THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE - PART 2

THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE

FRIDAY. 8:53 AM.

Donald was awake, but only just. Returning home from Bunny’s he had conducted a long and extensive search for alcohol, which only bore fruit around 4 AM, with the unearthing of a bottle of gin in the airing cupboard. This he had consumed with an air of unrestrained melancholy, until finally the bottle was empty, and sleep was the only other form of escape from his troubles. His bed for the night had been the ageing sofa in the living room, and consequently, hung over and with an aching back, he was in no position to drag himself the short distance to his bed.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang and it’s thin shrill echoed in his head. Trying to ignore it he studied the empty bottle on the coffee table; the same table on which he had proclaimed himself a new man only days before. The memory of that, along with his re-acquaintance with the booze filled him with shame, and if it hadn’t have been for the persistence of his visitor he would have no doubt wallowed in self-pity for the rest of the day.
He had decided it was the unstoppable Mrs Kelly and her pencil. She was like a malevolent spirit pervading his every living moment. Once, after a particularly heavy session of drinking, she had even visited him in his dreams. Dressed as a Wagnerian opera singer, complete with horn helmet and staff, she had stood on a cliff before the crashing waves roaring to him warnings of the demon drink. On waking he had found himself in the bath, fully clothed defending himself in song to the dismay of a rubber plant. Shuddering at the thought of it he deposited the empty bottle in the kitchen bin and made his way to the hall.
‘Will you leave me in peace you old dragon!’ he growled as he struggled with the locks. ‘Can’t a man sleep in his own dwelling?’
Opening the door Donald was confronted, not by an elderly woman, but by two elderly men, dressed impeccably in metal-grey Burberry suits and starched white collars; a total contrast to Donald who had slept in his.
‘Tits’ said the first man holding out a bottle of milk.
‘I’m sorry?’ replied Donald.
‘Blue or possibly great. They’ve pecked through your foil.’
‘It’s the cream,’ said the other.
‘What do you want?’ snapped Donald, snatching the bottle.
‘Let us introduce ourselves. I am Tindle.’
‘And I am Lott’
‘Our credentials,’ said Tindle, as they produced small identical wallets.
‘Are you police?’
‘Sort of,’ Tindle said with an officious smile. ‘May we come in?’
‘Has Randall sent you?’
‘May we come in Mr Hawksmoor?’ he repeated.
‘Look what’s it all about?’ Donald barked, suddenly remembering his altercation in the theatre the previous afternoon.
‘Two words Mr Hawksmoor,’ said Tindle, wryly. ‘Dorothy.’
‘Kite,’ said Lott, completing the sentence.
‘Oh! Why didn’t you say? Come in.’

Still feeling rather weak, Donald lay back on the sofa, guzzling the milk as if his life depended on it. Across from him the two men studied him closely. Tindle, cat like and serene, sat with his freckled backed hands resting on his knees, whilst Lott, the thicker set of the two, stood tracing the outline of his lips with an index finger.
Now inside Donald could see how tanned and lean they were. There was something rather unsettling about them. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but they put him on edge. Maybe he was something to do with Tindle’s right ear. Somehow, somewhere, the bottom quarter had been severed, leaving a jagged crescent. Staring at it for longer than he should Donald was startled when Tindle spoke again.
‘Now Mr Hawksmoor, I will ask you some questions and it is imperative that your answers are precise and accurate.’
‘I’ve no intention of lying if that’s what you’re insinuating!’
‘That is exactly what I was insinuating,’ he said, without a hint of humour. ‘So, now we will begin.’
‘Ask away,’ he said folding his arms. ‘I’m only sorry you people didn’t pull your finger out earlier.’
‘Quite,’ said Tindle. ‘Firstly, tell me who, apart from Inspector Randall and his colleagues, you have shared this information with.’
‘Well let me see. There’s Bunny, I told him last night . . .’
‘Bunny?’ asked Lott, who had moved to the window.
‘Marmaduke Nichols.’
‘Ah, yes. Mr Nichols,’ he said, relaxing and looking out onto the street.
‘Old friend of mine. Couldn’t tell you why he‘s called Bunny.’
‘Anyone else?’ said Tindle.
‘Well, apart from Lizzie Paillard, no-one.’
The two men briefly shared a glance before Tindle slowly rose to his feet.
‘And who is Lizzie . . .’
‘Paillard, another old friend. You see I contacted her because she was quite close to Dorothy; they worked together quite a lot. One could say they were inseparable. But I fear she thinks I’m mad like everyone else. Look is all this significant? I would have thought investigating that Kraner woman was more important.’
‘Mr Hawksmoor,’ snapped Tindle breaking his cool exterior. ‘Just answer my questions. Now tell me what information you wanted to give to Inspector Randall.’
‘It was something I remembered last night. There were other people in the room?’
‘I see,’ said Tindle, smiling once again.
‘May I use your phone?’ asked Lott.
‘I would have thought MI5 or 6, or whomsoever you chaps work for, would have at least kitted you out with mobile phones. You can’t fool me,’ said Donald tapping the side of his nose. ‘I know you’re not normal officers of the law.’
‘How very perceptive of you Mr Hawksmoor,’ he said as Lott picked up the receiver.
‘Good to have you on board,’ said Donald, leaning back on the sofa, a contented smile on his face.
‘Please go on Mr Hawksmoor?’
‘What? Oh, yes. Well, it all came back to me last night. It must have been that bang on the head, temporary memory loss and all that. But, after seeing Dorothy in the chair and then being knocked unconscious, I seem to remember coming round, very briefly you understand, I’m only talking about a few seconds. But I distinctly remember seeing other people in the room.’
‘How many people?’
‘Well, it’s difficult to say.’
‘Try,’ said Tindle, almost with a hiss.
‘Well,’ he said, suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable, ‘there was definitely a girl.’
‘Age?’
‘I would say late twenties. She had long hair. I only saw her very briefly.’
‘Go on,’ said Tindle as Lott put the receiver down and stood by his side.
‘And there was a man, a huge chap. And he was carrying a bundle or something.’
‘Age?’
‘Couldn’t say. Didn’t see his face.’
‘Was there anyone else?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Be more specific Mr Hawksmoor,’ said Lott placing a hand on Tindle’s shoulder.
‘Well, I think there was someone else, but I only saw a movement so I don’t know if they were male or female.’
‘Good,’ said Tindle leaning forward, his eyes blue and penetrating. ‘Now Mr Hawksmoor it is imperative that what has been said here this morning remains between us three. Do not contact Randall; it is now out of his hands. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘If and when you need to be contacted we know where to find you.’ They walked to the door where suddenly Tindle turned and stared at Donald. ‘One final question. Where would we find Lizzie Paillard now?’
‘Right now? I don’t have a clue. But this evening you’ll find her at the Duke of Lancaster Theatre. She’s appearing in a play there.’
‘The theatre Mr Lott,’ Tindle said, light heartedly.
‘A play, Mr Tindle.’
‘Delightful.’
‘Splendid.’
‘The greasepaint.’ Tindle said inhaling theatrically
‘The limelight.’
‘It should be fun, Mr Lott. After you.’
Donald shook his head and collapsed onto the sofa as the door closed and he was left, as he was found, creased and troubled.

Randall had treated himself to a long lunch in Regents Park. Stabbing at a bowl of olives he watched swans breaking the reflection of the Telecom tower into a hundred ripples. It was a pleasant late summer afternoon with the heady aroma of cut-grass hanging in the air. Outside the café, people clustered around cheap plastic tables, engrossed in conversation. Next to him a young family, laughing and talking in the sun, ate ice cream from a large carton. He smiled at the scene as he thought back to his youth when he, a proud young father, had brought his wife and daughter to exactly the same place. Then he thought about the days he had spent walking the park after Emily’s death. It had become almost a daily pilgrimage, a way of washing away the pain by connecting himself to the past. On one clear spring morning however, it had occurred to him there was nothing to connect too. That the past only existed in the minds of the living, and from that moment on his life had become something of a nightmare.
Bringing himself back to the present he looked across the lake and tried to visualise Donald as he made his way to St Johns Wood that night. His story was incredible, but try as he might Randall could not deny there was an element of fascination that was drawing him ever closer to it.

After lunch he re-traced Donald’s journey through St Johns Wood, and it wasn’t long before he was amongst the opulence of that particular part of the capital. Much sought after Regency and Stucco-fronted houses stood proud on every street giving Randall the sense he was somehow trespassing on this affluent part of the capital. Turning along Acacia road he stopped as, just ahead of him, an automatic security gate opened and a gleaming Mercedes appeared. Inside, chauffeur driven and adorned in gold, an elderly Greek woman looked up at him. She seemed nervous. As if Randall’s proximity to the car was a threat. Sensing this he smiled, only to see the car turn onto the road and speed towards the city. As the gates closed and the car turned towards Marylebone, Randall smiled and thanked his lowly position and limited wealth.
Eventually, he arrived at Melrose Crescent, where he stood and studied the beautifully maintained arc of houses. Melrose house was a large mansion block, three stories high with stone the colour of oatmeal. Across each floor ran a series of balconies separated by a thin stone ledge. Locating the Kraner flat, he traced the line across to the next. It was maybe twelve foot, possibly more, joined by a dark stain of ivy. Was it possible that an ageing actor saw the things he did? And if so why would an old woman go to the lengths of furnishing an entire flat and lying so convincingly. For some time, sitting on a small wall across from the building, he deliberated, until finally he shook his head and stood up. It was of course all nonsense. Kessler’s death and his escape from the drug raid had been a coincidence and Donald had fabricated the elaborate story to deflect the truth.
He was just turning to go when he saw a face at Kraner’s window staring down at him. For a moment he felt uneasy, but then relaxed as he realised Mrs K was probably feeling the same way. Quickly he turned to go, eager to avoid upsetting another elderly woman. But as he walked back towards the park he was unaware of another face appearing at the side of the first. Together they watched until he disappeared along the road, then they themselves faded into the shadows.

