A Line to Kill

by Anthony Horowitz

  Everything had changed. I might have a book after all.

  22

  Gannet Rock

  I was looking forward to leaving Alderney. As we drove past Fort Tourgis, making our way back towards the airport, it was hard to believe that I had only been on the island for five days. So much had happened – two deaths! At the same time, Hawthorne and I had left a wake of destruction behind us. Anne Cleary had been trashed by Elizabeth Lovell, who had then been exposed as a cheat and a liar. Marc Bellamy had been forced to relive his own childhood trauma and had admitted to being a thief. Judith and Colin Matheson might divorce. Derek Abbott was heading to jail for blackmail, if not murder. There are victims in every murder story, and not just the ones who are killed.

  Terry was sad to see us go, although I couldn’t say I’d miss him very much: he had presented me with an enormous bill in return for his services. As usual, he filled the journey with his chatter.

  ‘So, you don’t know who did it!’ he exclaimed, casting an eye at Hawthorne, bouncing it off his driving mirror.

  Hawthorne was in no mood to reply.

  ‘There are plenty of people on the island who will be glad to see the back of him. My dad for one! We were talking about it only last night. I told you Mr le Mesurier was planning to start his own car service, as if he needed any more business in Alderney. Not that I’m saying my old man had anything to do with it, mind you. Did you talk to that French lady? I took her to the airport and she said she was a poet, but what sort of poet would have a private jet waiting for her? There was something going on there.’

  We reached the top of the hill. I could see the airport in the distance.

  But Terry hadn’t finished. ‘I still don’t believe I was actually parked outside the house when Charles le Mesurier was done in. And I saw his wife – his widow, sorry – the day she died too!’

  That interested Hawthorne. ‘When was that?’ he asked.

  ‘About two o’clock. I drove past her just as she came out of the house. She turned left, heading up towards the quarry.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone else. I thought about offering her a lift, but I was going the other way, and anyway, that slightly defeats the point of being a taxi driver – giving people lifts for free!’

  As we turned into the approach road that led to the airport, we were overtaken by another car and I saw Special Constable Whitlock driving with Deputy Chief Torode in the back seat. He was sitting with his head against the window, part of his face pressed flat by the glass. He hadn’t noticed us and I thought he might be asleep, but when we finally drew up in the car park, he got out and came over to us.

  ‘Hawthorne …’

  ‘Have you come to say goodbye, Deputy Chief?’

  ‘I wish. But actually, it seems I may need your help after all.’

  We were standing in the car park with the entrance to the airport in front of us. I noticed the minibus that had met us when we’d arrived. Marc Bellamy was just getting out, followed by Kathryn Harris. As usual, she was carrying all the luggage. The aircraft that would take us all to Southampton was waiting beside the runway.

  ‘We went to arrest Derek Abbott this morning,’ Torode continued.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s not at home. He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘You think he’s done a runner?’ Hawthorne was amused.

  ‘I would have thought that unlikely. This is an island.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed that.’

  Torode frowned. ‘Look here, Hawthorne. You talked to him. You know him better than any of us. I thought you might want to come along because you might see something that could help us find him. Or you can get on a plane and piss off home and we can forget we ever met. It’s entirely up to you.’

  There were actually a few things that Torode was forgetting, starting with the fact that it was Hawthorne who had supplied him with the information that had enabled him to arrest Abbott in the first place. Also, Torode had reneged on his agreement and had told Hawthorne that he wasn’t going to be paid.

  Despite all this, I wasn’t at all surprised when Hawthorne turned to me and asked: ‘What do you think, Tony? Do you mind getting a later plane?’

  I was fine with that. I was uncomfortable about running into Marc Bellamy again and I was curious to see more of Abbott’s home. ‘Sure,’ I said.

