‘Why would anyone do that?’ Davina exclaimed.
‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘The number? No! I can’t imagine …’ She searched randomly around her as if she might find an answer to the question among the pots and pans, then lit another cigarette.
‘Why do you have to smoke so much?’ Colin scolded her.
She glanced at him, suddenly angry. ‘I’ll smoke if I want to. It’s after six o’clock. It’s adult time.’ She blew smoke defiantly. ‘Have you finished your homework?’
‘No.’
‘Then you should be getting on with it. And then have a bath before bed.’
‘Mum …’ He spoke the word in the way that only an adolescent can.
‘One hour on the computer. Then I’ll come up and see you.’ He didn’t move so she glared at him. ‘Colin! Do as you’re told!’
‘All right.’ He had slumped into the seat and he somehow managed to slump out of it too. He didn’t say goodbye to us. He just nodded and went.
‘I know he’s right about the cigarettes but I hate him going on at me,’ Davina said, after he’d gone. She was more relaxed now. She helped herself to some more wine from the fridge, then stood, resting against the counter with the washing machine chugging away behind her. ‘And it hasn’t been easy for him this last week. He may not seem very upset but he was absolutely devastated when he heard the news.’ She had used the same word about herself. ‘He’s not going to show his feelings in front of you but I don’t want you to think he hasn’t got any.’ She drank and smoked. ‘It was awful for him when his father died and I’m not sure how we’d have got through it if it hadn’t been for Richard. He became a second father to him … and not just with expensive birthday presents. If Colin had problems – at school, for example – he’d sometimes go to Richard before he came to me. This term, for example, he was being bullied. You’d think he could look after himself, the size of him and all that, but he’s actually a very gentle boy and some of the others were picking on him. Richard sorted it out.’
‘Can you tell us what happened to his father?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘I understand there was an accident.’
‘Yes. To be honest, I don’t really like talking about it …’
‘I’m sure.’
She stood there with the clothes now silent and still, her glass in one hand, the cigarette in the other. She could see that Hawthorne wasn’t going to let go. ‘They used to go caving together,’ she said. ‘They’d been doing it since they were at university. That was where they met. They were at Oxford together. Richard, Charles and Gregory …’
‘Gregory?’
‘Gregory Taylor. He’s a finance manager. He lives in Yorkshire.’
That was the county where the accident had happened.
‘What did your husband do?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘He was in marketing.’ She didn’t go into any more detail and I guessed she still found it painful talking about him. ‘They went away for a week every year,’ she continued. ‘I didn’t like it. The very thought of going into a hole in the ground makes me shudder and to be honest with you I’m surprised they were up for it. But it was a chance for the three of them to let their hair down. They didn’t just do it in England. They went all over the world. They’d been to France, Switzerland … and one year they even went all the way to Belize. They never took wives or partners. Gregory’s married and I know Susan doesn’t approve. But it would have been foolish to try to stop them. I was just glad when Charlie came home safe.’
She stopped and reached for her wine. She needed it to help her go on.
‘Except one year he didn’t,’ she continued, after she’d taken a big gulp. ‘In 2007, they went to a cave system near Ribblehead. It’s called the Long Way Hole. There was an investigation afterwards and everyone agreed that they took all the right precautions. They’d made contact with the local caving club and left behind a contact sheet saying where they were going and what time they were expected back. They had spare torches and a medical kit and all the right equipment. Gregory was the most experienced of the three and he was the leader but that was just a formality. All three of them knew what they were doing.’
‘So what happened?’
‘What happened was that it began to rain. Heavily. This was April. None of the weather forecasters had predicted it but suddenly there was a flood. They were already well into the cave system but the exit was only a quarter of a mile away. They decided they had to get out as quickly as possible and that’s what they tried to do.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Somehow, Charles got separated from the group. He’d been third in line and when they looked back, he wasn’t there. They’d come to a section that the local cavers called Spaghetti Junction and there was a choice of different passageways. He’d taken the wrong one. You have to remember that the situation was very dangerous. The water was rushing towards them and the danger was that if they spent too much time looking for Charles, they’d all drown. Even so, Richard and Gregory turned round. They risked their lives going back to find Charles, calling out to him and trying to find him, even though the passage was completely flooded. In the end, they had to give up. They had no choice. They got out and called for help, which was the right thing to do. But it was much too late.’ She took a breath. ‘Charles had managed to get himself stuck in what’s called a contortion. It’s like a narrow tube that connects two passages, one above the other. He was still there when the water came pouring in.’ Another pause. ‘He drowned.’
‘The body was recovered?’ Hawthorne asked. He took out his own pack of cigarettes, removed one and lit it.
She nodded. ‘Early the next day.’
‘Did you talk to the others? Richard Pryce and Gregory Taylor?’
‘Of course I talked to them … at the inquest. We didn’t say much. We were all too devastated – but they were the main witnesses. In the end, the verdict was that nobody was responsible. It was just an accident.’ She sighed. ‘Gregory took some of the blame … which is to say, he blamed himself. After all, he was the team leader. But how could he have known it was going to rain so heavily? How could any of them?’
