‘What?’
‘Elizabeth Lovell knew that William Cleary was a drug addict and that he killed himself with an overdose.’
‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’
‘She was vague. But she seemed to know what she was talking about.’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘It would have been easy enough to find out.’
I nodded. ‘I did a search on the internet. There’s almost nothing about William except that he took an overdose and died when he was twenty-one. The real story was the university. A lot of the newspapers claimed they weren’t giving their students enough support. They had a very bad record on youth suicide. You might be interested to know that Bill and Kitty Flashbang – those two characters you liked – were named after her own children and that’s why she stopped writing about them. Her marriage also broke up. Her husband is an artist. He had a nervous breakdown and now he lives in Cornwall.’
‘You’ve been busy,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I just think it’s very sad. And it makes it inexcusable, what Elizabeth Lovell did.’
We both fell silent after that. Lost in our quite different thoughts, we continued our journey across the island.
It was a beautiful evening. We were walking along the rue de Beaumont, which followed the curve of the beach with a vista of grassland, then rocks, then white sand and finally a dark sea, turning crimson as the sun began to set. To one side, the stone breakwater at Braye Harbour stretched out an improbable distance, as if the architects had set themselves the task of walking all the way to the horizon. On the other, a series of quite ordinary houses stood side by side, almost ignoring the view. We passed a classic Gilbert Scott telephone box, painted blue not red, and the thought occurred to me that if I ever wrote a book about Alderney, I’d recommend featuring it on the cover.
Eventually, we left the houses behind us. A few seabirds circled overhead, silhouetted against the sky, and as we continued, the grass became wilder, the rocks more rugged and I could hear waves crashing against the cliffs. We were overtaken by a few cars and then by the minibus that had met us at the airport. It was full of people dressed up for the party and I caught a glimpse of Maïssa Lamar leaning against one of the windows, clutching a beaded handbag and wearing a colourful headdress. She might have seen us but she made no acknowledgement as the bus swept past, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it.
Now the road took us past Fort Albert, which I had seen from the hotel. Isolated on a headland at the end of the bay, the construction looked ancient, almost Arthurian. The land around it was hostile, full of dark magic. Hawthorne knew where he was going. He pointed to a track that led to the beach, with more German defences scattered on both sides. I saw lights. There were cars parked ahead of us, along with the airport minibus. We had arrived.
The Lookout was a celebrity house, built to impress. It was shaped roughly like an arrow – or perhaps more like an American stealth bomber, about to blast off across the sea. Its two wings reached out to enclose us as we walked towards it. Spotlights set at ankle level washed over the asphalt approach. Charles le Mesurier had told me that it had only been completed a year ago and the narrow horizontal windows in their steel frames and the double front doors were aggressively modern. But the architect had also been inspired by art deco: the walls were covered in white stucco and there were three flat roofs forming terraces, rising up one above the other, which added to the building’s sense of dynamism and thrust.
The front doors were open and I could hear live music, a local jazz band launching into an enthusiastic rendering of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ arranged for snare drum, banjo and synthesiser. The minibus was empty. Maïssa and the other passengers had already gone inside. Looking into the house, I could see the silhouettes of people passing back and forth like puppets in one of those Indonesian puppet plays. There had to be a chandelier somewhere because it was casting tiny sparkles of light. I got the sense that I was entering another world.
From the moment I went in, I saw that Charles le Mesurier had spared no expense in the creation of his island Xanadu: it was every bit as spectacular as he had promised. Sure enough, a splendid chandelier – modern rather than antique – dominated the hallway above a floor that was a gleaming expanse of white marble. The art on the wall included prints by Damien Hirst and Banksy. An archway in front of us led into a living room with a sun lounge on one side and a dining room with an archway into the kitchen on the other, but sliding walls had been drawn back to turn these rooms into one huge space. I don’t think I’d ever been in a house where the people furthest away were actually diminished in size simply by perspective.
Looking ahead, I saw the floor-to-ceiling windows had also been slid aside. Light from the interior spilled out onto emerald-green lawns and perfectly cut flower beds, while a gravel path lit by tiny lights set in the ground continued all the way to the bottom of the garden. A square stone building with two windows – some sort of pavilion – had been built at the very end. I could hear the soft murmur of the sea beyond.
This wasn’t a house. It was a movie set. The art, the hardwood floors, the rugs, the grand piano, the Italian lighting and furniture, they had all been chosen to make an impression. It suited the character of Charles le Mesurier – or what I knew of him. The big fish in the small pond. When you visited him at home, he wanted you to know what he was. This wasn’t just a home. It was a monument to himself.
I glanced at Hawthorne. He didn’t seem particularly impressed by his surroundings, but he would never have shown it if he was.
About a hundred people, some of them in black tie, had already arrived and Marc Bellamy was working the room, having appointed himself master of ceremonies. He was dressed in the full regalia of a traditional chef: white jacket with two rows of buttons, baggy grey trousers and a red bandana. All that was missing was the hat.
He saw us and came over.