Mrs Kelly had spent the afternoon food shopping for Donald. She hadn’t seen him for a couple of days but knew him well enough to know his habits. In short, when the money ran out, the need for sleep and nourishment would bring him home. Producing a small pencil from her bag she reached up towards the buzzer. Before she could make contact, however, the door opened and Donald appeared, shaved, dressed and perfumed.
‘Good evening Judith,’ he said smiling down at her. ‘Now please give me that.’ Taking the pencil from her he snapped it in half.
‘What you playing at?’
‘Please except this with my compliments,’ he said opening his hand.
‘What is it?’
‘It is a key, Judith.’
‘I know that, but what’s it for?’
‘The front door my dear.’ Taking the shopping bags from her, he walked into the living room. ‘Now, what delights do we have here?’
‘But, Mr Hawksmoor I don’t understand,’ she said scurrying after him.
‘Well, if you are to be my house keeper once again, you will need access to the house that you keep.’ Putting the bags on the kitchen table, he opened a jar and sniffed noisily. ‘Homemade hollandaise sauce? You don’t mean?’
‘I do. I remember how partial you were to Eggs Benedict.’
‘And still am Judith. And still am! Now the kettle has just boiled . . .’
‘Well, why don’t you go and sit down and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’
‘Most kind,’ he said, walking into the lounge. Suddenly, the toilet flushed forcing Mrs Kelly to poke her head around the door.
‘I didn’t know you had visitors,’ she whispered. ‘Is it a female?’
‘Alas no,’ he said as the bathroom door opened and Bunny walked out.
‘Good evening Mrs Kelly,’ he said with his usual rosy-cheeked smile ‘Looking as lovely as ever.’
‘Ah, go on Mr Bunny you were always a one with the words.’
‘Mrs Kelly was just about to produce one of her culinary masterpieces in the shape of Eggs Benedict,’ announced Donald.
‘Count me in.’
‘Would it stretch to three Judith?’
‘It would, but I’ve already eaten. So I hope you two are hungry.’
‘Have you seen my hairbrush?’ he asked as she returned to the kitchen.
‘Your hairbrush? It was by the phone the last time I saw it. How did you get on with your agent?’
‘Well,’ said Donald glancing at Bunny, ‘as well as can be expected. It’s just a matter of time before they come knocking on the door.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely to hear, I’m so excited. Now you two relax and I’ll bring the tea through.

After the meal Donald and Bunny relaxed on the sofa as Mrs Kelly washed the pots.
‘So what’s the next step?’ asked Bunny.
‘They told me to do nothing, just wait to hear from them.’
‘So what’s it all about?’
‘I’ve thought about that long and hard. And do you know, I’ve no idea . . .’
Suddenly the phone rang and for a moment they were at a loss as they stared at one another.
‘Well, it won’t be for me,’ said Bunny getting up and taking the tea tray to the kitchen. ‘They’re you go old girl,’ he said, before seeing her at the table, tears in her eyes. ‘Now then, what’s all this?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’
‘Now you don’t cry for nothing,’ he said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, I worry about him.’
‘There’s no need to worry, he’s fine.’
‘Is he? Well why’s he drinking again?’ She took the lid off the bin to reveal the empty bottle of gin.
‘That’s probably an old bottle he’s found.’
‘Mr Bunny I cleaned this flat thoroughly two days ago and I threw out all the bottles there were.’
‘I see.’ She stood up and buried her head in his chest. ‘Mrs Kelly, we’re probably the only family he’s got now and we can’t give up on him. He’s been through an awful lot, don’t forget, and it has undoubtedly affected his health. It is imperative that we help him as much as we can. No matter what happens, we must stand by him.’
Just then they heard the receiver drop onto the cradle, prompting Mrs Kelly to wipe her eyes and walk to the sink.
‘Everything okay old boy?’ said Bunny as Donald appeared in the doorway.
‘That was Lizzie Paillard,’ he said, with a concerned look. ‘She says she needs to speak to me. Says it’s urgent. Most urgent.’

As Donald was crossing the road outside his flat he heard Bunny calling to him. He continued on pretending not to hear, until Bunny, unperturbed, appeared at his side. Back at the flat there had been a heated discussion on whether Bunny should go with him or not. Donald had decided not. He was thankful for his help but felt he had involved him enough. Bunny, however, had other ideas.
‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,’ said Donald turning on him.
‘Let me come with you Donny.’ He was out of breath and his face was redder than normal. ‘I do worry.’
‘You needn’t. Look, let’s make a deal. You want to keep an eye on me, fine. You move in with me.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. Go back to your place and get a few bits, I’ll go and see Lizzie and pick you up later. Deal?’
‘I’m not sure old boy.’
For a moment or two they fought their respective corners, until finally Donald strode off leaving Bunny stationary on the pavement. As he watched Donald walking through the crowds he was unaware of a silver car passing by, its occupants studying him closely.

Getting off the tube at Leicester Square Donald forced his way up through the suffocating mass of bodies until eventually he reached the warm evening air. Despite the heat, or because of it, fine rain was coating the city, forcing people, unprepared for summer showers, to hide beneath bags and newspapers.
He was glad he had talked Bunny out of coming. There was something in Lizzie’s voice that concerned him; and Bunny was concerned enough. Checking his watch he realised his time was short and so hurrying through the crowds he made his way to the theatre. For Lizzie had been explicit, get to the theatre without delay.

After an exhaustive search of the theatre bar, Randall had managed to find a table immediately behind one of the doors. Then standing on tiptoes he tried to catch the eye of the diminutive Zoë as she tunnelled through the dense crowd with their drinks.
‘Why do theatres with two thousand seats only have a bar that can hold a hundred?’ she said handing him a whisky.
‘A good question but one I have no intention of wasting my energy on. I’m giving my brain a night off.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘I only nodded off.’
‘Three times.’
‘You should have left me.’
‘If you hadn’t snored so loudly I might have.’
‘I didn’t rate old Macbeth.’
‘Quentin Wick? Yes, I know what you mean. All sound and fury . . . ’
‘Signifying nothing?’
‘Dad, sometimes you actually impress me.’
‘Darling, sometimes I impress myself,’ she said with a smile and then checked her watch. ‘I think we can safely say we won’t be seeing Andrew tonight.’
‘Can we go?’
‘No we can’t go, we’ve paid. Don’t worry, his day will come.’
‘Let’s just hope he’s not ill when it does. There’s a thought, who understudies the understudy?’
‘I wouldn’t like to think,’ she said.
Randall took a large mouthful of whisky and looked around the bar.
‘Lady Macbeth’s not bad though. What’s she called again?’ she said thumbing through the programme, but her father wasn’t listening. He had spotted a face entering the bar that he knew very well.
‘Well, I’ll be . . .’

Making his way through the crowd in the bar, Donald glanced over at the barman he had encountered the previous day. To his relief he saw that he was busy with interval drinkers - exactly as Lizzie had said. They both knew he wouldn’t have got past Mullins at the stage door so he had taken his chances and cut through the busy bar.
As he approached the end of the bar and the doorway that led up to the dressing rooms, he was amazed to see Lizzie in make-up and costume, rushing towards him. Even though she was heavily made-up he could see the look of absolute terror on her face. Reaching out to him she entered the bar and it was then that Donald saw the envelope in her hand. Breathlessly, she called out his name and ran to him.
‘Lizzie what is it?’
‘They’re . . .’
He could feel her chest pushing against his as she fought for breath, and so taking her by the shoulders; he tried to calm her down.
‘Lizzie, what is it?’
‘They’re-’
Suddenly, there was movement and a glint of metal from the doorway. And in that same moment Lizzie gave a gasp. He struggled to hold her as she slumped in his arms.
‘Lizzie!’
Suddenly the light in her eyes dimmed as she looked up to him. ‘Come,’ she whispered as if in a dream. ‘Come you spirits.’
Motionless she slipped through his grasp until Donald was aware of something forcing his hand down. Instinctively he grabbed it, and watched in horror as it pulled from her and she twisted onto the floor. It was then as he fell to his knees that he saw the knife in his blood soaked hand.
In that moment time seemed to slow and the shouting and screaming around him became deafening echoes in his head. People were pointing and crying out, and for a moment it was as if he was part of the crowd watching himself, trying to understand how it had all happened. Reaching out and touching her cheek, he suddenly saw blood seeping through her hair. A chilling contrast of dark red and golden-blonde. He knew she was dead, and knew from the staring faces all around what terrible conclusion they had all made. A sudden sense of hatred for everyone and everything suddenly sprang deep within him and brought him to his feet.
‘Don’t come near me,’ he screamed, his eyes filling with tears.
‘It’s okay Donald,’ said Randall appearing through the crowd.
‘Keep away from me,’ he shouted, lashing out with the blade.
‘Just give me the knife.’
‘I said keep away from me!’
Stepping back towards the crowd Randall watched him closely. Like Macbeth himself he was cornered and wild. Saliva ran from his mouth and in some way he had changed physically. From a man to a beast, and for the first time in his career Randall was astonished at the speed of the transformation.
Almost unconsciously Donald was moving back towards the doorway, as he studied the pack of onlookers. Then, as he was about to run through the doorway he noticed something lying by Lizzie’s body. It was the envelope that she had carried into the bar. Without hesitation he rushed forward and scooped it up with his free hand, but as he did he saw the barman rushing from the crowd. Donald held out the knife but before he could do a thing Randall tripped the man onto the floor. He had seen enough bloodshed for one day.
‘Now don’t move!’ Randall shouted to the man, before moving slowly towards Donald. ‘Look it’s me, Randall. Give me the knife. Just give me the knife.’
Without warning Donald suddenly lashed out again knocking Randall crashing to the floor, then with the envelope clutched in his hand he rushed through the door, leaving the chaos behind.

