‘Your parents adopted him.’
The two people in the photograph. The police constable and his formally dressed wife. It didn’t surprise me at all that Hawthorne had been adopted. It put everything I knew about him – right down to the Airfix models – in perspective. So why had he called Roland his half-brother? I suppose he didn’t want to give too much away.
‘That’s right. I don’t really think of him as an adoptive brother, though. I’d say we’re closer than that. He’s a marvellous man. We’ve known each other all our lives.’
‘What happened to his own parents?’ Roland was squirming, his coffee forgotten. I could see him eyeing the door, planning his escape. ‘I think Hawthorne mentioned they lived in Reeth?’ I was lying. Hawthorne had said nothing of the sort. I was fishing.
Roland took the bait. ‘In Yorkshire. Yes.’
‘And they died?’
‘If they hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have needed adopting.’
‘That’s true, of course. It was very sad.’
‘A terrible business.’
‘How did they die?’
It was one question too many and I’d asked it too directly. I saw his eyelids come down like shutters. ‘I really can’t talk about it.’ He got to his feet. ‘Actually, I’d best be off. A great pleasure to meet you, Anthony. Daniel’s told me a lot about you. Perhaps you can tell him I looked in.’
But there was no need. Just then the door opened and Hawthorne was there, looking suspiciously from Roland to me. Then he relaxed. ‘Roland!’ he said. He was more friendly as he greeted his adoptive brother.
‘Oh – hello, Daniel. Everything all right?’ He picked up the envelope. ‘Morton asked me to drop this in for you. The Barraclough file.’
Hawthorne took it. ‘You met Tony, then.’
‘Yes. He just introduced himself. I was rather surprised to find him here.’
‘He’s hiding from the police.’
‘Oh. That would explain it, then.’
‘You stopping for a coffee?’
‘Just had one, thanks all the same. Best be on my way!’ He turned to me. ‘I may pop in and see your play next week. Mindgame. It looks interesting.’
‘It may not be on,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Oh. That’s a shame. Well, goodbye!’
He left. Hawthorne and I were alone. ‘Who’s Morton?’ I asked, casually. Hawthorne didn’t reply. He wasn’t showing any emotion, but I thought he might be angry. ‘I didn’t let Roland in,’ I said. ‘He had a key.’
‘You been all right on your own?’
‘Yes. Thank you for the croissants. And the Coco Pops.’
He didn’t know how long Roland had been here. He didn’t know that we’d been talking about him. I’d left no trace of my visit to his study. I saw him glance at the kitchen table with the coffee cups and the newspaper spread open on the surface. He decided to let it go. ‘We should make a move,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘The Vaudeville Theatre.’
I’m not sure what it was about the way he said that, but suddenly I knew. ‘Have you worked out who killed Harriet Throsby?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘That’s right, mate. They’re waiting for us there.’
24
Back to the Vaudeville
Hawthorne didn’t speak to me as we crossed Blackfriars Bridge, the river glittering beneath us in the sunshine.
He hadn’t mentioned Roland and I was sensible enough not to ask him any more questions about his adoptive brother – or whatever Roland wanted to call himself. From the way he walked – his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead – he seemed to be in a hurry to reach our destination and put this whole business behind us. He obviously regretted ever having let me into his flat and knew that I had managed to get through some of his defences.
And what exactly had I learned? That he had been born in Reeth. His parents had died, presumably at the same time and so, I would imagine, in traumatic circumstances. A car crash? As a result, he had been adopted by a serving police officer. He was the classic private detective, working part-time for an agency possibly run by a man called Morton. The nature of the agency was still a mystery. It clearly had some sort of connection with River Court. It appeared that Hawthorne was not caretaking the flat as he had told me. He was there for another reason.
I would make sense of it all later. Right now I had other thoughts on my mind. Hawthorne had worked out the identity of Harriet’s killer! We were on our way to meet him （or her） at the Vaudeville Theatre. I tried to imagine who might be waiting for us in the foyer and pictured them, one at a time. Ahmet with one of his American cigarettes. Maureen in her fur wrap. Martin Longhurst, tall and twitchy. Then I remembered something Hawthorne had said to Roland just before we left. My play might have come off by the following week. Did that mean one of the cast members was about to be arrested? Or Ewan Lloyd, the director?