‘How do!’ He began with the inevitable greeting. ‘How are you, Tony? And you, Mr Hawthorne? Busy day?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I hope you’ve brought your appetites with you. What are you going to have to drink?’ He waved a hand at Kathryn, who was carrying glasses on a tray. She was wearing a black dress and a white apron, like a French waitress. It was as if the two of them had decided to come in fancy dress. ‘What do you think of this place, then? Not quite my cup of Tetley’s, but it must have cost a bob or two. Versailles on the island of Alderney.’ His pronunciation of the French chateau moved it directly to Yorkshire. ‘Let’s hope the locals don’t rise up and chop off the owner’s head!’ he added with a twinkle.
He sauntered over towards some other new arrivals and I looked past him into the room. Charles le Mesurier was standing beside the piano, dressed tonight in a loose-fitting silk jacket, T-shirt and white trousers, talking to a group of people who were hanging on his every word. Elizabeth Lovell was sitting on a sofa with Sid next to her. He was whispering descriptions of the other guests, cradling what looked like a large whisky on his lap. There was one particular person I was looking for and I spotted him at once, standing next to the entrance to the kitchen. Derek Abbott was leaning on his walking stick, talking to a woman I didn’t know: short, strawberry blonde hair, lots of make-up, expensively dressed. Hawthorne had seen him too.
‘Did you know he’d be here?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you going to stay?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Why should I leave?’
It was true that there was plenty of space for them to avoid each other. In fact, we still hadn’t made it out of the hallway and Abbott might not even have seen us. Just then, I heard a car door slam on the drive and looked round in time to see Anne Cleary and George Elkin getting out of the dusty green Volkswagen that had brought them here. I waited for them to come in. Elkin hadn’t made any effort to dress up for the party. He was wearing the same jacket with the elbow patches and a check shirt. He didn’t look happy to be here.
I smiled at Anne. ‘Did you mana
ge to find your …?’ I began.
But Anne wasn’t looking at me. She seemed stunned. I followed her eyes and realised that she was staring at Derek Abbott and the woman. She was shocked.
‘Anne?’ I asked. ‘Are you all right?’
She noticed me for the first time. ‘That man …!’ she faltered. ‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Derek Abbott,’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I’ve seen him … somewhere.’
‘Maybe you met him in prison,’ I suggested.
It was a stupid thing to say. But Anne and I had spent quite a bit of time talking about her prison charity, Books Behind Bars, and there was a part of me that wanted to stir things up. I was still annoyed with Hawthorne and my comment was actually a gentle stab in his direction. He didn’t respond.
But Anne had gone quite pale. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘I think you’re right. That’s exactly where I met him. He was in one of my reading groups … I’m sure of it!’ She turned to Elkin. ‘I wonder if I should even stay here. What do I say to him if he remembers me?’
‘Best not say anything,’ Elkin muttered. ‘Nobody really talks to him anyway. I’m surprised he’s here.’
‘I don’t know …’
She was saved by the arrival of Kathryn Harris, who had come hurrying out of the living room and now imposed herself between us with the drinks tray. ‘Red, white or rosé,’ she announced cheerfully. ‘Or there’s beer on the far table, as well as lemonade and sparkling water.’
Anne and I each picked a glass of wine. Hawthorne chose lemonade.
‘We’ll be bringing out the chicken satay in a moment,’ Kathryn continued. ‘But save some room for the steak and kidney puddings. They’re Marc’s speciality!’
By the time she had finished her recommendations, Abbott had turned his back on us and limped over to the sun lounge. I had to smile. There were now three of us who would have to keep our distance from him to avoid any further embarrassment.
Even so, the evening passed pleasantly enough and, despite my earlier reservations, I was glad I’d come. The music was being provided by three men in striped jackets, white trousers and straw hats; they called themselves The Channelers and according to the advertisement propped up in front of the synthesiser, they could be heard every other Thursday at The Divers Inn. The sun had fully set by now and the garden was shrouded in darkness, but there were pinpricks of electric light on either side of the path and a soft yellow glow behind the windows of the pavilion at the end. To be fair to Marc Bellamy (and to Charles le Mesurier, who had paid for it), there was plenty of food. The chicken satay was followed by Welsh rarebits, chicken vol-au-vent, stuffed Yorkshire puddings, sausage rolls and shrimp skewers – all very retro and ‘cobblers to calories’. The shrimp even came with a Marie Rose dip.
I chatted to several of the guests, including Judith and Colin Matheson, the first time I had actually seen them together. It was strange how unsuited they were. She was a couple of inches taller than him and quite a bit broader and as he stood next to her he shrank into himself even more than usual, glancing nervously around the room whilst clutching a glass of clear liquid.
‘Gin and tonic?’ I asked.
‘Perrier.’ Colin grimaced. ‘I’m the designated driver.’
‘I’ve had very good feedback from your session this afternoon,’ Judith said.
‘I was sorry not to see you there.’
‘I was sorry I had to miss it. I hope Colin told you. I had some issues at home.’
Issues at home. She’d chosen the words carefully, not wanting to give too much away, and she quickly steered her husband into the next room before he could add anything more.
