Daniel? I had never heard Hawthorne called that before. ‘You can wait for him if you like,’ I said. ‘He should be back in a minute.’
‘Well, I’m not sure …’ He was clearly surprised to see me, waiting for me to explain myself.
I told him who I was. ‘Hawthorne let me stay here last night,’ I said. ‘We’re working together. I’m writing books about him.’
‘Yes. I know who you are. I read The Word is Murder. I enjoyed it very much, although I’m not sure you quite captured Daniel … at least, the Daniel I know.’
‘You’re his half-brother?’
Hawthorne had told me that his half-brother was an estate agent who had arranged for him to stay in the flat. It was a guess but an informed one and the man nodded. ‘You could say that.’
‘You haven’t told me your name.’
‘Haven’t I? How very remiss of me. It’s Roland.’
‘Roland Hawthorne?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ He placed the envelope on the table. I could tell that it was quite heavy. It might contain thirty or forty sheets of paper. ‘I’ll just leave this here. If you could say I called in …’
‘I’m sure he’d be sorry to miss you.’ I gestured at the kettle. ‘I was just making coffee. Won’t you join me?’
‘Well …’
I was on my way into the main kitchen area before he could stop me. I clicked the kettle on and spun round. ‘Milk?’
‘A drop, please. No sugar.’
He sat down reluctantly. I made the coffee as quickly as I could and brought it over to him. ‘So you’re an estate agent,’ I said, adding: ‘I heard you go past just now. You were with a client. Did you sell the flat?’
‘I’m not selling.’
‘Another caretaker, then?’ He looked at me blankly. ‘Hawthorne mentioned to me that he’s looking after this flat for a foreign owner.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Isn’t it true?’
‘He’s certainly helping us out.’
He was already regretting being here, I could tell. So I pressed on before he could make an excuse and leave. ‘So what estate agent do you work for, then?’
‘It’s not exactly an estate agency. We provide more of a creative and business development service.’ Why was he being so vague? ‘We facilitate things for our clients,’ he concluded unhelpfully.
Looking at the envelope and knowing as much as I did about Hawthorne, a thought occurred to me. ‘Does Hawthorne work for you?’ I asked.
It made sense. He had come to me to write the books because he needed the money. He had been kicked out by the police, so he had to have some way of earning a living, if only to support his less-than-lavish lifestyle. He was a private detective. The police were occasional clients. There had to be others.
‘He doesn’t work for me. No, no, no. I work full-time for the agency and he works for the agency occasionally and in this instance I’m just … sort of … the intermediary.’ He was visibly tying himself in knots as he tried to explain how he came to be here.
‘Is that a job?’ I went on, glancing at the brown envelope.
‘It is.’
‘Someone’s been killed?’
‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Nothing you’d want to put in one of your books. It’s actually quite pedestrian. An errant husband. Wife thinks he’s seeing someone else … which he might be, although quite what they’re doing in Grand Cayman—’ He broke off, realising he had already said too much. ‘I really ought to be going …’ he muttered.
‘When I asked you if you were his half-brother, you didn’t seem sure.’
‘Well, I know who he is. And I know who I am. But I’m trying to think. Half-brother is when one of your parents remarries, isn’t it? That never happened.’
‘You’re not blood relatives.’ They had no physical similarity.
‘That’s right.’
‘But you have the same surname?’ In his own way, Roland was as infuriating as Hawthorne. He didn’t want to tell me anything. The only difference was, he was unable to stop himself. ‘Are you adopted?’ I asked. It was the only possible explanation.
‘I’m not! Heavens, no!’ He let out a snuffle of laughter.
‘So he is?’
Roland was immediately serious again. ‘It’s quite private, you know. He doesn’t really like to talk about it.’