‘What about you?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘Did you blame Gregory Taylor for what happened?’ He paused. ‘Or Richard Pryce?’
Davina fell silent. Behind her the machine had gone into full spin and when she finally spoke, her voice was so soft that I could barely hear it. ‘I never blamed him,’ she said. ‘But I did resent him … for a time, anyway. After all, he was alive and Charlie was dead and actually the trip had been Richard’s idea. He had been much keener on it than Charlie and so to that extent, I suppose he was to blame.’ She gulped down some wine, then, lowering her glass, continued: ‘I loved Charlie very much. He was a wonderful man, fun to be with, a great dad. We’d wanted to have more children together after we had Colin but somehow it never happened. After he died, I felt a terrible emptiness and it was only natural that I should have directed my feelings at Richard. It didn’t matter how kind he was to me. I thought he was buying his way out of jail, if you know what I mean. The more he gave me, the angrier I got.
‘In a way, it was Colin who persuaded me I was wrong. He never saw it that way and when he and Richard were together … I could actually see them bonding. Charlie needed a dad. And that’s exactly what Richard became.’
She glanced into the wine glass. It was empty.
‘One night, Richard and I got very drunk together – this was before he stopped drinking – and he actually broke down and all the pain and the guilt and the unhappiness that he had been feeling came flooding out. I realised then that I’d been unfair to him and that in a way he had been as much a victim of what had happened as Colin and me … and even Charlie. After that, I sort of gave in. I let him help me. When he offered to take over Colin’s school fees, I didn’t argue. Charlie had left me a bit of money but not a lot. There wasn’t any point being cynical about what Richard wa
s doing and anyway, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He really was acting for the best.’
‘Were you aware that he’d left you money in his will?’
‘Yes. I don’t know how much. But he always said I’d be all right if anything happened to him. He was very rich and Stephen must make a fortune from his gallery. I’m going in to see Oliver Masefield tomorrow. He’ll tell me what happens next.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I hope you don’t mind but if you don’t have any more questions, I really have to get on. I want to make sure Colin is doing his homework. And I have to do some mood boards for a client …’
‘Of course.’ Hawthorne got to his feet. The cigarette was still in his hand. ‘We may need to talk to you again.’
‘I’ll do anything I can to help.’
She waited until we had left the kitchen, then followed us out. We said goodbye at the door, then stepped back out into the street. It was quite dark by now, although Priory Gardens always did seem quite a shadowy place, tucked away beneath the hill. We walked back to the station. For a while, Hawthorne didn’t speak.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘Tony, mate, I’ve told you this before. I don’t like you asking questions. That’s not why you’re there.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ I replied. ‘What possible harm could I have done?’
‘I don’t know yet. But let’s not forget what happened last time. You asked one stupid question and you almost destroyed the whole bloody case!’
‘You’re not telling me you think Davina Richardson had anything to do with the death, are you?’
‘I’m not telling you anything, mate. I just don’t want you to interfere.’
We entered the station. I plucked an Evening Standard off the pile, which was my way of saying that I didn’t expect there to be any conversation on the journey. It was a redundant gesture anyway as we took different Tubes. Hawthorne left first on his way to Waterloo. I took the King’s Cross branch. I would change there for Farringdon.
But we did have one last exchange, standing together on the platform.
‘Colin said that Richard Pryce was being followed by someone,’ I said. ‘Do you think it could have been the same man that Adrian Lockwood told us about, the one who broke into his office?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘The kid said there was something wrong with his face …’
‘He said that was what Richard told him.’
‘Well, if that was the case, you’d have thought the receptionist at Lockwood’s office would have noticed.’
‘She said he had a skin problem.’ It wasn’t quite the same thing but it was close enough. ‘Maybe that was why he was wearing the blue glasses. You said it yourself. He could have worn them on purpose to distract attention.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. But Colin actually said something much more interesting.’
‘What was that?’
‘He used to read your books.’
Was Hawthorne trying to tell me something or was he just being annoying? Or both? I wasn’t going to find out because that was when the first Tube came exploding out of the tunnel and ground to a halt along the platform’s edge.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Hawthorne said.
The doors slid shut behind him.
My Tube came four minutes later. I found a seat and opened the newspaper I had picked up. I read the front cover and the first couple of pages. I’d just reached Kentish Town when a tiny article, buried in the corner, caught my eye.
DEAD MAN IDENTIFIED
Police have named the man who was killed at King’s Cross station on Saturday 26 October when he fell in front of an oncoming train. Gregory Taylor, who worked as a finance manager, was from Ingleton in Yorkshire. He was married with two teenaged daughters. The inquiry continues.
9
PUT
I’ve always had a fascination with secret passageways and places you’re not allowed to go. When I was a child, my parents used to take me to expensive hotels and I still remember sneaking into the service areas: I loved the way the plush carpets and chandeliers suddenly stopped and everything was grubby and utilitarian. In Stanmore, north London, my sister and I would crawl under the fence to sneak around the office complex next door to our home and even today, in a museum, a department store, a theatre, a Tube station, I’ll find myself wondering what goes on behind those locked doors. I sometimes think that it’s actually a good definition of creative writing: to unlock doors and take readers through to the other side.
