‘We’re letting you go,’ she announced.
‘So you know I’m innocent,’ I said.
‘We know you did it. The motive, the murder weapon, the opportunity … they all point to you, and the DNA result will screw you once and for all. But it seems you’ve had a bit of luck. We’ve got a computer problem at the Metropolitan Police Forensic Science Laboratory in Lambeth. We’re not going to get your results until the end of play tomorrow and the superintendent has decided you’re not a flight risk, so we don’t need to hold you.’
‘You still have to surrender your passport,’ Mills added, nastily.
‘And there’s someone here to see you.’
They waited outside while I got changed. Already feeling more human, I followed them out of the cell, back down the corridor, then through the barred gate and, finally, the metal door into the room where I had first been processed.
Hawthorne was waiting for me.
I felt a sense of something close to affection. Right then, I almost wanted to throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him – something that would have been unthinkable in normal circumstances. I didn’t understand how he came to be there and at that moment it didn’t occur to me that he might have had anything to do with my release. All I could think was that I had called him and, eventually, he had come.
‘How are you doing, Tony, mate?’ he enquired, cheerfully.
‘I’ve been better,’ I growled.
‘I thought you might like a lift out of here.’
‘Have you got a car?’
‘I’ve got a cab.’
As usual, of course, I’d pay.
‘You two enjoy yourselves,’ Grunshaw muttered. ‘And just remember, “Tony”， we can rearrest you at any time.’
‘Come off it, Detective Inspector!’ Hawthorne looked amused. ‘You know as well as I do that Tony had nothing to do with the death of Harriet Throsby, whatever evidence you’ve managed to cobble together against him. First of all, he could never hurt anyone. Look at him! The only thing he’s ever hit in his life is a computer keyboard. He writes about murder but I’ve seen him get queasy at the sight of blood. And if he killed every critic who had something bad to say about his work, there’d be hundreds of corpses littered across the country.’
‘Why don’t you say something nice about me?’ I muttered.
‘Well, if he didn’t do it, who did?’ Cara asked.
‘I suppose that’s what I’m going to have to find out for you, like I did last time. And maybe you should think about that. Another false arrest coming so soon after the last one isn’t going to look too good on your CV, is it!’
‘There is no one else, Hawthorne,’ Cara sneered. ‘You can investigate if you want to, but you’d better make it quick because as soon as we have the DNA evidence, I’m going to fall on him like a ton of bricks.’
‘You’ve definitely got the physique for it, Cara.’
‘Get out of here. Both of you.’
There was a taxi waiting for us outside the custody centre. I expected we’d be going back to Farringdon, but to my surprise it took us past my flat and on to Hawthorne’s place at Riverside View. I used the journey to tell him what had happened in the last few days – at least, from my own perspective. What I described was pretty much everything I have written so far here. Hawthorne said little. He was looking away from me, gazing out of the window, and I wondered if he was even listening. But that was his way. When he interrogated people, he often seemed to be distracted, although there was never a single word, not even a nuance, that he missed.
We sat down in the kitchen where we had met a few days ago and he made me a cup of coffee. It felt very good to be sitting there, in spotless surroundings, in my own clothes, acting normally, with nobody screaming or praying next door. Better still, Hawthorne was on my side. At least, he seemed to be.
He brought the coffee over. ‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m much better,’ I admitted. ‘Thanks for coming to Tolpuddle Street.’
‘I couldn’t leave you in there on your own. It’s not a nice place, is it!’
‘You can say that again. Have you got a biscuit?’
‘No.’
I’d barely eaten for a day and a half.
Hawthorne was sitting opposite me and I felt him examining me, his eyes boring into mine. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘There’s something I’ve got to know,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Did you do it? Did you kill Harriet Throsby?’