With the sound of his heart pounding in his ears he ran until he found himself in the heart of the ageing theatre. Lost within a system of narrow corridors, darkened with age, he stopped to catch his breath. From every part of the building he could hear noise. Shouting, screaming, confusion. Like a child in the dark he listened, frightened and alone.
Suddenly, the thumping of feet on the floor above passed over him and carried down the passageway. Pushing himself from the wall, where he had stopped to catch his breath he moved off. The further he travelled the older the building seemed to become. It was almost as if the theatre, sensing his fear, was taking him back to a safer time, allowing him, in some supernatural way, to escape this nightmare and start again. But, suddenly, he was brought back to the present day when he heard Randall’s voice. At first he couldn’t understand where it was coming from. Then as he arrived at a stairwell he understood it all. Tentatively stepping forward, he peered down. On the ground floor he could see Mullins standing guard at the stage door. Randall was ahead of him giving orders to half a dozen or so police officers that having just arrived at the scene were still wet from the rain.
There seemed no hope; it was a bad situation now intensified by people as they entered the stairwell above. Without hesitation he hurried down to the next level to find a doorway to the left. Entering it he was suddenly confronted with a part of his life, long forgotten.
Along a corridor, maybe twenty or thirty metres long, there was a series of photographs of past productions. On the opposite side, amongst a row of miniature set designs, Donald could see a door. A door he hadn’t set eyes on for over thirty twenty years. Hurrying forward past photographs of himself as Shylock and Faust he opened the door and stared within.
Theatre props of every description adorned the huge room and despite his predicament Donald gazed at the surreal exhibit. Peculiar items filled every space. Grandfather clocks, tigers, a huge plastic beanstalk, rows of gaudy oriental lanterns, an enormous smiling sun; it was a bizarre museum for objects the real world no longer needed, or ever would.
Suddenly, there were voices out in the stairwell again sending Donald scurrying forward. No sooner had he dipped beneath the shadow of a dragon’s head than the door opened and two men walked in.
‘This is props,’ said the stage manager.
‘Is this light always on?’ said Randall.
‘Most of the time.’
Slowly, Randall entered the room. ‘Find out if Detective Hodges has arrived yet, and make sure nobody in that bar leaves without my officers speaking to them.’
As the man ran out Randall stopped in the centre of the room. Now there was silence. Donald was aware of a faint wheeze in his breathing and fought to keep it under control. He was squatting in the shadows, and could almost hear Randall’s thoughts. Just in front of him, maybe three or four metres away, he could see a very large rocking horse, and through it’s open rockers, a passageway leading to a door. He was preparing to move towards it when he heard Randall moving forward again. Forcing himself down onto the floor he saw, for the first time since the bar, the envelope in his bloodied hand. Holding it tightly he crawled towards the horse, but then watched in horror as Randall appeared just ahead of him. He was only a matter of feet away, yet incredibly he couldn’t see him. Instead Randall seemed to be studying the door at he end of the passageway. Then, to Donald’s dismay, he turned and stepped towards him. Tensing every sinew Donald was preparing for the worst, when, suddenly, there were footsteps at the door.
‘Inspector!’ said a voice.
Randall turned to see the stage manager with a police sergeant.
‘Where does that door lead to?’ said Randall, pointing down the passageway.
‘I don’t know it’s been locked for years.’
‘Okay,’ he said looking round the room finally. ‘Are you fully briefed sergeant?’
‘One fatality?’
‘Yes, and one dangerous man unaccounted for. I want this place surrounded and searched; there’s a good chance he’s still in here. But if he has got out he won’t have got far so have your men searching pubs, cafes, restaurants and whatever else. Let’s move quick on this one.’
Once he was sure they had gone, Donald crawled beneath the moth eaten horse and entered the passageway. Fixing his eyes on the door, he hoped against hope that luck was with him. Moving forward into the shadows he tapped the wall to the right of the door. There, quicker than he had dared hope, he found it. A loose brick. It was lower down that he remembered but giving it a gentle tug, it came out in an instant. Scraping through the dust he discovered a large silver key. He was preparing to place it in the lock when he heard footsteps at the door. Looking back into the room he listened as they entered.
He had been in this situation before. Years past he and his fellow actors had escaped through that very door a hundred times as they made their way to a special little pub, not very far away. A hostelry he had visited only a few days before, in fact. As the lock clicked open, Donald pushed at the handle and hurriedly stepped out into the rain. Quietly closing the door he took in huge breath of damp air. He was out. He smiled and took a step forward, then, to his utter astonishment, hurtled into the darkness below.

As Randall entered the narrow passageway of dressing rooms he saw his son-in-law in full make-up.
‘Elliot, is it true?’ said the young man.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Are all the cast here?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Do me a favour keep them all together. Until I get my people down here I need all the help I can get.’
‘How’s Zoë?’
‘Don’t worry about her, she’s fine. Now, don’t let anyone out of your sight.’
‘Inspector, Detective Hodges has just arrived,’ said the Stage Manager, appearing at his side. ‘He’s in the bar.’
‘Typical,’ said Randall, before turning to his son-in-law again. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

When he entered the theatre bar Randall saw a very different scene from the one he had left. Upturned tables and chairs littered the floor and, apart from Hodges and the shrouded body of Lizzie Paillard, it was now deserted.
‘I came as soon as I heard?’
‘Glad you’re here. The place is sealed off and there’s back up on the way.’
‘Hawksmoor did this?’
‘Yes, just as well I’m retiring, eh?’
‘It makes no sense, though.’
‘Crimes of passion rarely do,’ he muttered and then blew out a mouthful of air. ‘If that’s what this is. Look, I’ve sent a car round to the agent’s house but according to a neighbour she’s out. As soon as she gets back I’ll need a list of friends he might go to for help. Oh, and I’ve put a watch on Kraner’s.’
‘Kraner’s?’
‘Well, if he does this to a friend, imagine what he might do to someone who called him a liar.’
‘Yes, see your point.’
‘What about his flat?’
‘That’s already been taken care of.’ .
‘She was in the show I believe?’ said Hodges, looking down at the blood soaked blanket.
‘Was, being the operative word’
‘Bit of a break for your son-in-law, though.’
‘No, Hodges, he only understudies the male parts.’
‘Right,’ he said awkwardly. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Well, after our conversation yesterday, look into the case of the Phantom killer of SW15.’
At that moment the Stage manager reappeared. ‘Inspector the audience is getting a little restless. I need to make some sort of announcement.’
‘Fine, tell them the performance has been cancelled.’
‘There’ll be a riot.’
‘Then tell them why it’s been cancelled. And I want them all to leave by the front entrance. If he’s going to make his escape he’ll probably do it in the crowd. Oh, and you can tell the cast and crew they’ll be going nowhere until they’ve left a statement.’
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the doorway. Quinton Wick, a huge man in a long silver dressing gown, had forced his way past a young officer and was striding into the bar.
‘Who is in charge here?’ he bellowed still in full make-up.
‘I am,’ said Randall, suddenly aware that he was staring at an alarmingly large false nose.
‘Well, could you tell me what in gods heaven is going on?’
Suddenly, he gasped as he saw the body at Randall’s feet.
‘I’m sorry to inform you that Ms Paillard has been murdered.’
Wick fell to his knees and placed his head in his hands. ‘Oh, sweet lord no.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Slowly he stood and wiped a tear from his eye. ‘How did this happen?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty disclose any information at the moment.’
‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, I understand. But what about the play?’ he said massaging his abnormally large eyebrows.
‘What about it? Your leading lady’s just been murdered.’
‘The show must go on, sir!’
‘Sorry, I disagree. The play will be cancelled, an announcement is about to be made.’
‘You have no authority.’
‘On the contrary, I have every authority. A serious crime has been committed and an investigation is underway, now if you’ll excuse me.’ For a moment Wick was speechless. Nobody had spoken to him like that before and Randall could see the fury in his eyes. ‘Was there anything else?’
Macbeth hissed as he threw up his arms and exited bar left.

It took over an hour for the audience to filter out, but when it had, and Randall was convinced that Donald was no longer in the theatre, he returned to the bar to find pathologist Evelyn Slater studying Lizzie’s corpse.
‘I expect this is quite a unique situation even for you Elliot,’ he said without looking up. ‘The Investigating officer being at the scene of the crime before it’s committed.’
‘Well,’ said Randall, scratching his brow, ‘at least I don’t have to sit through the second act.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought this was a time for levity!’ snapped Tomblin suddenly appearing behind them. He was dressed in a dinner suit and it was obvious from his manner he had consumed alcohol.
‘Sir . . .’
‘Save your breath, Elliot. I’ve heard the news. A man you released only yesterday has killed a woman, and despite the fact that there were over fifty witnesses he manages to get away. Bloody marvellous!’
‘He had a knife.’
‘He had a knife? He had a knife! What sort of excuse is that? Didn’t you follow him?’
‘Yes, I lost him.’
‘You lost him? You’re both pensioners. You could have least kept up with him. Now, listen here. I want him caught and I want him caught soon.’
There was an awkward silence before he turned and stormed out of the bar.
‘Inspector.’ Randall turned to see the Stage manager at the opposite doorway. ‘The cast and crew are getting a little agitated.’
‘I’ll see them now. Get a couple of plain clothes Hodges and meet me back stage.’