  So off we went, in the back seat of Torode’s car with our luggage in the boot, Torode silent, Whitlock grim, Hawthorne thoughtful. It wasn’t the most pleasant journey across the island, passing the sites of not one but two murders, and I was glad when we finally arrived at Quesnard Cottage and got out. There was a uniformed policeman standing at the door; from Alderney or Guernsey, I had no idea. Whitlock stayed in the car, her hands still gripping the steering wheel as if she was afraid someone would drag her out.

  The front door was unlocked. Either Torode had found it that way or he had forced his way in. There was no sign of any damage. It was strange what a difference it made, arriving in the bright midday sunlight without Mozart’s Requiem playing in the background. I’d had a sense of unease when I had approached it the first time – less than twenty-four hours ago. I’d allowed my knowledge of the man who lived there to influence the way I described the place and it was interesting how little impact his home made on me now. Every writer knows about the pathetic fallacy, where the weather, the light and even music can be used to manipulate a reader’s mood. But it seemed that I’d done quite the opposite, allowing my own mood to influence the weather.

  We passed into the hallway and I remembered Abbott standing there, ugly and defensive, swearing at Hawthorne before we were allowed in. This time, Torode led us into the living room, Abbott’s ‘safe space’ and the very heart of the house. As well as the chairs and the sofas, the TV and the sound system, there was a large desk with a computer, indicating that this was where Abbott worked as well as relaxed. If there were any clues to his current whereabouts, they would be found here.

  Hawthorne quickly checked the surface of the desk. There was a diary open at yesterday’s date, but the page was blank. A selection of postcards with views of Alderney were lying on top of an in tray that also contained various household bills. A single rollerball pen lay to one side, the lid missing. ‘Have you searched the place?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet.’ That surprised me, but Torode explained: ‘I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. That’s why I thought you might help. The computer’s locked, by the way, and there’s no convenient password this time. Anyway, it’s probably full of porn. To be honest with you, I haven’t got the stomach for it. Maybe Whitlock’s right. I can’t wait to get back to Guernsey.’

  ‘Does Abbott have any friends on the island? Anyone he might have contacted?’

  Torode shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Most of the people on the island knew who he was and didn’t want anything to do with him. I’d guess that Charles le Mesurier was probably the only person who let him come anywhere near – and we all know how that ended.’

  ‘Have you examined his phone records?’

  ‘Do me a favour, Hawthorne. We only found out he was missing half an hour ago.’

  I looked around, working out the sequence of events that had led to Abbott’s disappearance and wondering where he might have gone. Hawthorne had fired a warning shot with his first visit, but Abbott hadn’t been afraid. When are you going to stop making up lies about me? He had denied everything, past and present, and then there had been that strange moment of recognition between them – if that’s what it was. After that, Abbott had been confident enough to throw him out.

  Since then, Hawthorne had discovered one more vital piece of information. Contrary to what he had said, Abbott had been seen accompanying le Mesurier to the Snuggery on the night of the murder. This added opportunity to motive … Abbott must have been the last person to see him alive. Hawthorne had told Torode, and Torode had moved in to make the arrest.

 
Could Abbott have known he was coming? Had he seen uniformed policemen approach and made a fast exit out of a back door? Nothing about the room suggested that. There were no half-open drawers or incriminating documents burned in the fireplace. Was it even possible that he had disappeared in the same way as Helen le Mesurier? He had claimed to be a victim when Hawthorne was interrogating him. Could it be that a third murder had taken place on the island of Alderney in almost as many days?

  Hawthorne had started with the desk, rifling through various documents and files. I wandered over to the side of the room and cast my eye over the long lines of books arranged on sagging wooden shelves that covered an entire wall. I’m afraid to say that old habits die hard and I was half looking for any sign of my own books. Worse still, I was quite gratified to find a hardback edition of Moriarty next to a complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t allow it to change my opinion of Derek Abbott in any way, of course.

  Meanwhile, Torode was examining the different malt whiskies displayed on a trolley. I wouldn’t have put it past him to help himself to one. I had seen very little of him during the investigation, but he had come across as venal and self-interested. Even now, after dismissing him only the night before, he had effectively brought Hawthorne here to do his work for him. But then as far as he was concerned, the case was over. He just wanted to find Abbott so that he could go home.

