A Line to Kill

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Why?’ Hawthorne didn’t answer, so I tried again. ‘You must have met lots of unpleasant men who’ve committed crimes that are just as bad. What’s so special about this one?’

  But Hawthorne had said enough. He held up the cigarette and allowed the wind to snatch it out of his fingers. Then he turned on his heel and set off across the sand. I followed him, and without saying another word, we climbed back up to the waiting car.

  11

  Shades of Grey

  Our driver’s full name was Terry Burgess. He was twenty-six years old, worked for his father’s taxi company and had spent most of his adult life ferrying passengers from the airport to Braye and back again, with occasional excursions to Fort Clonque or Gannet Rock. His clients were either tourists who ignored him or elderly residents who criticised his driving. On Saturday nights he picked up the occasional drunk and fined them £10 if they threw up in the back of his car.

  Hawthorne’s arrival had given Terry a new sense of purpose. In the ten minutes it took him to drive us from the beach to the hotel, he managed to tell us his entire life story and give us the background he was certain we’d need to crack the case.

  ‘It’s this power line. NAB. Ever since they said they were going to dig up the island, everyone’s been at each other’s throats. I bet that’s why someone did in Mr le Mesurier.’

  I thought Hawthorne would be irritated, but he seemed amused. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Terry adjusted his driving mirror so he could look into the back where we were sitting. He had curls of ginger hair, blue eyes and a boxer’s nose. ‘Nothing ever happened on this island without his say-so,’ he explained. ‘Talk about a finger in every pie! He’s got shops, restaurants, pubs, the post office … he was even talking about setting up his own taxi service! And as for that house of his, you know he spent five million quid building it? How he got planning permission right on the edge of the sea, and his own private pillbox, is anyone’s guess.’

  He hooted at another car. Not because it was in the way but because he knew the driver.

  ‘Did I tell you I was actually outside The Lookout last night? I was working all evening. And I must have been parked there when … it happened. It’s incredible, really. Crazy! There’s never been a murder in Alderney before.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Hawthorne said.

  I was glad the journey wasn’t any longer. It was already mid-morning and, like Deputy Chief Torode, we’d left without breakfast. We pulled up in front of the hotel and Hawthorne instructed Terry to wait outside while the two of us went in, making for the restaurant.

  It wasn’t to be. Anne Cleary was sitting in the reception area. She had been waiting for us. The moment she saw us, she stood up and came over.

  ‘Is it true?’ she demanded. ‘Charles le Mesurier has been killed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Hawthorne didn’t sound too sorry, but then, of course, the murder had provided him with another case – and perhaps another source of income.

  ‘And none of us can leave the island?’

  ‘They’ve sent a couple of officers over from Guernsey and that’s their instruction … yes.’

  Anne Cleary was on the edge of tears. ‘But I have to get back to Oxford. I have a doctor’s appointment first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait.’

  ‘It can’t wait. You don’t understand.’

  Hawthorne just looked at her blankly, so I stepped in. ‘We were just going to have breakfast. Would you like to join us?’

  ‘I think they’ve stopped serving.’

  She was right. By the time we went into the restaurant it was after eleven o’clock and the tables had been cleared. Even so, we sat down next to a window with a view of the harbour and I managed to persuade a waitress to provide us with two pots of tea, some toast for me and a black coffee for Hawthorne.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’ Anne was still distressed. She had the sort of face that folded itself easily into grief. The greying hair, the grey eyes, the grey scarf that surely wasn’t needed in this warm weather: she was like one of those figures you get in mythology that stand on the shore as the ship sails away carrying the bodies of the dead. ‘My agent advised against it and I’m actually far too busy right now to be away from home.’

  ‘So why did you come?’ Hawthorne asked.

  She sighed. ‘Because I’m a soft touch. They sent me a letter saying the island only had one school – St Anne’s – and that it was in danger of closure because of the falling population. They were also raising money to support the library. I don’t know why my giving a talk there would be any help, although I suppose having a high-profile author is always a good thing. Actually, I had a very good session there in the end: the children were lovely and the teachers couldn’t have been nicer. I really shouldn’t complain. Alderney’s beautiful and I love this hotel. But after that business yesterday, I just wanted to leave.’

  She was referring, of course, to Elizabeth Lovell’s session and the revelations that had been made about her son.

  ‘I don’t believe any of that nonsense,’ she went on. ‘Life after death and ghosts and mirrors and all the rest of it. I’m not even sure why I went to her session. I suppose I was being polite. Well, more fool me. She had obviously done her research. It would have been easy to find that story on the internet. There was a lot of press interest in the lack of pastoral care at Bristol University and although we did our best to keep him out of the newspapers, William’s name was mentioned. What I don’t understand is how anyone could use information like that as part of a performance to promote their own work. It seems so cruel.’

  ‘Maybe she believes what she says,’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘She believes in the money she makes.’ Anne was indignant. It seemed to me that real anger wasn’t in her nature.

  ‘You still went to the party,’ Hawthorne said. ‘You must have known she’d be there.’