It was almost midnight when Randall requested Wick’s presence. One of the dressing rooms had been converted into a temporary interview room. To Randall’s eyes it was not dissimilar to a police cell. Painted brick, a sickly depressing grey, blemished by decades of make-up and scrawled phone numbers, surrounded him like a cloud. The parallel was astonishing. It contradicted every belief he had held about the theatre. He had expected flowers and champagne, ornate screens and elaborate costumes. Instead there was a table, a plastic chair and a long mirror surrounded, mostly, by bright light bulbs..
‘Inspector I feel I must apologise for my earlier outburst,’ said Quinn appearing like procession at the door.
‘Think nothing of it; take a seat. We all react differently in times of crisis.’
Wick sat like some gigantic ape, legs apart, his huge chest thrusting into the tiny room.
‘This is a ghastly affair. Tell me, is it true in what they say. Donald Hawksmoor is responsible for this.’
‘Certainly looks like it.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me, never liked the man.’
‘Did Lizzie ever mention him?’
‘Well, that’s the oddest thing. She was talking about him only yesterday.’
‘About what exactly?’
‘That she’d seen him.’
‘When?’
‘This week. He’d turned up out of the blue and wanted to talk to her?’
‘And . . .?
‘Well, that’s it. But if you ask me he spooked the old girl. She became rather distant towards the end. In fact on Thursday she dried during the Banquo scene?’
‘The what?’
‘The Banquo scene, the play?’
‘Oh, Macbeth?’
‘Sir!’ he bellowed, jumping to his feet. ‘Do not utter that word in the presence of an actor! It can bring terrible bad luck to a play.’
‘I think it’s a little late to be worrying about that.’
‘There is no call for flippancy, sir! Please do not say it again.’
‘Sorry, it has been a rather long day. Please sit down. Now, did Lizzie say anything else about Hawksmoor?’
‘Nothing springs to mind.’ His demeanour had now changed considerably.
‘Well, thank you for your patience; you may go.’
‘Not before time,’ he said, before turning with a smile. ‘I once played Sherlock Holmes, you know?’
‘Really?’ said Randall, not knowing quite what to say.
‘I believe you are the father-in-law of my young understudy.’
‘That’s right.’
‘He won’t get a chance I’m afraid. I haven’t missed a performance in thirty years. Which is just as well, he is rather poor.’
On that he walked out and closed the door. Randall muttered something under his breath as the door opened again and Hodges appeared.
‘Just got a call from the plain clothes at Kraner’s. They can’t get a reply.’
‘She’s probably catching up on her beauty sleep. Nip down there and make sure everything’s all right. We’ve nearly finished here.’
‘Right. I’ve just interviewed the barman and according to him Hawksmoor met Paillard in here yesterday.’
‘Yes, I’ve just heard. What else did he say?’
‘He said there was an argument, Hawksmoor got violent and the barman threw him out.’
‘I see.’
Suddenly, Randall caught a reflection of himself in one of the large mirrors. He looked old, almost a double of his father at the same age. He sighed.
‘It must have been a big falling out if he decided to come back here to finish her off?’ Randall said nothing as stared across the room. ‘Sir?’
‘Yes,’ he said looking back to him. ‘It makes no sense I’ll grant you that. Okay, get round to Kraner’s and keep in touch.’

Bunny was in the bedroom packing his case for his stay with Donald when he heard a noise downstairs.
‘Hello?’ he said walking out onto the landing. ‘Is that you Donny?’
He peered down over the banister only to find the front door ajar and the wind tugging at its frame. Slowly he walked down. Outside the wind was swirling around the drive, throwing rain against the doors and windows, forcing Bunny to shield his eyes with his free hand.
‘Donny?’
Something was wrong; he could sense it. Closing the door he reached into the hat stand and pulled out an old bamboo walking stick and slowly approached the living room.
‘Donny is that you?’
Again there was no reply, but as he reached the door he seemed to sense a presence. A dark force that had entered the house and was watching him from the shadows. For the first time in a long time, Bunny Nichols was afraid.

Water dripping from a broken drainpipe dropped onto Donald’s left temple until he finally woke with a start. Half expecting the intense pain normally associated with falls he closed his eyes and waited. But to his amazement nothing happened. It wasn’t until he sat himself up, however, that he fully understood why.
He had fallen into a skip of kitchen waste maybe a metre or so deep. And it was that mass of cabbage leaves, rotten tomatoes and whatever else that lay beneath him that had probably saved his life. Above him a single platform and three rusted metal struts protruding from the wall, were all that remained of a staircase he had once used decades ago.
Locating the envelope he popped his head up and looked out of the skip. It was badly timed, for as he did a door opened and a man threw a bucket of waste at him. Hiding in the shadows, he waited for him to go and then jumped out onto the cobbled alleyway.
At either end were two busy streets, and for a moment he was unsure which way to turn. Then he saw a flash of light far off to his left. Rushing into the doorway opposite he peered along the alleyway. Someone with a torch was moving along the alleyway towards him. For a moment he seemed lost, unsure what to do. Then he heard the growling of a dog. It was time to move on.
Opening the door behind him he stepped inside. Thankfully there was no sign of the man with the bucket. In fact, there was no one at all. Instead the room was filled with washing machines and tumble dryers, pumping out a thin mist of condensation into the room. The heat was incredible, as was the smell of detergent.
Stepping inside Donald peered through a small doorway on the opposite side. There he could see a narrow staircase from which carried the sounds and smells of a busy restaurant on the next floor.
Suddenly, he heard a dog barking in the alleyway. He had to move quickly. Taking off his soiled jacket and throwing it into one of the machines he rushed to a row of grey lockers near the door and took out an apron. His shirt, although damp in places, was remarkably clean considering his ordeal. So washing the blood off his hands he wiped the various stains from his trousers and walked to the staircase. Just as he did, however, the door leading to the alleyway, suddenly opened.
‘Bloody shit!’ said a bald middle-eastern gentleman, taking off a tattered raincoat. ‘This weather is very bad, yes? Ah, you are new!’
‘Yes,’ said Donald not missing a beat.
‘Agency?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you with an agency?’
‘Oh, I see. Yes.’
‘Crap money, but always there is work. Yes?’
‘Quite.’
‘Did you see all the police?’
‘Yes,’ he said with a shiver.
‘They’re everywhere. I even saw one with a dog just now. He’s taking quite a risk bringing a dog near these kitchens, yes?’ He laughed loudly revealing long yellow teeth. ‘You are rather European in appearance, if you don’t mind me saying. But no matter, a waiter is a waiter, is it not? Have you seen the boss?’
‘No.’
‘I will take you to the boss.’
As they climbed the staircase Donald was overwhelmed by a heady mixture of warmth, scents and spices. Reaching the top he saw a North African styled restaurant where gold glittered from every angle and hand carved figures stared unnervingly from shelves above busy tables.
‘Wait here,’ said the man. ‘I will find the boss.’
Donald waited until he was out of sight, before walking into the next room. On one side there was row of small windows. Donald peered out to see patrol cars and numerous beat officers questioning passers by. Moving on into another part he saw the main entrance at the bottom of a short flight of stairs.
‘Waiter!’ grunted a large Moroccan surrounded by three or four young woman.
Donald glanced at him briefly, before looking out of the window again.
‘Ay, you! Are you deaf, you imbecile?’
It was at that point that Donald realised that it was he who was being addressed.
‘Terribly sorry,’ he said moving towards the stairs. ‘Just finished for the night.’
The man looked amazed, but not half as amazed as Donald did when the door opened and two police officers walked in. Turning on his heels he walked over to the Moroccan and bowed gracefully.
‘Sorry, just my little joke.’ The accent was far from perfect; the only Arab he had ever played was Aladdin. ‘Now what can I get you?’
‘Our coats, you ass!’
‘Certainly,’ he said watching the officers over his shoulder. ‘Now where did you put them again?’
‘We didn’t you fool, your boss, the one I will be asking for if you don’t hurry, put them in the cloakroom.’
‘A thousand apologies,’ he said as the girls giggled. ‘I am new. Where is that?’
‘Over by the stairs you dim-wit!’
‘Of course, so sorry I’ll get them right away.’
As he turned and walked to the stairs he suddenly found himself face to face with the two officers.
‘Where’s your boss?’
Donald jaw was so rigid with fear he could barely move it.
‘Don’t you understand English? Where is your boss? Your chief, your numero uno, your big cheese?’
‘Ah,’ he said smiling nervously and pointing into the restaurant.
‘Thank you very much.’
’Thank you,’ Donald muttered, as he picked up a coat and walked out into the night.

Randall had been pondering Donald’s next move when the call came from Hodges. Maybe he should have expected it, but it came as a shock nevertheless. Turning into Melrose Crescent he had the familiar mixture of excitement and disgust, that never seemed to weaken.
Reaching the first floor he saw Hodges at the end of the corridor.
‘I was too late,’ said the young detective.
‘My fault, not yours. You okay?
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Where’s Slater?’
‘Should be here soon.’
‘Okay.’
Randall went inside and prepared for something that never got any easier. At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary and, presuming she must have been in one of the other rooms, he made his way towards the bedroom. Suddenly, he flinched as he reached the sofa and saw the blood stained corpse of Linda Kraner. Her left leg was draped over the left arm of the chair, whilst her head was tilted unnaturally to the right. Looking closer he saw that her tongue had been severed, leaving a small reservoir of blood in the sack of her cheek. In the centre of her chest the blood was so thick and dark it penetrated everything before it. The fibres of her thick cardigan had absorbed much of the flow, but still a single bead had found it’s own way down the inside of her thigh, until it had formed a red pool beneath the sofa.
Randall inhaled and placed a hand over his mouth to suppress the sickly sensation building in his throat. He looked away and took a few seconds before he began searching the rest of the flat. After a minute or so the door opened and Hodges came in.
‘Any news?’ said Randall appearing from the kitchen.
‘I’ve just spoken to Patricia Shaw. She’d been at the theatre.’
‘Not Macbeth I take it? What did you tell her?’
‘Not a lot. Just that we needed some information about Hawksmoor. She gave me a list of names. I’ve got in touch with most of them and sent cars round.’
‘Did she mention any friends in particular?’
‘One.’
‘Only one?’
‘Well, two, but he’s killed one of them.’
‘I see. Who’s the other?’
‘Another actor by the name of Nichols, Marmaduke Nichols; known to his friends as Bunny. He’s one of the few I couldn’t get in touch with.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Hampstead.’
‘Well, I suggest you get yourself round there.’
‘But surely he wouldn’t be as stupid as to. . .’
‘Hodges, I don’t know what he’s going to do. Just get over there and keep me informed.’
Suddenly, the door opened and in walked Evelyn Slater.
‘Oh dear,’ he said without a hint of emotion.
‘Quite,’ said Randall. ‘Now even with my limited knowledge I know this must have happened before Lizzie Paillard.’
‘So you think it’s our theatrical friend again?’
‘I’d be a fool to think any other way.’
‘Well,’ he said putting on a pair of white latex gloves, ‘judging by the coagulating of the blood I would say you’re right, even with your limited knowledge. She died well before Lady Macbeth met her end. Any sign of the tongue?’
‘None.’
‘Funny looking woman.’
Randall rolled his eyes. ‘How was she killed?’
He moved the clotted blouse to one side and looked closely at her blood stained chest. ‘Did he ever play a surgeon?’
‘God knows, why?’
‘Because if you ask most people to locate their heart, they’ll be a least a couple of inches out; but our acting friend hasn’t got one bull’s eye, he’s got five.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Randall leaning forwards. ‘What sort of weapon?’
‘A thin blade, small and sharp. It would have to be to take out the tongue.’
‘And what about these marks on her wrists?’
‘He must have held her down.’
‘How could he hold her down and cut her tongue out?’
‘Good point,’ he said making a closer inspection. ‘It’s possible she may have passed out as he was holding her down. Then he had all the time in the world to work on the mouth.’
Randall shook his head and walked to the balcony doors. They were locked and there seemed to be no sign of a key. Wiping away a line of condensation he could see the rain had eased.
‘Why the tongue?’ asked Slater.
‘Not sure. I brought him here yesterday to verify his claim that he’d been in this flat. She denied ever seeing him and he said she was lying.’
‘And was she?’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t care.’
‘And you think because you brought them together you’re responsible?’
‘No, I think it would have been a lot better if this had all happened next month.’
‘Quite,’ said Slater with a smile. ‘But at least you won’t be bored during your last few weeks.’

