I brushed my teeth and washed and then wiped down the sink, using the towel. I came out of the bathroom and softly called out Hawthorne’s name. There was no reply. I reached for my phone and checked the time. It was almost nine o’clock. My first instinct was to call Jill and tell her where I was, but I was still nervous of the signal being tracked and decided against it. The last thing I wanted to do was bring Cara Grunshaw to Hawthorne’s door. I made my way down the corridor and into the kitchen. There was nobody there, but I saw that a plate and a bowl had been laid on the table. There were two croissants in a bag and a collection of those miniature cereal boxes you sometimes get in hotels. Hawthorne must have gone out and bought the croissants for me. The cereal, I suspected, was William’s.
Hawthorne had left me a newspaper and a note.
Had to go out. Back by eleven. Help yourself to anything in the fridge – don’t make calls and don’t answer the door! In emergency, find Kevin.
Out of interest, I opened the fridge. There was an unopened carton of milk, a slab of butter and a small jar of marmalade. Nothing else. I’d had almost nothing to eat the day before and I was really hungry. I wolfed down both the croissants and then had a bowl of Crunchy Nut cornflakes, followed by a bowl of Coco Pops. I made myself a coffee and quickly searched through the newspaper. I was relieved to find there was no mention of me. I sat back and thought.
Things were a little better than they had been the night before. I was wanted by the police, but they had no idea where I was. For the time being, I was safe. Hawthorne’s note hadn’t said as much, but it seemed that he was on the case. Why else would he have gone out so early – and what would he bring with him when he came back? I hoped it would be the identity of the killer.
I folded up the paper. It was slowly dawning on me that I had been handed an amazing opportunity. Since the day I’d met him, I’d been trying to find out more about Hawthorne, but he’d stonewalled me at every turn. I’d managed to speak to a detective inspector who had worked with him, but he hadn’t been very informative and he’d charged me ￡100 for his time. Hawthorne had been forced to talk about himself when we’d been at the Alderney Literary Festival, but he still hadn’t given very much away and I wasn’t even sure how much of what he had said was true. His almost paranoid secrecy had become more and more annoying as we’d worked our way through three cases and we’d often argued about it. How could I write about him if I didn’t know anything about his past? Well, here I was, alone in his home. If I looked around, there must be any number of clues that might fill in the gaps in Hawthorne’s life. What had happened in Reeth was number one on the list, but there were all sorts of things I wanted to find out. Where had he been born? Why had he become a policeman? What did he do when he wasn’t investigating murders with me? What was the thing with the giraffes?
I sat at the table for a long time, reflecting on the dilemma I found myself in. Hawthorne hadn’t invited me here. He had only allowed me in because I was in trouble and had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t sure I could abuse his hospitality by ransacking his home. I mean, the first place I might start would be the bedroom. This is where all of us are most exposed. It’s where we keep our clothes and underclothes, the books or magazines we read before we sleep, the things that are most personal to us. Even the way we make our bed tells us something about ourselves. Wrinkled sheets and crumpled duvet or puffed-up pillows, novelty cushions and rag dolls? But I already knew that I wouldn’t even be able to open the door without despising myself. I might never be able to look at Hawthorne the same way again.
What about his study, then? I’d glanced inside the first time I was in the flat and it surely wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look at the business end of things. I went over to the door on the far side of the living room. ‘Hawthorne …？’ I still called out his name before I went in, knowing there would be no reply. It crossed my mind that there might be security cameras concealed in the flat and that even now Hawthorne or Kevin might be watching me. I tried to look casual. I just need a piece of paper to jot down a few notes about the case – that’s what I told my invisible audience. There was no other reason for me to be opening the drawers of his desk. Nothing personal.
The study was exactly how I remembered it – a desk up against a wall, two computers with strange brand names I’d never heard of, different bits of machinery plugged into the various ports and sockets, a tangle of wires. There were no papers or notepads on the surface, just a paperback copy of The Great Gatsby with several corners folded down to keep the place. I guessed he was reading it with his book club. I examined the shelves, but his choice of books was too diverse to tell me anything: literary fiction, thrillers, classics … everything from Dan Brown to Dostoyevsky. Nothing here by me.