  I thought he was being unnecessarily rough on her, particularly as, when they’d first met, he’d made a point of telling her how much he and his son had enjoyed her books. But she didn’t seem to notice. ‘I didn’t want to go,’ she said. ‘I told Anthony as much. I’d had a really rather difficult day, not just with that woman but also my pen! I’m quite sure somebody’s stolen it and it really upsets me because it was given to me by my agent after Flashbang Wallop got into the top ten. That was the first in the series. The books are in six languages now and they’ve done very well, but it’s always the first one you remember.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just decided that there was no point sitting in the hotel on my own. That would only make me more depressed. But I didn’t want to join Elizabeth Lovell and her husband on the bus so I was very happy to accept a lift from George Elkin. And once I arrived, I made sure I steered clear of both of them – Mr and Mrs Lovell – for the whole evening. George is a very interesting man, by the way. Absolutely steeped in the history of the Channel Islands.’

  ‘Is that what you talked about?’

  ‘No. We talked about birds. He’s a keen birdwatcher. He’d seen a black-winged kite.’

  ‘Had he?’

  ‘It’s very rare, apparently. It’s hardly ever been seen in the UK.’

  ‘So you got to The Lookout at about seven thirty.’

  ‘You know that. You actually saw me come in.’ She paused. ‘I had quite a shock when I arrived. There was a man there I knew, although at first I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him. Anthony reminded me.’

  Hawthorne had been standing right next to me at the time. ‘He was in one of your reading groups,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ Anne shook her head. ‘I’m not certain that he was now that I think about it. But I had definitely seen him when I was visiting Wormwood Scrubs in London. It was the walking stick that reminded me, although at the time he had a crutch, if I remember rightly. We were taken through the central area of the prison on the way to the li
brary and I saw him there.’

  ‘Did you talk to Derek Abbott yesterday evening?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I didn’t want to embarrass him.’

  ‘But you knew his name.’

  ‘I didn’t know his name until Anthony told me, and it didn’t mean anything to me then.’ She paused a second time. ‘Funnily enough, Charles le Mesurier talked to me about him a short while later.’ The tea and coffee had arrived while we were talking and she took a sip. There were also four slices of toast with some jam and butter, but it didn’t feel right to eat in the middle of an interview so I left them sitting on the table in front of me. ‘I spoke to Mr le Mesurier for quite some time,’ she went on. ‘And I know I shouldn’t say this, but he didn’t strike me as a particularly nice man.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, he had everything, hadn’t he! Good looks, wealth, that house, a gorgeous wife. But he didn’t have anything nice to say about anyone.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry to say this, but he went on quite a bit about your session and how much he disliked it. He said that the extract you read was too long and he didn’t think it was well written.’

  ‘Oh. Did he?’ Charles le Mesurier had been brutally murdered but I was still annoyed.

  ‘It wasn’t just you. It was everyone. He really disliked George Elkin, although they’d known each other since they were children. He thought the people living on the island were thick, particularly the ones opposed to the power line. And he resented how much money he’d spent on the festival. At least, that’s what he told me.’

  ‘What did he say about Derek Abbott?’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly what I mean. I actually asked him about Derek Abbott because I thought I knew him and he immediately told me that he’d been in prison and that he should never have trusted him. He said that Mr Abbott worked for him, helping him with his finances and advising him on some of his online publications, but that the two of them had fallen out. They’d had an argument … something to do with money. He didn’t have anything very nice to say about him. In fact, he told me he was about to fire him. Heaven knows why he thought I’d be interested.’ She thought for a moment, as if trying to come up with some way to excuse him. ‘I have a feeling he’d been drinking,’ she concluded. ‘He must have started some time before we arrived. Champagne.’

  ‘Did he tell you why Abbott had been in jail?’

  Anne Cleary pursed her lips. ‘Oh yes. He said quite clearly that he was on the register of sexual offenders. He almost seemed amused. But it does beg the question as to why he would ever employ such a man in the first place!’

  ‘And did Abbott hear any of this?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. He was in the room, but he was keeping his distance. He was in the corner and there were quite a few people between us.’

  ‘Did you see either of them go to the Snuggery?’

  ‘That was that building at the bottom of the garden – Mr le Mesurier told me about it. He said it was his “private space”, whatever that means, and he was obviously very proud of it. But no. I actually left quite early. I had a nice chat with Anthony and I also met some other people, but the truth is that I’m not exactly a party animal. I’m a vegetarian, so all those pies and sausage rolls did nothing for me, and I’m not really drinking alcohol at the moment either. Anyway, I was expecting an important call at the hotel.’

  ‘Do you know what time you left?’ Hawthorne was testing her. He already knew the answer to that.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I can tell you exactly. I asked Kathryn in the hallway – you know, Marc Bellamy’s assistant. It was nine twenty-five. That gave me half an hour to get back, which was much more than I needed, and fortunately the minibus was leaving straight away. The driver was standing by the door. He had a beard. I asked him if he was going to the hotel and off we went.’

  ‘Were you alone?’

  ‘There were six or seven other people on the bus, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you who they were. It was quite dark and I didn’t talk to any of them.’