Donald had taken quite a risk getting a tube, but he knew he had to get away from the centre of the city quickly. By now it would be teeming with police as the news of Lizzie’s death broke across the ever-hungry media. As he hurried hidden beneath the collar of the coat he had taken from the restaurant he was aware of every passer-by and every window. Even vehicles, moving or otherwise, seemed to hold some sort of terrifying presence. In his frantic state no-one was above suspicion, everyone seemed against him. On at least three occasions he was even convinced that he had seen Randall, despite his age, sprinting close behind him. It was then, in his mind, nothing short of a miracle that he had made it as far as he had.
Following a route across the common he had travelled many times, he arrived at a small copse that encircled Bunny’s house.
Suddenly, he was struck with fear. What if this was a trap? Maybe that was the reason he had got so far? Could it be that Randall was biding his time; waiting for him to show up at the obvious ports of call? Despite all of this he knew without some sort of help he was lost. Bunny was his only hope. And if he ever needed his friend, he needed him now.
Apart from a dim light in the living room the house was in darkness. Realising Bunny may have already gone to his flat he emerged from the shadows and rushed across the lawn. Stopping next to the patio doors he peered inside. There he could make out Bunny’s shape from the glow of the hearth.
Donald tapped at the glass and waited for him to stir. He didn’t.
Then he noticed the outline of a bottle on a table next to the chair. Cursing his friend he rattled the doors, but still he provoked no response. Trying the back door and finding it unlocked he went inside and made his way through to the hall.
From a strip of windows on the staircase the orange glow of streetlights penetrated the darkness and lit a collection of animal heads on the opposite wall. Glowing eyes, alive again for the moment, watched as he emerged from the doorway. Almost sensing their presence he stared up at their fixed lifeless expressions. Instantly he thought of Lizzie. Death was in the air.
‘Bunny,’ he called out in a hush tone. But still there was no response. Moving forward towards the living room door he peered into the darkness. ‘Bunny.’
Nothing. Moving slowly towards him Donald knelt down and touched his arm.
‘For gods sake man.’ Suddenly, he stopped as he heard a noise, a tapping noise from beneath the chair. Reaching across to a lamp he turned it on and then fell back onto the floor. ‘No!’
Bunny, with his head facing Donald, had a small knife protruding from his right eye socket. Dark matted blood had caked the left side of his body like the walls of a dying river. But the only remnants of that life giving flow now was a trickle dripping into a widening pool on the floor.
Donald wanted to vomit but before he could yield to it he heard footsteps on the gravel driveway. Stumbling to his feet he rushed to the patio doors and struggled with the bolts. Snapping back the final one he pulled at the handle and disappeared into the darkness at the end of the lawn.

SATURDAY. 7:10 AM.

DC Hodges was in the shower when the bell rang. Wearing only a pair of trousers he opened the door to find Chief Superintendent Tomblin putting out a cigarette on his doorstep.
‘Good morning Hodges,’ he said walking into the house.
Following into the living room, Hodges did all he could to appear composed before a man of Tomblin’s rank, despite being half naked and still wet.
‘Is everything alright, sir?’
‘Well, let me see. In the last twelve hours an ageing madman has gone on a killing spree, sending panic and fear through the fair city of London like water through a sieve. And if that wasn’t enough, it now transpires that Hawksmoor was taken to Kraner’s flat by my officers the day before he killed her.’ Turning on the TV and sitting down, he began to flick through the channels. ‘Not what you might call an ideal situation?’
Hodges shuffled awkwardly. ‘Could I get you a coffee?’
‘No. But you could get dressed.’
When he was clothed and feeling a little more at ease, Hodges returned to the living room to find Tomblin watching the morning news. Overnight the researchers had been busy. Like a tribute, compilations of clips from Donald’s, Lizzie’s and Bunny’s film and TV careers segued into one another like some epic BAFTA tribute, until finally a photograph of Linda Kraner broke the smooth transition. It was only when a reporter read out the latest press release that Tomblin turned the television off and stood up to face him.
‘You found Kraner I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bad business’ he said nodding melodramatically. ‘Would you have thought Hawksmoor was capable of this?’
‘To be honest, no. But, supposedly normal people keep us busy everyday.’
‘Yes,’ he said with a broad smile that disappeared when he spoke again. ‘What would you have done with Hawksmoor?’
‘Me?’
‘Would you have done anything different?’
‘Different from what Inspector Randall did? No. Hawksmoor was odd, I’ll give you that, but I wouldn’t have thought he would have been capable of this. Has there been any news, sir?’
‘News?’
‘About Hawksmoor.’
‘None.’ Rubbing his shiny scalp as if it were a ornament of some sort he walked over to a rack of CDs by the television. ‘Never took you to be a jazz fan, Hodges?’
‘Yes, I like jazz.’
‘Well, there we have something in common.’ Sitting down again he signalled Hodges to do the same before folding his arms, like a doctor preparing to give some unpleasant news. ‘How have you been getting along with Inspector Randall?’
‘Fine. He’s a decent bloke.’
‘Yes, he is a decent bloke, isn’t he? Very popular, a man of the people. Tell me, does he share his thoughts with you?’
‘I don’t follow, sir?
‘What I mean to say is, not every hunch and opinion an officer has is necessarily put into a report. And with that in mind, and you spending so much time with the Inspector, it occurred to me that if he had anything to discuss, he’d probably discuss it with you.’
‘Right. Sir . . .’
‘Why all the questions?’
‘Well, yes.’
Tomblin paused, as he looked over at the CDs. ‘Do you know what Einstein said about jazz Detective?’ Hodges didn’t, but he had a feeling that was about to change. ‘He said that if one does not appreciate jazz, one will never appreciate life. Do you know what he meant by that Hodges?’
Hodges gave him a baffled stare.
‘He was talking about discord and harmony. And as police officers we should appreciate that more than most. There will always be discord, but it is our responsibility to find harmony as soon as possible.’ He stood once again. ‘I want you, Hodges; to communicate with me anything Randall is holding back. Everything he suspects and everything he finds. Report it directly to me.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s a simple enough request. I like fast results Hodges; and I like harmony. Now, that’s an order and unless you would rather direct traffic I suggest you do as I say. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?’
Hodges shook his head, despite what he had discovered about Melrose House.
‘Okay, one final thing, this conversation did not take place. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. What time are you in?’
‘Soon.’
‘Right, well, you might pull your finger out. There’s a killer on the loose.’

When Donald woke up there was a cucumber in his mouth. Spitting it out he scrambled onto his knees and attempted to get his bearings. It didn’t take him long to realise where he was, and how he’d got there.
Cucumbers and tomato plants grew high through the broken panes of a dilapidated greenhouse. He had found the shelter by chance. A numbing combination of fear and cold had sent him drifting blindly through the darkness until he had staggered into the grounds of an abandoned house. After unsuccessfully attempting to get into the main building he had decided that a hot house, even one with broken panes, was a better choice than a night on the rain sodden common.
With the fruits hanging temptingly about his head, he had dreamt he was bathing in the hot sun, nibbling exotic fruits from the hand of a beautiful young maiden. Waking to the sight and taste of an over-ripe cucumber had been more than a shock to the system, as were the recollections of the previous night now flooding his mind. The sight of Bunny’s face was prominent in all his thoughts and as he crawled to the door he was sure that it would remain so for some time.
The clouds that had released a deluge on the city the previous night were now gone, and instead a rich blue sky stretched unopposed to the horizon. Shaking uncontrollably he wiped away a jagged line of condensation from the glass and stared at the deserted grounds. For a moment he thought he was dreaming. It was as if he was looking out across a field of ice. Breathing into his hands and then rubbing his eyes he looked again. Then he understood. A vast network of silvery webs had been revealed by the dew and hung suspended in the morning air. It seemed an enchanted place. Then he saw the house and its boarded windows, forcing him to wonder what misfortune had befallen its proprietor.

In time, with Donald foetus-like beneath the plants, the sun arrived at the greenhouse. Instantly the temperature grew and slowly Donald came back to life. He hadn’t slept. Merely watched as the sunlight crept towards him like a wave. Its brightness, reviving and energizing. Now he was aware of the harvest around him, and aware that nourishment in any form is a necessity for a desperate man.
Gorging on bunches of underfed tomatoes he sat motionless pondering his future. Why had he been chosen from the masses to witness such terrible injustice? Which way should he turn now? Maybe enough was enough and it was time for him to give himself up? But that thought brought Randall into the equation; the man who had witnessed his supposed murder of Lizzie. There was one other consideration as well. After the death of his friends, surely the real killers would now be focusing their efforts on finding him. No, he had to go to the police and explain everything; now they would have to listen to him. Perhaps Tindle and Lott had already showed their hand, and maybe now he would be safe.
Forcing himself to his feet he saw something fall from his overcoat pocket. It was the envelope that Lizzie had given him. He had pushed it into his pocket at some point and forgotten all about it. He picked it up and tore it open. At first it seemed empty but as he shook it, something dropped onto the soil. For a moment he stared at it, afraid of what further horrors it may hold. Then sitting down he reached across and picked it up.
Peering through the plants the sun picked out a monochrome scene of happy people posing before a grand house. At the centre stood Dorothy with her long dark curls and sparkling eyes; and for a moment he was lost. Then, turning it over he saw a faded inscription that read: Dalguise House ‘69.
For a full hour Donald sat on the stone floor and gazed at the ghosts in his hand.