Once again I caught sight of Derek Abbott. It was impossible to avoid him completely. He had retreated to the far corner, lowering himself into an armchair with his walking stick resting against the arm. He was sitting there managing to be both defensive and aggressive. Most people seemed to be ignoring him, but he had been invited and so he had come, to hell with what they thought. That was what he seemed to be saying. If he hadn’t seen me on stage, I might have been tempted to go over and talk to him myself. But he knew who I was and what was I going to say to him? ‘Is it true that Hawthorne pushed you down a flight of concrete steps because you were dealing in child pornography?’ Hardly the perfect ice-breaker at a social gathering like this.
Hawthorne, for his part, never came close. I noticed him in the kitchen, in conversation with Colin Matheson. Although we had arrived together, we had hardly spoken a word all evening. Perhaps we had nothing to talk about. All the time we had spent together – in London, Kent and Yorkshire, in taxis and trains, his home and mine – we had been pursuing an investigation. He was the detective. I was the writer. That was what defined us as far as he was concerned.
Even so, we had come to Alderney as a team. I had thought we might enjoy our time on the island but even that small hope had been dashed by the appearance of Derek Abbott. Was I wrong to have been so angry? The trouble with Hawthorne was that he had his own way of doing things, his own code of conduct. He wouldn’t care if you disagreed with him. But if you tried to argue with him, you’d almost certainly come off worse and maybe that was what I was discovering now.
I was just going over to join him when Charles le Mesurier stepped in front of me, blocking my way. He was closer than I would have liked and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘I enjoyed that little chat of yours this afternoon,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I like your house.’
‘Yes. I had a whole load of designers in, but in the end I came up with most of it myself.’ He was quite drunk, not exactly slurring his words but a little too emphatic in the way he spoke. I noticed that while we had all been given wine or beer, he had a crystal flute of champagne, which he was holding with his thumb and first finger on either side of the rim.
‘What’s the building at the bottom of the garden?’ I asked.
‘That was put there by the Germans in the war. It’s actually a gunnery, but after I bought the place I turned it into a sort of summer house … somewhere private to hang out.’ He leered at me. ‘I call it the Snuggery. I rather like that. Gunnery to Snuggery.’
‘Do you spend a lot of time here?’
‘God, no! As little as possible! You know what they say about this place? Two thousand alcoholics clinging to a rock. I’d go mad if I stayed here more than a couple of months at one go. I have my business interests. Spin-the-wheel and all the rest of it. But I like to move around. London, the South of France, New York …’
‘And you’re involved with the power line.’ I was remembering what Elkin had told me.
He looked at me queerly. ‘Who’s been talking to you about that?’
‘I’ve noticed the signs.’
‘Ban NAB.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean about Alderney. The people here are stuck in the nineteenth century. Give them anything that will actually make a difference – cheap electricity to the UK and a nice little earner in their pocket – and half of them think the sky’s going to fall in.’
He was going to continue but then Marc Bellamy walked past with a plate of devilled eggs and he spun round. ‘Hey, Tea Leaf!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m going to lift one of those, if you don’t mind.’ He snatched half an egg and slid it into his mouth. ‘Not bad at all,’ he said – with his mouth full. ‘I have to say, you’ve done really well for yourself,’ he went on. ‘Your own show on Channel 5!’
‘ITV2,’ Marc said.
‘Maybe you should be a guest on I’m a Celebrity …! I’m sure you’d be completely at home with those mealworms and kangaroo testicles.’
Marc stared at him with bleak hostility and I thought he was going to snap back, but then he swallowed his words and moved on.
There really was something uniquely offensive about Charles le Mesurier, particularly after he’d had too much to drink. The alcohol accentuated his public-school accent, so th
at everything he said came out with a sneer. His good looks – the swathe of grey hair, the aristocratic nose – only made him seem all the more superior and self-assured. He wasn’t an easy man to like.
‘You haven’t met the wife,’ he said.
I didn’t know who he meant but then I turned round and saw her. ‘The wife’ was the woman who had been talking to Derek Abbott when I arrived. She had crept up behind me and now stood facing her husband, hands on hips and a scowl on her face.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced.
‘You’re not serious.’
‘I’m exhausted, Charles.’
‘How much money did you manage to spend?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll find out at the end of the month.’
He still didn’t want her to go. He pointed at me. ‘Helen, this is Anthony. He’s a famous writer.’
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I heard you were in Paris.’
‘I got back this afternoon.’
‘Are there direct flights?’
She gave me a look. ‘We have a PJ,’ she explained.
Of course, she was rich. She looked it. The dress she was wearing screamed haute couture – a combination of pink toile, beading and feathers that actually covered very little of her body but at enormous cost – and there was a cascade of diamonds around her neck. She was tired and she was irritated but she still exuded sexuality from her strawberry blonde hair to her Marilyn Monroe lips to the generous curves of her body.
It was hard to gauge her relationship with Charles le Mesurier. There was a careless quality to the way they spoke to each other, even in front of me. They would probably have no qualms about having a full-blooded row in public. And yet there was definitely some sort of affection there. It was as if they had known each other so long that they no longer cared about pretences. You had to accept them for who they were and if you didn’t like it, that was your problem.
Charles le Mesurier tried one last time. ‘We’re having a party, baby. You can’t go to bed.’
A Line to Kill Page 8