Hawthorne shook his head. ‘You should have told me earlier, Tony.’
‘I’d forgotten all about it. It must have happened during the rehearsals in Dalston. There were loads of things on my mind. Maybe someone passed me a magazine and I passed it to her, but I didn’t look inside. I didn’t even look at the cover.’ I realised I was burbling. ‘I had no idea where Harriet lived until Cara told me,’ I concluded, feebly.
‘I believe you, mate.’ Hawthorne considered. ‘It might not be so easy to persuade them in court, but maybe the jury will take pity on you. I mean, you’ve certainly stacked up the evidence against yourself.’
We walked on in silence, making our way back to the Strand. The front of the theatre was deserted now, but it was exactly seven thirty and the first act would have begun. I glanced inside and saw the box-office manager, sitting on his own. He didn’t look happy.
‘Hawthorne …’ I’d had a thought while I was in the dressing room and I expressed it now. ‘Sky Palmer was in Macbeth.’
‘I heard.’
‘But you must realise what it means! She must have been given one of the original daggers. Ahmet had a whole lot made for the cast in Edinburgh.’ I thought back to what she had said. ‘And Ewan Lloyd directed it. So he must have a second dagger too.’
‘I’d sort of figured that one out, Tony. The trouble is, it doesn’t really help us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Your producer could have had another dozen knives made. Friends, sponsors, costume designer, front-of-house manager and so on. But you’ve lost yours. And the one that killed Harriet Throsby had your fingerprints on it.’
I felt deflated. ‘That’s true.’
Hawthorne looked at his watch. ‘Ahmet’s waiting for us in his office. I said we’d call in tonight.’
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ I was exhausted. I’d had no sleep the night before, I’d spent half the day in jail and we’d visited one suspect after another, including – in the past hour – the entire cast of Mindgame.
‘It’s up to you, mate. But the clock’s still ticking. The DNA results could come in any time. And if you want to head back to Tolpuddle Street …’
The custody centre. Cara Grunshaw. Suddenly I was awake again. ‘No. Let’s go.’
We continued past the front of the theatre. I could imagine Tirian Kirke onstage, describing Dr Farqhuar’s office. Would the line about the books have got a laugh? I noticed my name in lights. Another letter had fused. I’d been reduced to ANONY. One more short circuit and I’d be completely anon. Which, given the reviews, was probably what I deserved.
Hawthorne flagged down a taxi and once again we were on our way.
13
A Run of Bad Luck
I’ve never much liked Euston.
I got to know the area well during the sixteen years I worked on Foyle’s War. I did a lot of the research at the British Library, just about the only modern building in the entire square mile with any sense of architectural style. I still don’t understand how you can have a road that’s only a twenty-minute walk from the centre of town, yet remains so inherently cheap and tacky. Or why there’s been a traffic jam from one end to the other for the past twenty years. The shops are useless and you’d be mad to eat in any of the restaurants. Half the people you meet are tourists with backpacks. I should have known better when I heard that this was where Ahmet had his office. Theatreland it most certainly was not.
I brought Hawthorne to the front entrance, taking him down a flight of stairs concealed behind a row of dustbins to the basement of a tired grey house that had been sliced into flats. Light was streaming out of the windows below pavement level, but the glass was so dusty we couldn’t see in. I rang the bell. It was ten to eight in the evening, but so dark that it could have been midnight. The April weather was showing no signs of improvement. It wasn’t raining, but there was a thick fog that was doing the same job. Nobody came, so I rang the bell a second time. The door swung open to reveal Maureen Bates, dressed in a tweed skirt and mauve jersey with her glasses resting on her chest. She looked far from happy as she stood there, purposefully blocking the way in.
‘I think Mr Yurdakul is expecting us,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I’m aware of that. Yes. But I have to tell you that this really isn’t a good time.’ Did she think we’d just turn round and leave?
‘It’s never a good time when someone has been killed,’ Hawthorne assured her.