Randall was briefing a team of detectives when he spotted Hodges out in the corridor. Going out to meet him he watched as he swilled the dregs of his coffee in a paper cup. He seemed forlorn and Randall presumed, mistakenly, that it was the result of the previous nights find.
‘How you feeling?’
‘Ask me when I wake up,’ said Hodges, smiling nervously. ‘You?’
Randall nodded knowingly. ‘Look if you don’t feel up to things today, you can . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, throwing the cup into a bin and walking off.
Randall was preparing to follow him, when he heard a familiar voice.
‘Elliot, could I have a word?’
He turned in time to see Commander Appleby striding forward, impeccable as ever.
‘Any news?’
‘None. I’ve just released a recent photo. Hopefully that’ll jog a few memories.’
‘Good,’ he said, leading him into Randall’s office. ‘Elliot. If you feel this may be too much I can easily take you off.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘This could go on for months.’
‘I see . . .’
‘You know what I mean. Besides we know who we’re after. The rest is formality.’
‘I realise that, but I,’ he paused as he searched for the right word, ‘I need to find him.’
‘Yes,’ said the Commander with a smile, ‘I can understand that. Okay. Look, I’ll be away for a few days, but if I can help in any way, contact me. There’s my card.’ He walked to the door ‘Good luck, Elliot.’
On that he walked out leaving Randall alone. Throwing the card on his desk he walked to the window and placed a palm on the glass. It was almost nine and already the city was purring with the incessant flow of traffic. It was alive with a million souls and as he looked out across the rooftops he wondered where a desperate man could find solace in such a place.

Mrs Kelly, shuffling her way along a supermarket aisle, was doing her Saturday shop in a pit of depression. Stationary, peering deep into a pile of potatoes, her thoughts were suddenly disturbed, by a presence at her side. Glancing up at the towering figure she studied the eyes peering from above the collar of a dark overcoat.
‘Mr Hawksmoor!’
‘Hush!’ he said clenching her arm and looking round. ‘Don’t say a word. Just listen. There is a park directly across the road. Meet me there in five minutes.’
After what seemed like an eternity, she went outside and crossed the high street. The park was small with a circular boulevard of trees that kept out the bright sunlight. In the centre a redundant fountain, made up of moss-covered airborne cherubs, stood tall in the dim light. Circling it anxiously, looking off into bushes and trees, Mr Kelly searched for Donald. There seemed to be no sign of him. Suddenly, and inexplicably, she felt a chill run through her body, and turned to make an exit, only to find him behind her on the path.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said calmly. ‘Just sit down.’ Looking into her eyes he realised for the first time that even Mrs Kelly must have been aware of the news that was taking up column inches in every newspaper in the land. ‘Please,’ he smiled, pointing to a bench.
‘Mr Hawksmoor, what is happening?’
‘I wish I knew. Have the police been to see you?’
He already knew the answer.
‘They asked me lots of questions. They said you’ve done terrible things.’
‘Do you believe them?’
After a pause she burst into tears and flung her arms around him.
‘No I don’t, Mr Hawksmoor! I know you’re not capable of the things they said.’
‘Good girl! I’ve done nothing wrong; I’m an innocent man and with your help I’ll prove that. Would you help me?’
‘Of course I will,’ she said blowing her nose on his overcoat.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Am I okay? Look at yourself! You look terrible. When was the last time you ate?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Right!’ she said getting to her feet. ‘You stay there I’m going to get you some food.’
‘Mrs Kelly!’ he growled through his teeth. ‘Sit down.’
She didn’t move. Just stood there, tears welling in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, but you have to listen to me. Come and sit down.’ As she did, he looked around nervously. ‘Now, do you think you could get into my flat?’
‘I doubt it. The police have been in and out all day taking things away and when there’s no-one there, there’s a feller in a car watching with binoculars.’
‘Yes,’ he said, giving her a piece of paper, ‘that’s what I thought. There is a list of things I need. Do you think you could get it all?’
‘I’ll try Mr Hawksmoor.’
‘Good.’ He took the photograph from his pocket. ‘Now, do you recognise any of the people in this photograph?’
‘Well, let me see, that’s Dorothy Kite isn’t it? Yes, I know her, but I don’t know any of the rest.’ Donald sighed and was about to put it away when she grabbed his arm. ‘Hang on a second, though. The tall man in the middle, I know him. I’ve seen him on the telly, or in the paper. I’m sure I’ve seen a photograph of him recently.’
‘Are you sure?’ he said looking at the photo himself. ‘That photograph was taken nearly forty years ago.’
‘Definitely, in fact I’m sure it was in the paper. I’ll look when I get home.’
‘Bless you.’
‘What’s going on Mr Hawksmoor? It’s terrible news about Mr Bunny and that poor woman’s tongue.’
‘Tongue? What tongue?’
‘It’s in all the papers. They say you cut a woman’s tongue out.’
‘Lizzie Paillard?’
‘No, not that one, the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘The third victim, the funny looking woman. What was her name now? Kraner. That’s it, Mrs Kraner.’
‘Oh, my god,’ he said, almost in a whisper.
‘What’s wrong? Mr Hawksmoor what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’ His breathing had suddenly become shallow and he looked around nervously, ‘but someone is going to great lengths to make me look like a murderer.’
‘Oh, it’s terrible,’ she starting to cry again.
‘It’s okay.’ Suddenly, a man appeared with a dog, forcing Donald to hide his face until he was gone. ‘Go now and do what you can.’
‘Where will I find you?’
‘Christ, yes,’ he said, searching in the jacket for a pen. ‘Meet me at that café on Drummond Street tomorrow morning. It’s just off Regents Park. Wait for me there at three O’clock. Go now and take great care.’
Giving him an apple from her bag, she walked until she reached the end of the path. With a smile she glanced back, only to find the bench empty and the park deserted.

The flicker of reflected sun from Randall’s Rover briefly illuminated Patricia Shaw’s shadowy tree-lined drive. She had heard the car from the back garden and appeared at the gate at the side of the house to greet her visitor.
‘Patricia Shaw?’ enquired Randall shutting the car door.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Randall.’
‘Ah yes,‘ she said removing a pair of large sunglasses. She had been taking advantage of the sun and her cheekbones and cleavage were brown, almost burnt. ‘Mr Hodges said you would call. Please come in.’
He followed her along a narrow path that led to the rear of the imposing detached house.
‘I don’t like the look of those clouds, I think there’s rain on the way,’ she said, closing the gate. ‘I’ve just made some lemonade, would you join me?’
From her slurred speech Randall suspected that wasn’t all she was drinking.
‘That would be very nice, thank you.’
As they climbed the patio steps, two golden Labradors bounded up the lawn and jumped at Randall.
‘It’s alright Inspector you’re quite safe, it’s just thie way of saying hello.’ Randall smiled nervously. ‘Now ladies please leave us alone and go and play elsewhere.’ Offering him a chair she poured the drinks. ‘Ice?’
‘Please.’ Shielding his eyes with his hand, he scanned the garden.
‘I think I’m good for another half hour,’ she said passing him the glass and laying back. ‘Are you looking for your man? He’s over there somewhere, secreted amongst the rhododendrons and Azaleas. I can’t keep up with him. Just when I think I’ve located him, he’s off again. He’s very good. You must be very proud. I wave to him occasionally. It must be very boring for him.’
‘It’s just a precaution,’ he said sipping his drink.
. ‘Well, is it all true?’
‘Looks very much like it.’
‘And now you would like me to confirm that this was all inevitable, just a matter of time.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said putting down his drink, ‘no. But I would like to hear all you know about Donald’s relationship with Dorothy Kite.’
‘Dorothy Kite?’ she said sitting up and raising her sunglasses.
‘Yes. How well did they know each other?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’
‘Well, obviously it was a long time ago, she died in sixty-eight, or was it sixty-nine? No, definitely sixty-nine; Christmas Eve nineteen sixty nine.’
‘Where?’
‘Scotland. You must remember? It was all over the papers at the time.’
‘Yes, vaguely.’
‘Donald knew her professionally of course, we all did. We’d all worked together since the early sixties; we all graduated around the same time. There were about six or seven of us, so obviously we’d all cross paths at different points.’
‘So you were an actress before you came an agent?’
‘God yes! And glad of it.’
Randall wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as the dogs barked at a quivering rhododendron.
‘Ladies stop that!’ she yelled as a boot shot out from the large shrub. ‘Please leave the officer alone!’
‘Have you seen him since we spoke last?’
‘No, as I said on the phone, Wednesday at the agency was the first time I’d seen him in nearly a year, and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Why the long break?’
‘Donald and myself had a, how do I put it? A falling out. He had, and probably still has, a drink problem and to be quite frank was becoming an embarrassment. I told him I wouldn’t represent him any longer and then, shortly after that, he just disappeared from all the usual haunts. My husband tried to help him but it was no good, he just waited precious time. He died a few months later.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t genuinely think Donald did this do you?’
‘The murders you mean? I’m afraid so.’
‘Poor Bunny,’ she looked out over the lawn. ‘You know, I’m astonished that he would be even capable of this.’
‘I’m sure we’re all capable . . . ’
‘Yes, but killing three people!’ she snapped. ‘He’s always been so damned disorganised.’
‘Did you know Lizzie Paillard?’
‘I knew all three.’
‘You knew Linda Kraner?’
‘Yes, well you wouldn’t forget a face like that would you? But I knew her not as Kraner, but as Reed, Barbara Reed. She and her husband were a music hall act in the late fifties.’
‘Linda Kraner?’
‘Yes, now what was thie bill matter now? Oh yes, Bernie and Babs - a thousand and one faces. Awful act. He was no oil painting either and they did a lot of funny faces to music. I think he died and she couldn’t get the work, so became a dresser.’
Suddenly, his mobile beeped into life. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
As he talked Patti decided the clouds that had been building all afternoon were about to do their worst and so went into the house. The extraordinary revelation that Donald, her one time friend and colleague, was a murderer had affected her badly; but she wasn’t the type to let it show.
‘I’m afraid I need to get back,’ he said entering the kitchen.
‘And just when we were getting to know each other.’ Randall wasn’t sure if she was joking or not and so smiled and walked to the door. ‘I trust I will be able to open up the office on Monday?’
‘I’ll have to let you know.’
‘Let me know nothing! The agency won’t look after its self.’
‘Things may be different on Monday. Like I said I’ll let you know.’ He walked to the door again. ‘Oh, one final thing, is it possible that Kraner, sorry, Reed, could have known Dorothy Kite?’
‘Well. . . ’ She wasn’t expecting that and reacted accordingly. ‘Dorothy Kite? Look what is going on, Inspector?’
‘Yes or no, Mrs Shaw.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, I recall for a time Barbara Reed was Dorothy Kites dresser.’
It was the answer he was hoping for. Far from giving him a sense of satisfaction, however, it hit him like a blow. Now there was a reason to worry. Cases, he once said, were like weeds. Some seemed larger than others, daunting, almost impossible to tackle. But more often than not, they were the easiest to deal with. “Give it a tug” he would say. It was surprising how flimsy the structure was. Everything was above ground, there for all to see. It was the smaller cases the concerned him most. The supposedly open and shut variety. They had the most elaborate and complex roots. And he knew there and then as he stared back at Patricia Shaw how deep the roots of this particular “open and shut” case would go.
Raising a smile, he nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Shaw. You have been most . . . helpful.’

