The Word Is Murder(64)

‘Anyway, he was in the custody office, which was on the second floor. He’d been booked in, pockets searched and all the rest of it and someone had to take him to the interview room, which was in the basement. Normally, that would have been a civilian but there was nobody around and to this day I don’t quite know what happened but Hawthorne volunteered. He took him down a corridor to the staircase – I forgot to mention he’d decided that Abbott needed to be handcuffed. There was no need for that. He was in his sixties. He had no history of violence. Well, you’ve probably guessed what happened next and a guess is all we have because the CCTV wasn’t working in that part of the building. Abbott swore that Hawthorne tripped him. Hawthorne denied it. All I can tell you is that Abbott went head first down fourteen steps and because his hands were cuffed behind his back, there was nothing to break his fall.’

‘How badly was he hurt?’

Meadows shrugged. ‘Did his neck in, broke a few bones. He could have been killed and if so, Hawthorne would probably be in jail. As it was, Abbott was in no position to make too much fuss and basically the whole thing was hushed up. That said, it couldn’t all be brushed under the carpet. Too many people knew and, like I say, too many people had it in for him. So Hawthorne got the boot.’

There was nothing particularly surprising about this story. I had always been aware of a sort of smouldering violence in Hawthorne’s make-up, a sense of outrage, even – ironically – injustice. If he was going to kick someone down a flight of stairs, of course it would be a paedophile. It reminded me of his behaviour when we had visited Raymond Clunes.

‘Was he homophobic?’ I asked.

‘How would I know?’

‘He must have said something. Even if he wasn’t very sociable, he must have expressed an opinion – maybe if he’d read something in the newspaper or seen something on TV?’

‘No.’ Meadows looked in the Twiglet bowl. It was empty. ‘People don’t express opinions in the police force any more. You start mouthing off about gay people or black people, you’re going to be out on your ear before you know it. We don’t even use words like “manpower” any more. You’ve got to be aware of gender equality. Ten years ago, if you said something out of order you might get a clip on the ear. Not any more. These days, PC means more than police constable and you’d better know it.’

‘What happened to Abbott?’

‘I’ve no idea. He went to hospital and we never saw him again.’

‘There’s a detective chief inspector who’s been helping Hawthorne.’

‘That’d be Rutherford. He always had a soft spot for Hawthorne and he came up with this idea. It’s almost like a parallel investigation. You were at the crime scene. You saw how we had to leave everything in place for Hawthorne to come along and make his deductions. He reports directly to Rutherford. By-passes the whole system …’ Meadows stopped himself. He had said more than he intended. ‘Rutherford won’t talk to you,’ he added, ‘so I wouldn’t waste your time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘I don’t know. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘No. But maybe there’s something you can tell me. You’ve been following Hawthorne around. Has he spoken to a man called Alan Godwin?’

I felt a cold sinking in my stomach. I had never thought that Meadows might try to use me to help him get ahead of Hawthorne in his investigation. It only occurred to me now that this might have been the real reason why he had agreed to meet me. I knew at once that I couldn’t tell him anything. If Meadows suddenly announced the identity of the killer, it would be a complete disaster. There would be no book!

At the same time, I was aware of a sense of loyalty to Hawthorne that must have developed over the past few days, because I’d certainly never noticed it before. We were a team. We – not Meadows or anyone else – were going to solve the crime. ‘I haven’t been to all the interviews,’ I said, weakly.

‘I’m not sure I believe that.’

‘Look … I’m sorry. I really can’t talk to you about what Hawthorne is doing. We made an agreement. It’s confidential.’

Meadows looked at me the way he might look at someone who has beaten up an old-age pensioner or killed a child. I had met him on three separate occasions and had considered him slow, inferior, even oafish. I suppose, in my mind’s eye, I had been casting him as a Japp, a Lestrade, a Burden: the man who never solves the crime. Now I saw that I had underestimated him. He could be dangerous too.

‘You don’t seem to know a lot about anything, Anthony,’ he said. ‘But I take it you’ve heard of obstruction.’

‘Yes.’

‘Obstructing a police officer in the execution of their duty under the Police Act of 1991. You could be fined a thousand pounds or sent to jail.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. And it was. This wasn’t Scotland Yard – it was the Groucho Club. And I had invited him here!

‘I’m asking you a simple question.’

‘Ask him,’ I said, holding his gaze. I had no idea what he was going to do. But then, quite suddenly, he relaxed. The cloud had passed. It was as if that little bit of nastiness had never happened.

‘I forgot to mention,’ he said. ‘My son got very excited when he heard I was going to meet you.’