The Word Is Murder(95)
Over the next couple of days, I wrote the first two chapters. I was trying to find the ‘voice’ of the book. If I was really going to appear in it, I had to be sure that I wasn’t too obtrusive, that I didn’t get in the way. But even in that very tentative first draft (and there would eventually be five more) I saw that I had a much bigger problem. It was Hawthorne. It wasn’t too difficult to capture the way he looked and spoke. My feelings towards him were also fairly straightforward. The trouble was, how much did I know about him?
He was separated from his wife – who lived in Gants Hill.
He had an eleven-year-old son.
He was a brilliant, instinctive detective but he was unpopular.
He didn’t drink.
He had been fired from the murder squad for pushing a known paedophile down a flight of stairs.
He was homophobic. (I’m not, incidentally, making any connection between homosexuality and paedophilia, but both these points seemed noteworthy.)
He was a member of a reading group.
He had a good knowledge of WW2 fighter planes.
He lived in an expensive block of flats on the River Thames.
It wasn’t enough. Whenever we had been together, we had barely talked about anything except the business at hand. We had never had a drink together. We hadn’t so much as shared a proper meal – breakfast in a Harrow-on-the-Hill café didn’t count. The only time he had ever shown me any kindness was when he’d visited me in hospital. Without knowing where – and how – he lived, how could I write about him? A home is the first and most obvious reflection of our personality but he still hadn’t invited me in.
I thought of telephoning Hawthorne but then I had a better idea. Meadows had given me his address, River Court, on the south side of the river and one afternoon – about a week after I came out of hospital – I abandoned the scattered index cards, the crumpled balls of paper and the Post-it notes on my desk and set off down there. It was a pleasant day and although the stitches were pulling underneath my shirt, I enjoyed walking in the warm spring air. I followed the Farringdon Road all the way down to Blackfriars Bridge and saw the block of flats on the other side of the river in front of me … as I had seen it a hundred times on my way to the National Theatre or the Old Vic. It was extraordinary to think that Hawthorne lived here. My first thought was exactly the same one I’d had when Meadows first told me. How could he possibly afford it?
Despite its amazing position – nestling close to the bridge opposite Unilever House and St Paul’s – River Court is far from being a beautiful development. It was built in the 1970s, I would say by a group of colour-blind architects who drew their inspiration from the simplest mathematical forms, quite possibly matchboxes. It’s twelve floors high with narrow windows and a collection of balconies that feels haphazard. Some flats have them, some don’t: it’s just a matter of luck. In a city where spectacular glass towers are shooting up almost daily, it feels painfully old-fashioned. And yet perhaps because it’s so ludicrous, because it sits there so doggedly determined to sit out the twenty-first century (the pub next door is actually called Doggett’s), there is something attractive about it. And it has wonderful views.
The entrance was around the back, on the road leading down to the Oxo Tower and the National Theatre. Meadows had given me the name of the building but not the number of the flat. I saw a porter standing beside an open door and walked up to him. I’d had the presence of mind to bring an envelope with me and took it out of my pocket.
‘I have a letter for Daniel Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘Number 25. He’s expecting it but I’ve rung the doorbell and I’m not getting any answer.’
The porter was an elderly man, enjoying a cigarette in the sun. ‘Hawthorne?’ He rubbed his chin. ‘He’s up in the penthouse. You want the other door.’
The penthouse? The fact that he lived in the building was surprising enough but this was more so. I waved the envelope and went to the door but I didn’t ring the bell. I didn’t want to give Hawthorne an excuse not to let me in. Instead, I waited about twenty minutes until finally one of the residents came out. At that moment, I stepped forward, holding a bunch of keys as if I’d been about to let myself in. The resident didn’t give me a second glance.
I took the lift up to the top floor. There were three doors to choose from but some intuition made me go for the one with the river view. I rang it. There was a long silence but then, just as I was cursing the fact that Hawthorne must be out, the door opened and there he was, staring at me with a look of bemusement on his face, wearing the same suit he always wore but without the jacket and with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had grey paint on his fingers.
Hawthorne ‘at home’.
‘Tony!’ he exclaimed. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I have my methods,’ I said, grandiosely.
‘You’ve seen Meadows. He gave you the address.’ He gazed at me thoughtfully. ‘You didn’t ring the bell.’
‘I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘I’d like to invite you in, mate. But I’m just going out.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I won’t stay long.’ It was a stand-off; Hawthorne blocking the door, me refusing to go away. ‘I want to talk to you about the book,’ I added.
It took him another few moments to make up his mind but then, accepting the inevitable, he stepped back, fully opening the door. ‘Come in!’ he said, as if he had been pleased to see me all along.