Evelyn Slater had planned to spend the weekend sailing off the Norfolk coast but the murders of the previous evening had scuppered all of that. It wasn’t unusual to have a perfectly planned holiday ruined by some thoughtless psychopath, but it still peeved him nevertheless. His laboratory was a soulless basement without any natural light that seemed to suck the very spirit out of everyone who worked in it. Except Slater. Ever since his youth he had found music to be the redeemer of all ills.
‘Good afternoon Evelyn,’ shouted Tomblin, sauntering into the office.
‘Hello Frank,’ he shouted, reaching over to a small amplifier and turning down the music.
‘What are you listening to?’
‘Malcolm Arnold’s Scottish dances. Very stirring don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t. Give me George Melley any day of the week. Mind you,’ he said looking round, ‘I suppose you need something to keep you going down here.’
‘Didn’t expect to see you today,’ he said, sitting at his desk.
‘Didn’t you? Have you seen the news this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Hawksmoor’s face is splashed over every newspaper and TV screen, and my intention is to catch him before it becomes mine.’
Suddenly Randall appeared at the door looking somewhat drawn and pale.
‘Ah, Elliot,’ said Tomblin. ‘I was beginning to think you had brought your retirement forward a month.’
‘It had crossed my mind.’
‘What’s the news?’
‘Two reported sightings, both false alarms I’m afraid.’
‘Bloody public! I bet if there were a reward involved their eyesight would get a damn sight better. Could he have slipped through the net at the bus or rail stations?’
‘It’s possible. But I’m certain he’s still within the city.’
‘Pull out all the stops on this one Elliot. It’s only a matter of time before it’s common knowledge that we had him in custody the day before all of this. Not to mention the fact that the man investigating was present at the first murder.’
‘Second, actually,’ said Slater, climbing from his chair.
The lack of reaction on Randall’s face was contrasted fiercely with that of Tomblin’s.
‘Are you certain?’ he said, shocked.
‘Pretty much so, Kraner was probably the first, then Paillard and finally Nicholls.’
‘Could he have done it in that time?’ he said turning to Randall.
‘In four or five hours? Easily.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Slater, taking out a small transparent envelope, ‘there’s this.’
‘Hair?’ said Tomblin, taking it from him and holding it up to the light.
‘Not any old hair, take a closer look.’
Screwing up his nose he squinted at the contents. ‘They’re black at one end and white at the other. What are they off a bloody dog?’
‘Not quite, Frank, it’s Hawksmoor’s. He dyes his hair. We found evidence of that in his flat and enough matching hairs on the victims to make a wig.’
‘On all three victims?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent! Now we just need to find him, Elliot.’
‘Well,’ said the Inspector, leaning against the wall, ‘we just keep looking and hope for a break.’
‘Hope! Hope! I would have thought we would be relying on more than that.’ Slowly circling the room he suddenly stopped at the door and looked back. ‘If there’s any news, let me know.’
‘He doesn’t trust you,’ said Slater as Tomblin’s tall gaunt frame disappeared amongst the shadows at the far end of the corridor.
‘D’you know what?’ Randall smiled as he walked to the door. ‘The feeling’s mutual.’

With the darkness came the rain, forcing Donald to spend another night amongst the overgrown vegetation of the greenhouse. There, huddled beneath the vines, he dreamt he was swimming in freezing waters. So vivid was the dream that he could almost feel the icy water against his skin as he struggled to keep his head above the surface. In the distance, illuminated by the moonlight he could make out a cove. It wasn’t much, but it was at least a place he could pull himself to safety.
In time he found himself stumbling through the waters onto the isolated beach, only to find it was not made of sand, but of tiny fragments of broken shell, that stabbed at his hands and knees as he dragged himself through the surf.
Somewhere, off in the distance, he could hear music, but it wasn’t until he crossed the beach and collapsed, exhausted and cold, that he saw its source, a large gothic house further up the hillside.
Drawn to the melody he climbed the grassy banks until he reached the house. When he did the music stopped abruptly For a moment there was silence and Donald hovered hesitantly by the large oak doors. He was preparing to move on when, suddenly, the doors opened to reveal a huge banqueting hall. Other than a large fireplace giving off a flickering expanse of orange and red hues across the walls and floor, the room was empty. Slowly he walked inside. He had barely walked a few feet however when the great doors closed with a crash behind him. As if in sympathy the cinders in the hearth then burst into flame, casting a deep crimson glow around the room.
Then came the music once more. This time so loudly that Donald was certain some invisible orchestra had surrounded him. Backing away from the heat of the fire, he watched as the flickering shadows danced tall and wild like banshees around him. They jumped and leapt spinning him this way and that until he fell back onto the stone floor in the centre of the room.
Struggling for air he pushed himself up, and as he did he saw movement in the shadows above. Looking closer he was suddenly gripped with fear. Dorothy had returned, young and beautiful, smiling as before. And as she did her face glowed like the embers in the hearth, revealing other face, the faces of Bunny, Lizzie and Kraner; the same ones that had lingered in his minds eye, and the ones that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The heat from the fire was now unbearable and the music so loud and out of control he had to cover his ears to shut it out. Violins screamed at him as if knives were drawing across the strings, whilst oboes growled deeply like that of a beast. Finally, as it reached a crescendo the heads above him joined in the chorus with laughter that shook the castle walls, until they crumbled and fell towards him.

Donald woke with a jolt, panting and shaking. Fearing he had slept past the appointed hour he pulled at his sleeve and pushed his watch into the moonlight. He needn’t have worried. For as the moons glare picked out the silver hands he saw he had a full two hours before his rendezvous with Mrs Kelly.
Looking at the watch, a 1947 gold Elgin, he thought back to a happier time. Patti had presented it to him the day after he had been voted Television actor for 1973. On top of that she had organised a surprise garden party to celebrate his success. The great and good of London’s theatrical world had attended and it been a very special moment for him. The memory of it all was as clear to him there, lying on the greenhouse floor, as it had been on that summer evening all those years ago. These, however, were to be the final days in paradise. Not long after he had found himself in a wilderness, a world of excess from which he would never escape - and never quite knowing how he had got there.
That evening as the guests drifted away he had sat in the shadows at the bottom of the garden, warmed by an incredible sense of fulfilment. He had thought of the moment often, it had a smell all of its own. The moss-coated statue of Eros backed by a crescent of ceramic pots. And from each one the heady scent of flowering lilac filling the air with its heady scent. Never before or since had he felt so complete.
Bringing himself back to the nightmare of the present he stood up and shook the excess water from his over coat. Then emerging from the greenhouse, aching and frail, he studied the old house before him. Beyond it he could make out streetlights in the distance. What was he trying to do? His face was probably etched into the memory of every police officer in the city (if not the country) and unless his luck was to change considerably, he knew his task was almost impossible. But there was no other way. With the evidence against him he knew the chances of clearing his name were anything but favourable.

Having gone without a decent sleep for over twenty-four hours every step seemed like a mile. Each breath, a struggle. There seemed nothing left. Survival was now his only reward.
For over an hour he struggled on through the deserted streets of the capital. His mind was still filled with doubt, but like a fighter on the ropes, something deep within forced him on. Then, nearly an hour into his journey, he passed out. Luckily, he had stepped into an alleyway to avoid a meandering drunk when it happened. Hidden from the world, his strength had drained from him like water through sand, and slowly he joined the darkness. He wasn’t out for long, but it was quite sometime before he had the strength to move off again. It was obvious to him that it had been brought it on by the lack of sleep and food, and the sooner he rendezvoused with Mrs Kelly the better. Her nickname wasn’t “the mobile larder” for nothing.
Resting as long as he dared he finally set off again. This time there was no hiding in the shadows. He had become so weak he barely seemed to notice people as they sauntered home or taxi’s as they passed in ever increasing numbers. Despite the need for rest, he forced himself on with a single-mindedness that the recent events had only reinforced. Then like a vision he saw the alleyway next to the café. He had become so weak and delirious that for a moment he was sure he was dreaming. Nothing seemed real anymore. Which for him with his track record was a sensation he was not altogether unfamiliar with.
He had made it with time to spare and so caught his breath before crossing the road. His eyes were so heavy he could barely focus. Shaking his head he forced himself to the end of the alley, where he stopped to get his breath. The street was deserted, as was the small park on the opposite side, where he was to meet Mrs Kelly. Stumbling out from the shadows he tried to hurry to the road, but he was moving like a drunk; one-step forward and three to the side. The harder he tried, the worse it became. Suddenly he was aware of a blurred figure moving towards him, and it was then as he tried to inject more urgency into his stride that he felt that all too familiar sensation of dizziness. In a moment he was on the pavement lying on his side, barely conscious, watching the shape as it approached.