  ‘What was the call about?’

  Anne was becoming increasingly perplexed. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with what happened, do you?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t like Mr le Mesurier. I’ll admit to that. But I had absolutely no reason to do him harm.’

  ‘Just getting all the facts.’ Hawthorne smiled in my direction. ‘Tony here may write about all this one day.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’ll change my name.’ She was clearly reluctant to tell him what he wanted but could see that she had no choice. ‘My agent was calling me from Los Angeles.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘You obviously don’t know Hollywood agents, Mr Hawthorne. My agent doesn’t do weekends! And we’ve had very exciting news, although this is still confidential. Walt Disney are taking an option on the Flashbang stories. They’re planning to make a film and it’s worth an awful lot of money to me.’ She glanced at me. ‘That’s why I’d prefer you not to write about any of this. Disney have made me sign a morality clause and it’s the most extraordinary document, about twelve pages long. If I’m associated with anything that’s seedy or illegal, it could actually invalidate the whole thing. Of course, it’s not my fault I’ve got myself involved in a murder, but we haven’t signed the contract yet and naturally I’m on tenterhooks.’

  ‘What did your agent say?’

  ‘In the end I just got a text from her. She said there was no news and we’d talk next week.’ Anne fumbled in her handbag and took out her mobile. She turned it on and showed Hawthorne the screen. ‘There! I suppose it’s your job not to believe anything anyone says, but it still feels quite upsetting, to be honest.’

  ‘I don’t mean to upset you, Anne.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘So you didn’t hear anything or see anything that might be useful to us?’

  ‘I would have told you if I had. I only knew what had happened when I came down to breakfast and they told me I wouldn’t be able to leave. Can I at least walk out of the hotel?’

  ‘It might be best to tell the receptionist where you’re going.’

  ‘I really don’t want to be cooped up inside all day.’ She looked out of the window. ‘I heard the weather forecast on the radio and they say it’s going to be a hot one, so I might go for a walk. They have such beautiful beaches here. How long will they keep us on the island?’

  Hawthorne shrugged. ‘It could be a few days.’

  ‘Will they pay for the hotel?’ She caught herself. ‘I’ve never had a lot of money. The books were my only income and my husband never made very much from his painting even before he left me. But of course it doesn’t matter now, not with Disney. My agent says I’m going to be rich!’

  ‘Does your ex-husband know?’

  ‘I haven’t told him, but I suppose he’ll find out. Everyone knows everything these days, don’t they?’

  She finished her tea and got up. Her books had been successful, selling in six languages, and she had just sold an option to Walt Disney. It was everything a writer could hope for. But she still looked sad as she left. Her career was fine. It was life that had let her down.

  12

  Civil Disobedience

  Terry was still waiting for us outside the hotel and quickly folded away a copy of the Alderney Journal when he saw us approach. We got in the back of the car and Hawthorne told him where we wanted to go. ‘There’s something you can do for me,’ he added as we pulled away.

  ‘Whatever you want, Mr Hawthorne!’ Terry was so excited, I was surprised he was able to stay on the road.

  ‘Do you know the driver of the minibus? The one that picked up guests from the party last night?’

  ‘That’s Tom McKinley. Of course I know him.’

  ‘Could you tell him I want to talk to him?’

  Hawthorne was right next to me and I glanced at him curiously. ‘Is this about Anne Cleary?’ I asked.

  ‘It would be interesting to know
if she really was on that bus.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’ It had never occurred to me that she might have lied about her journey home the previous evening.

  ‘Actually, I am. When someone tells me something, I check it out. That’s what I do.’

  ‘I can’t think of any reason why Anne Cleary would want to kill Charles le Mesurier.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ Hawthorne didn’t speak to me again until we arrived.

  Our destination was Beaumont Farm, the home of Dr Queripel and his wife. It was on the east side of the island, where the two coastlines curved in towards each other, between Saye and Longis beaches. Curiously, the house itself had no view of the sea, at least not from the living room. Instead, a double-sized picture window looked out onto an oddly disjointed landscape. Much of it was made up of scrub grassland, the wild mix of grass and bracken that I’d seen all over the island, but it was interrupted by strips of cultivated farmland and allotments. A couple of tropical palm trees sprouted incongruously in the middle of it all, as if planted quite by accident. Further away, there was a scattering of industrial buildings – sheds and warehouses – and in the far distance, under a huge sky, a dead straight line that could have demarcated the end of the world but which was actually the edge of the island, with the English Channel on the other side.

  According to Terry, the house had been in the Queripel family for generations and it certainly looked the part: solid and sensible rather than beautiful, but dominating its surroundings with a self-confidence that any new build could only envy. It was white with black beams, two storeys high, with a front door and six perfectly symmetrical windows on one side and the inevitable French windows looking out onto a garden filled with flowers on the other. The roof was red-tiled with a single, central chimney, which I guessed would almost certainly be in working order.

  Terry also gave us a full rundown on the occupants. That was the joy of living in Alderney. Everyone knew everyone. More than that. They seemed to know everything about everyone too.