The Word Is Murder(6)

I was quite relieved when all five scripts were written and handed in and I no longer had to deal with him. When there were further queries I got the production office to email him. We shot the series in Suffolk and in London. The part of the detective was played by a brilliant actor, Charlie Creed-Miles, and the funny thing was that, physically, he was remarkably similar to Hawthorne. But it didn’t end there. Hawthorne had got under my skin and, quite deliberately, I’d put a lot of his darker side into the character. I’d also given him a very similar name. From Daniel to Mark: one biblical character to another. And Wenborn instead of Hawthorne. This is something I often do. When I killed him off at the end of Episode Four, it made me smile.

I was curious to know what he wanted but at the same time I had a vague sense of misgiving as I strolled down to the café that afternoon. Hawthorne did not belong to my world and frankly I had no need for him just then. On the other hand, I hadn’t had lunch and, as it happens, J&A serve the best cakes in London. They’re in a little alleyway, just off the Clerkenwell Road, and because they’re tucked away they’re usually not too busy. Hawthorne was waiting for me outside, sitting at a table with a coffee and a cigarette. He was wearing exactly the same clothes as the last time I’d seen him: the same suit, tie and raincoat. He looked up as I arrived, and nodded – which was about all I was going to get by way of a greeting.

‘How’s the programme?’ he asked.

‘You should have come to the cast and crew screening,’ I said. We’d taken over a hotel in London and shown the first two episodes. Hawthorne had been invited.

‘I was busy,’ he replied.

A waitress came out and I ordered tea and a slice of Victoria sponge. I know I shouldn’t eat stuff like that but you try spending eight hours a day on your own. I used to smoke between chapters but gave up thirty years ago. Cake’s probably just as bad.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Can’t complain.’ He glanced at me. ‘You been in the country?’

As it happened, I’d got back from Suffolk that very morning. My wife and I had just been there for a couple of days. ‘Yes,’ I said, warily.

‘And you got a new puppy!’

I looked at him curiously. This was absolutely typical of him. I hadn’t told anyone that I’d been out of London. I certainly hadn’t tweeted about it. As for the puppy, it belonged to our neighbours. We’d been looking after it while they were away. ‘How do you know all that?’ I asked.

‘It was just an educated guess.’ He waved my question aside. ‘I was hoping you could help me.’

‘How?’

‘I want you to write about me.’

Every time I met him, Hawthorne had a way of surprising me. You know where you are with most people. You form a relationship, you get to know them, and after that the rules are more or less set. But it was never like that with him. He had this strange, mercurial quality. Just when I thought I knew where we were going, he would somehow prove me wrong.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I want you to write a book about me.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘For money.’

‘You want to pay me?’

‘No. I thought we’d go fifty-fifty.’

A couple of people came and sat down at the table next to us. I used the moment, as they made their way past, to work out what to say. I was nervous about turning Hawthorne down. That said, I already knew – I’d known instantly – that was exactly what I was going to do.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What sort of book are you talking about?’

Hawthorne gazed at me with those muddy, choirboy eyes. ‘Let me explain it to you,’ he said, as if it were perfectly obvious. ‘You know I do a bit of work here and there for TV, that sort of stuff. You probably heard that I got kicked out of the Met. Well, that’s their loss – and I don’t want to go into all that. The thing is, I do a bit of consultancy too. For the police. It’s unofficial. They use me when something unusual happens. Most cases are pretty straightforward but sometimes they aren’t. When something’s outside their everyday experience, that’s when they come to me.’

‘Seriously?’ I found it hard to believe.

‘That’s how it is with the modern police these days. They’ve made so many cutbacks, there’s no-one left to do the job. You’ve heard of Group 4 and Serco? They’re a bunch of tossers but they’re in and out all the time. They’ve sent in investigators that couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag. And that’s not all. We used to have a big laboratory down at Lambeth – we’d send down blood samples and stuff like that – but they sold it off and now they use private companies. Takes twice as long and costs twice as much but that doesn’t seem to bother them. Same with me. I’m an external resource.’

He paused as if to be sure that I was following him. I nodded. He lit a cigarette and went on.

‘I do well enough out of it. I get a daily rate plus expenses and all that. But the thing is, you see – and to be honest, I don’t like to mention this – I’m a bit short. There just aren’t enough people getting murdered. And when I met you on that TV show of yours and heard that you write books, I had this idea that actually we could help each other. Fifty-fifty. I get sent some really interesting stuff. You can write about me.’