  ‘Take a look at this …’

  Hawthorne had found something in one of the drawers. He was holding a camera, the sort used by sports enthusiasts, a GoPro Hero. It was remarkably small, no more than a couple of inches in height and depth. He was turning it over in his hands, working out how to activate it, and at that moment I realised its significance. Abbott had been blackmailing Colin Matheson about his affair with Helen le Mesurier. Colin had thought that there was a security camera recording what had taken place in the Snuggery, but Hawthorne and I both knew that wasn’t true. Was it possible that the footage had been recorded with this tiny device?

  Hawthorne found the On button and pressed it. The answer to my question was apparent straight away. The little screen on the back flickered into life and there was the inside of the Snuggery in full colour, empty to begin with but almost at once Colin Matheson appeared. The camera had been concealed above the door. I saw his head and the back of his shoulders as he moved into the room and briefly disappeared out of shot. Helen le Mesurier, wearing a bright red dress that showed more flesh than it concealed, followed, carrying a bottle of champagne. She went the other way and sat down on one of the leather banquettes I had noticed when I had first gone in there. She placed the champagne on the table in front of her. Colin Matheson came back into view as he crossed over and sat next to her.

  The bottle was already open. Helen filled two glasses that had been standing on the table. They talked, but there was no sound and because of the high angle it wasn’t even possible to read their lips. They kissed. The image was so small and the camera so far away that I couldn’t see the expression on Colin’s face, whether he was reluctant, embarrassed or passionate, unable to control himself. Paradoxically, the GoPro only gave me the bigger picture. The kiss became more intense. His hands slid under her dress, pulling it off her shoulder. She reached for his belt.

  Hawthorne froze the image. He had seen enough.

  ‘So you were right,’ Torode said. ‘Derek Abbott was blackmailing them.’

  ‘No,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You were the one who found the text that Helen le Mesurier sent Colin Matheson. OMG, Colin … What has he got? And Matheson told us—’

  ‘Matheson was wrong too.’

  ‘Well, if he wasn’t blackmailing them, what do you think he was doing? Revenge porn? Putting this out on the internet just to annoy them?’

  ‘It wasn’t Abbott,’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘Then how did this camera end up in his desk?’

  Hawthorne put the camera back where he had found it. Slowly, he explained. ‘Helen le Mesurier wasn’t being blackmailed. She was part of it. And Derek Abbott wasn’t the blackmailer.’

  ‘Then who was?’

  ‘Charles le Mesurier.’

  I ran that through my head. ‘Hawthorne, are you saying—’

  ‘The whole thing was a set-up.’ Hawthorne took out a cigarette and lit it. With Abbott absent and quite possibly on the run, there was no need to ask for permission.

  ‘I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind,’ Torode said.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Last one.’ Hawthorne slid the pack back into his pocket.

  ‘What do you mean, it was a set-up?’ I asked.

  ‘When we talked to Derek Abbott in the kitchen, he was shit-scared half the time. Of course he denied everything. That’s what he’s done all his life. But he was also on the defensive. He insisted he hadn’t been fired. He didn’t want us to know how much money he’d been paid. He said it was peanuts when actually it was twenty thousand quid. He also lied about texting Helen le Mesurier. Of course it was him. She was five minutes from his house when she was killed.

  ‘The only time he relaxed was when I accused him of having shares in Électricité du Nord. That was when he got cocky. He told me to check out the list of shareholders and then he threw me out of the house. Well, I checked the shareholders and he was actually telling the truth. He’s got nothing.

  ‘That part of the story was wrong – but where had it come from? It was what Abbott had told Colin Matheson and what Matheson had then told us. So why did he lie? Don’t forget, he never took any money from Matheson. All he wanted was for him to influence his stupid committee and get the power line up and running. And who actually had the most to gain from that?’