So I felt an almost childish excitement the next day when Hawthorne and I turned up at the offices of the British Transport Police at Euston station. Here was a small, nondescript door that I must have passed dozens of times without noticing, tucked away in a distant corner just past the Left Luggage Office and opposite the entrance to platforms 16–18. Of course it was going to be disappointing on the other side but that wasn’t the point. It was somewhere I had never been.
The door opened into a reception area where we were greeted by a tired-looking woman in uniform, sitting behind a wire-mesh screen. Hawthorne gave her the name of our contact, Detective Constable James McCoy, and almost immediately he appeared, a thickset, square-jawed man with a military haircut and – jeans, sweatshirt, anorak – civilian clothes.
‘Mr Hawthorne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on through …’
We filled in a form and another door buzzed open, taking us into a maze of narrow corridors and tiny offices that extended much further than I would have thought possible. Everything was remarkably shabby. We followed a blue carpet covered in all manner of stains past a softly vibrating drinks dispenser and on round another corner. Some of the rooms were hardly bigger than cupboards. A criminal being interviewed there would be able to touch knees with the officer who had arrested him. We passed an incident room and I glimpsed half a dozen men and women examining printouts and transferring the contents to the whiteboards that surrounded them. Forget modern technology. This might be the front line against crime and terrorism but it was all resolutely old-fashioned, with chunky Hewlett Packard computers on Formica-covered desks and a whole crowd of cheap swivel chairs. There were no windows. This really was a world apart.
Hawthorne had arranged the meeting. I hadn’t needed to tell him about the newspaper article. He’d seen it himself and had called me that same evening. I hadn’t spoken to Cara Grunshaw either. I hadn’t forgotten the way she had threatened me but I’d decided to leave any further contact for at least a week, by which time, hopefully, Hawthorne would have solved the case anyway. Or maybe I would. I was still quite attracted to the idea that I would be the one who made sense of it all and that when the suspects were gathered together in one room in the final chapter, I’d be the one doing the talking.
There was a second man waiting for us in the statement room. This was a uniformed officer, barely out of his twenties, who had been brought across to talk to us. His name was Ahmed Salim and he had been the first to deal with the body. I was puzzled to find myself in Euston, incidentally, when the death had happened in King’s Cross, but apparently there was no CID division there. As McCoy explained, he was responsible for all incidents north of the Central line, travelling as far as Stratford East and Chelmsford. He had now been put in charge of the inquiry into Gregory Taylor’s death.
This, according to the two men, was what had happened.
Gregory Taylor had come to London on the morning of Saturday 26 October, one day before Richard Pryce had died. He had taken an early train from Horton-in-Ribblesdale – there is no station in Ingleton – and was now on his way back home. The station was unusually crowded for a Saturday. There had been a football match that day – Leeds vs Arsenal – and the platform was jammed with supporters. Normally, Virgin won’t allow passengers through the ticket barrier until the train has pulled in, but they change the rules when there’s a major disruption and as it happened there had been a signal failure at Peterborough and the
service was running late. So there were up to four hundred people waiting as the train drew in.
Taylor reached the platform at twelve minutes past six. He was in no hurry. He had bought himself a coffee at Starbucks and a thick doorstop of a book at W. H. Smith. This was Prisoners of Blood, the third volume in the Doomworld series by the bestselling author Mark Belladonna. By coincidence, I knew the series because I’d recently been approached by Sky to adapt it for TV. Doomworld had been compared (unfavourably) to Game of Thrones, which was then in its fourth season. It was a fantasy version of England in the time of King Arthur, weaving magic and mystery with really quite extreme levels of violence and pornography. The Daily Mail had branded the books ‘pure porn poison’, which the publishers had cheekily reprinted on the cover. I’d read about half of the first volume but I hadn’t really enjoyed it and it had been an easy decision to turn the show down.
The third volume had just arrived in the shops and it was on special offer. Taylor bought it and received a free Kit Kat and a bottle of water.
He went through the ticket barrier and started walking up the platform, staying behind the yellow line but still fairly close to the edge. At the same time, the delayed train appeared in the distance, moving towards him. Police Constable Salim told us what happened next.
‘I’d just arrived at the station for the evening shift when it all kicked off. I knew we had a PUT before I got the call over my radio …’
‘What’s a PUT?’ I asked.
‘Person Under a Train.’
‘We also call them “one unders”,’ McCoy added.
‘I could hear screaming,’ Salim went on. ‘And the driver had sounded his horn, which is standard practice. So I knew something was up and I went straight to the platform, which is how I came to be the first on the scene.
‘My immediate thought was that it must be a suicide. But King’s Cross is an end-of-line station so we don’t get that many of those. Anyway, there’s the Harry Potter experience on the main concourse and that cheers people up. So maybe it was an accidental – but that doesn’t happen very often either. I don’t know. I just wanted to get there and see what I could do to help.
The Sentence is Death Page 10