutes before he had been killed. Kathryn Harris had confirmed the time as nine twenty-five. It was always possible that she could have climbed onto the minibus, made her way along the aisle and jumped out the back, but I was sure the minibus only had one door and anyway, I couldn’t think of a single reason why she might have committed the crime. She had never met le Mesurier. She had no connection with Alderney. And she had just signed a major deal with Walt Disney, including a strict morality clause that, almost certainly, prohibited the act of murder. Anyway, could she really have crept in ahead of him, hit him with something and then dragged him onto a chair? Would she even have been strong enough to lift him?