  ‘Charles le Mesurier.’ Suddenly, it was crystal clear.

  ‘That’s right. Charles was getting cash payments as an adviser, but we also know that he’d sold a piece of land to the company for five times its true value. That was what was at stake. If he was going to hit pay dirt, le Mesurier needed someone inside the States to get the electricity line off the ground and so he used his own wife as bait. She seduced Colin in front of the camera. And his dirty little friend, Derek Abbott, was the one who put the squeeze on him.’

  ‘And that was why he was paid £20,000!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Exactly. Le Mesurier earned millions, but Abbott got a commission.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Torode cut in. He pointed at the camera in disgust. ‘Are you saying she knew she was being filmed?’

  ‘She was only doing it for the camera,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Didn’t you see it for yourself? Helen le Mesurier was carrying the champagne, but the glasses were already laid out on the table. There was nothing spontaneous about what happened in the Snuggery, no moment of madness. She’d planned it all. And when they came in, Colin turned left, but she turned right. Why? Because she knew she had to be in the shot!’

  ‘But that’s disgusting,’ Torode said. ‘Le Mesurier used his own wife …’

  ‘They had an open marriage. Sex was no big deal. I wouldn’t be surprised if Charles didn’t get off watching this. The two of them were as bad as each other.’

  The three of us stood facing each other in the empty room.

  ‘So where is Abbott now?’ Torode asked.

  ‘That’s the question,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Let’s take a look around.’

  We went back into the hall and then upstairs. The house had three bedrooms. Two of them hadn’t been used for a long time. They weren’t just unoccupied, they felt musty and redundant, permanently empty. The master bedroom was cosier, with a king-sized bed and half a dozen pillows that must have mocked Derek Abbott every time he went up there, alone. A bathroom led off it. He had a lot of expensive toiletries.

  There was no sign of the man himself and although I noticed a hatch leading up to the attic, Hawthorne wasn’t inclined to search there. I supposed it was unlikely that Abbott was intending to hide away in the house until this was all over.
I wondered if he had actually gone on the run. Was it possible that he was simply shopping in St Anne?

  Hawthorne stopped. Something had occurred to him. ‘Downstairs,’ he said.

  We followed our steps back into the hall. Hawthorne went straight over to the hexagonal table that stood in the centre. I saw now that there was a postcard propped up against the vase of flowers. It showed a view of Gannet Rock, the towering sea stacks and plunging cliffs on the far western side of the island that I had visited on my first day. Why should it mean anything to him? Then I remembered the other postcards and the rollerball pen I had seen on the desk.

  Hawthorne turned the card over. There was a handwritten message on the other side.

  I can’t go back to prison. I’m not doing that. I can’t.

  He showed the card to Torode. ‘Do you know where this is?’ he asked.

  ‘Les Etacs. Yes. I know.’

  ‘I think we should go there.’

  We went in Torode’s car with Whitlock behind the wheel, back across the island and up Tourgis Hill, passing close to the airport. A narrow lane, more like a track, led from the main road through swathes of the strange, pale grass that characterised so much of the island. We pulled up in front of yet another gun emplacement, or the remains of one, a heptagon of grey concrete lying on the ground like an oversized coin. There were two more of them further up the hill. Dozens of gannets, each one a ball of brilliant white feathers, were soaring high overhead, providing a commentary on the scene with their eerie, sawing cries.

  Even before we got out of the car, we could tell something was wrong. A small crowd had gathered on the very edge of the grass, all of them looking out to sea, and there was something about their body language, the way they stood, that warned us that although they might be birdwatchers, they were not now watching birds. We went over and joined them.

  I saw the two rock towers rising up out of a steel-blue sea, providing an astonishing breeding ground for twelve thousand gannets. To one side, the land sloped down and there were paths that you could follow all the way to the water’s edge, but in front of us the island simply stopped, like a map torn in half, with a sheer drop on the other side of the jagged line.