‘Hello, Anthony,’ she said. ‘I wonder if we could have a word?’

5

Daggers Drawn

I knew Detective Inspector Cara Grunshaw very well. When Hawthorne was investigating the murder of the Hampstead divorce lawyer Richard Pryce, she had been the officer in charge of the case and she hadn’t been amused when he arrived at the truth ahead of her. That wasn’t the worst of it. I had inadvertently given her false information that had led her to arrest the wrong man – much to Hawthorne’s amusement. He’d even suggested she might lose her job. Well, that clearly hadn’t happened. Here she was, waiting to come in, with her equally unfriendly assistant, Detective Constable Derek Mills, standing beside her, both of them gazing at me like hyenas who have stumbled across a fresh carcass. I knew I was in trouble even if I had no idea what that trouble might be.

‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, innocently.

‘We’d prefer to talk inside, if you don’t mind.’

‘Do I have to let you in?’

Cara exchanged a knowing glance with her deputy. ‘We could throw you in the car and take you down to the police station if you prefer,’ she said.

This might not have been true, but I decided not to argue. I’ve always had a fear of authority figures that goes back to my schooldays, and Cara somehow encapsulated the maths, French and history teachers who had terrified me when I was eight. She was a round, solid woman with an overbearing presence defined by muscular arms and broad shoulders that would have served her well in a scrum. She wore heavy plastic spectacles that seemed to be sinking into the bridge of her nose. In fact, her whole face had a soft, pliable quality as if she had been created out of playdough. Her eyes, popped in as a last-minute afterthought, were small and hostile. What I most remembered about her was her jet-black hair, which didn’t look real. The strands swept down on both sides like miniature curtains that had been pulled back to give a view of her face. She was wearing a well-tailored, dark olive suit and a roll-neck jersey. No jewellery.

She elbowed her way past me and into the entrance hall, followed by Mills, who could have concealed himself in her shadow. He was smaller and lighter than her, with thinning hair that he never bothered to brush. He was wearing the same leather jacket as the first time I’d met him, though with more food stains. He eyed me briefly as he came in, making sure that I had registered his complete contempt for me, for my home, for the entire neighbourhood.

‘Which floor?’ Cara asked.

‘I’m at the top,’ I said.

She looked at the stairs. ‘Do you have a lift?’

‘I’m afraid it’s out of order.’ This wasn’t true, but the lift was tiny and slow and I couldn’t bear to think of myself trapped inside it with the two of them.