‘How come?’

‘You should know. You were right next to him!’ Jordan moved closer to me as if he was afraid of being overheard. ‘When Harriet came over to us at the party, Tirian was telling us about Tenet. Don’t you remember?’

‘He was saying it was no good.’

‘That’s right. He’s full of shit really, because he doesn’t know anything about anything, but he basically said the script was rubbish and the director – Christopher Nolan – didn’t know what he was talking about.’

‘And …?’

‘He didn’t see Harriet creeping up behind him and by the time he turned round, it was too late. She’d heard every word of what he said! When we went back to the theatre later on, Tirian and me, I could see he was shaking like a leaf. I asked what was wrong and he told me. He was terrified she was going to write about him and repeat what he’d said.’

‘In her review?’

‘No. She didn’t just write reviews. She had a diary column in the Evening Standard. She could have dropped it in there. Or she could have rung up Nolan’s office and done the dirty herself, maybe in return for an exclusive interview. She was a monster. I wouldn’t have put anything past her. And what do you think would have happened then? They’d have fired Tirian. He’d be one time-travelling secret agent who’d be heading right back to bit parts in TV. If they’d have him, that is. Nolan is Hollywood royalty. It could have been the end of him.’

‘You think Tirian killed Harriet to stop her talking?’

‘Look, I tried to persuade him not to worry. I said she had bigger fish to fry. And it’s true: he seemed all right down there in the green room, at least until we read the review. But I don’t know what was going on in his head. In fact, I never do. That’s half the trouble, working with him. Maybe he went round the next day and …’ Jordan mimed the rest of the sentence, the knife strike to the heart.

The dog whined.

‘I have to go in,’ I said.

‘All right.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, Anthony …’

‘I’m sorry too.’ I took his hand. ‘If by some miracle I do end up writing about you, I’ll change your name. And I can make you something else if you like. Korean or something.’

‘No. I’ll stay as I am.’

We shook. Jordan disappeared back across the park. I went home.

16

Frost and Longhurst

Hawthorne and I met the following morning at a busy crossroads near Holborn station. He was sitting at a coffee shop – an outside table – lighting up what was almost certainly not his first cigarette of the day. I’ve often mentioned Hawthorne’s smoking habit, and thinking about it, I’d say he was addicted not just to the cigarettes but to the very act of smoking itself, that he wasn’t complete without it and the fact that it was unhealthy and antisocial only made him more determined to continue. For all his undoubted brilliance, Hawthorne was a very solitary man. He was separated from his wife and his teenaged son. I hadn’t met any of his friends. Apart from Kevin downstairs and his rather eccentric book group, he had never mentioned having any. He lived on his own. It was as if he had recognised how few pleasures he had in his life, making him all the more determined to cling on to the few that remained. Murder and cigarettes. That about summed him up.