‘Yeah. In the end, he made one mistake – a bit like Al Capone and his tax returns. It would almost be funny except that it wasn’t. You see, he had to keep souvenirs. He couldn’t resist it. He was a subscriber to his own channel and the vice team managed to crack into a private account on one of his computers and they found a cache of about five hundred images. They arrested him a second time and brought him in for further questioning, and that was when he had his accident on the stairs. And it was an accident, Tony.’ Hawthorne jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘Never say otherwise.’

‘How many years did he spend in prison?’ I asked.

Hawthorne looked at me bleakly. ‘Not even one,’ he said. ‘That’s the law. If he’d been done for the manufacture or distribution of child pornography – I told you – that could have meant twenty years, which is what the bastard deserved. Unfortunately, all they could get him for was possession, which carries a maximum two-year sentence.’ He paused. ‘Because of his injuries, which put him in hospital, and the fact that his lawyers made a formal complaint about his treatment in custody, the judge did him a favour. He was given six months, which destroyed him and brought down every single one of his businesses – but it still wasn’t enough.’ Hawthorne rolled the cigarette between his thumb and finger. The smoke twisted away in the wind. ‘Not nearly enough.’

I thought for a moment before I spoke.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can understand your frustration. But I still don’t see what you hoped to gain by coming here.’

‘I didn’t plan to come here until we were invited,’ Hawthorne reminded me. ‘But then I heard he was here and I knew I had to see him.’

‘Why?’ Hawthorne didn’t answer, so I tried again. ‘You must have met lots of unpleasant men who’ve committed crimes that are just as bad. What’s so special about this one?’

But Hawthorne had said enough. He held up the cigarette and allowed the wind to snatch it out of his fingers. Then he turned on his heel and set off across the sand. I followed him, and without saying another word, we climbed back up to the waiting car.

11

Shades of Grey

Our driver’s full name was Terry Burgess. He was twenty-six years old, worked for his father’s taxi company and had spent most of his adult life ferrying passengers from the airport to Braye and back again, with occasional excursions to Fort Clonque or Gannet Rock. His clients were either tourists who ignored him or elderly residents who criticised his driving. On Saturday nights he picked up the occasional drunk and fined them £10 if they threw up in the back of his car.