When Donald eventually came round he realised he was not only inside, but also in the company of Mrs Kelly. They were sitting at a table, her hand on his. No show of compassion, however, could ease the throbbing pain behind his eyes. He tried to speak but could produce nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
‘It’s okay,’ she said stroking the back of his hand.
‘Ah!’ came a voice from the other side of the room. ‘How do you feel?’
Donald turned to see the happy smiling face of Antonio Carlotti.
‘Mr Carlotti,’ said Mrs Kelly, suddenly, ‘found you unconscious on the pavement when he arrived to open the cafe. He was about to phone for an ambulance when I arrived. I’m a nurse you see. What’s your name dear?’ Despite his condition, her performance impressed him immensely. ‘No? Not to worry. Maybe you’ll feel better after a nice cup o’tea.’
‘Coming right up.’ Antonio seemed suddenly concerned, ‘do you know, I think I know this man.’ Donald and Mrs Kelly looked at one another as they waited for the inevitable. ‘Yes, of course! Now I remember. You were in my cafe last week with the young lady.’
‘That’s right,’ mumbled Donald with a smile.
‘You had been attacked, as I remember. Terrible what man is capable of. This world seems to be getting worse. D’you know I don’t even watch the news anymore; it gets me so depressed. And as for the newspapers, bah! But I talk too much. Let me get you a nice hot cup of tea.’
As he returned to the kitchen Donald smiled at his housekeeper.
‘Thank you. But we can’t expect everyone to have avoided the media over the past week. I think we should make a move.’
‘You should eat something first. He doesn’t open for another ten minutes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, he opens at four, it’s only ten to.’
’Okay.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I feel bloody awful. I think I fainted.’
‘When was the last time you ate?’
‘This morning with you.’
‘One apple? Lord preserve us!’
‘Did you get everything?’
‘I did.’
‘No problems?’
‘No. But looking at you I’m a bit concerned the suit may be a bit too big. You seem to have lost weight.’
‘Well, it is true to say I haven’t eaten well recently.’
‘Mr Hawksmoor, please tell me what’s going on?’
‘As I said this morning, I really have no idea,’ he looked down at the table. ‘Why kill Bunny?’
‘Now,’ said Antonio appearing with a tray of tea, toast and jam, ‘you get tucked in. That is on the house. But now you must excuse me, I open a few moments.’
As Mrs Kelly poured out the tea Donald pushed the hot buttered toast and jam into his mouth. She watched him for a moment or two before reaching into a holdall by her feet and taking out a newspaper clipping.
‘Now is that the feller in the photo?’
‘My god!’ he said as melted butter dripped down his chin. ‘That’s him.’
‘I never forget a face. He was all over the news, not as much as you though Mr Hawksmoor,’ she added as if it were a compliment. ‘It seems he was a very important man, a very rich man.’
‘Harry Kessler?’ Donald said to himself. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. Okay, put it in the bag, I’ve got to go.’
As she did Antonio reappeared and unlocked the door. No sooner had he done so than it opened to reveal two men with short grey hair and Burberry jackets. Donald froze.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Antonio. ‘Take a seat, I will be with you in one second.’
Slowly the men approached the table.
‘Good morning Mr Hawksmoor. Well, you have been rather elusive to say the least,’ said Tindle as they sat in the two vacant seats either side of the table.
‘He’s innocent,’ said Mrs Kelly defiantly.
‘My dear, we know that. But don’t worry he’s in safe hands now.’
‘We’re just glad we’ve found him before the police did,’ added Lott.
‘We’ve got a car outside and I think it would be a good idea if we got out of here before someone comes in. What about the cafe owner?’
‘He doesn’t recognise me,’ said Donald, now feeling a little more relaxed.
‘Well, he must be the only one in the country who doesn’t,’ said Tindle with a smile.
‘Do you still have the photograph?’ asked Lott.
There was a sudden reaction from Tindle, a stiffening of the body. As if his partner had spoken out of turn.
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he said, ‘let’s just get in the car.’
‘How could you have known about that?’ said Donald, narrowing his. ‘Nobody saw that. It was in an envelope.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Well,’ said Tindle pulling open his overcoat to reveal a gun in his left hand. ‘It appears you have seen through our little rouse. Now, where is it?’ Donald said nothing as he stared into Tindle’s clear blue eyes. ‘Answer the question or I will put a bullet through house keepers head.’
Suddenly, the door opened and a group of people poured in, noisily. Quickly taking his chance, Donald threw the table forward, sending the hot tea over the two men. As they fell backwards he reached for the holdall and rushed out through the open door into the night.

He knew as he rushed into the park opposite that there was no way he could out run them. They were older than him, but he knew with a heavy holdall and a lifetime of excess slowing him down, it wouldn’t take long before they were upon him.
At the edge of the park he noticed the unmistakable symbol of an underground station. Without hesitation he ran onto the high street and entered the doorway. Looking back in the vain hope that he had shaken them off, his heart sank as he saw them emerge from the park and race across the high street towards him. Climbing the unmanned barriers he rushed forward into a long tiled corridor. He was almost at the end when he heard two very distinctive sounds. The first was an automated voice ahead, warning the traveller to mind the gap. The second was the unmistakeable echo of footsteps behind him. Forcing himself on he suddenly found himself descending a flight of stairs, three at a time, until he was on the station platform gasping for breath. Apart from a deserted train waiting at the platform the station was empty. For a moment he was lost, then he had an idea.

Tindle was the first to appear on the steps. Slowing to a stop, he stared down at the at the platform and the train until Lott suddenly appeared at his side.
‘Check the other side of the platform,’ he muttered. .
Descending the steps he moved along the platform, barely making a sound. Slowly, almost serenely, he studied the carriages and the stations tiled archways.
‘Nothing,’ said Lott suddenly reappearing. ‘He must be on the train.’
Tindle said nothing as he continued along the platform, a hawk searching for prey. Then the door alarms on the train began to sound. Jumping on, Lott called along the platform to him.
‘Come on.’
Slowly Tindle backed towards the train, his eyes wary of everything. Then as the doors began to close he stepped back through the narrowing gap, his focus still on the platform as the train pulled away from the station.
When it had gone and the platform was silent once more, Donald’s head appeared from the recess beneath the platform. Sliding the suitcase noisily across the dusty concrete, he then pulled himself up and stared into the tunnel and the receding light of the train. As if he feared the two men would suddenly reappear like ghosts to pursue him once more, he picked up the case and hurried along the platform.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been beneath a train. Many years ago, after one particularly heavy night, he had alighted from a tube train and disappeared in mid-conversation.
“TV star under a train whilst under the influence,” the headline had read, and although the memory of that fateful night had probably saved his life, he didn’t dwell on it as he climbed the steps and aimed for the high street.

As he walked out onto the high street he checked his watch and hurried westwards towards Marylebone station. Arriving at Melcombe Place he studied the station’s main entrance and the concourse within. It was then he noticed a row of security gates before the platforms. Before them, two uniformed officers scanned the shops and cafes, as in the distance a train approached. Donald waited until it stopped and a trickle of commuters had spilled onto the platform before moving around the building and entering the station from Harewood Avenue.
Inside the influx of early arrivals momentarily sidetracked the police, and in that moment Donald took his chance and hurried to the toilets. Finding them empty he entered the end cubicle and locked the door. With a deep breath he unlocked the case and put his plan into action.
Emptying the contents out onto the tiled floor a wry smile grew across his face. As usual Mrs Kelly had come up trumps. Everything he had requested was there.
Navy pinstripe suit – 1. Starched white shirt – 1. Underwear – 10 sets. Socks – 10 pairs (Typical Mrs Kelly, he thought). Black shoes, highly polished – 1 pair. Club tie – 1. Small make-up box with a selection of foundation, eyeliners, etc. False nose – 1. Shaving foam and razor. Deodorant, hairbrush, mirror, small half spectacles and cash (over two hundred pounds). A sample bottle of whisky ( he’d asked for a litre) and finally, and quite unexpectedly, a toasted anchovy and lettuce sandwich.
It was then, having consumed the sandwich and most of the whisky, he set about preparing a new face. Using water from the toilet bowl he shaved quickly, leaving the area around his chin and upper lip. During his repertory days he had played two or three characters in a single performance, so quick and accurate make-up changes had been essential.
Placing the false nose with its rather strange brown hue in position, he blended the surrounding area, and paying particular attention to his bruised eye. Realising he hadn’t lost his touch he then smeared Vaseline into hair and combed it back until he resembled some nineteenth century poet. Then once dressed, he sprinkled the final dregs of whisky from the bottle into his palm like after-shave, and patted it onto his cheeks and neck.
Placing the envelope with the photograph in his inside pocket and stuffing his old clothes in the case, he took a deep breath and opened the door. There, in the mirror, he saw a well-dressed man with a bulbous nose. It was an extraordinary transformation and in that moment, staring at his reflection, he knew he had a chance.
Placing the glasses on his new nose he walked out of the toilets and into the station. The ticket booth was directly across from him, adjacent to the police, the barriers and the platforms. Taking a deep breath he started to walk, but he was barely halfway across the concourse when two figures appeared from the underground escalators, to his left. He recognised instantly. Their presence, their effortless movement; like men half their age.
Regardless of the fear gripping him deep within, Donald held his nerve and carried on. He was nearly across, almost at the ticket booth itself, when, without warning, Lott turned and walked directly towards him. Keeping in character Donald smiled, but then felt a terrible pang of dismay as he realised he was still carrying the case. If they recognised that everything would have been in vain. But they were looking for a man, he told himself, not a suitcase. Besides, suitcases and travel were synonymous with railway stations. Looking straight ahead, he waited for the worst. To his amazement, however, Lott walked straight past him without as much as a glance. It was as if he had become invisible and for the first time in days he was filled with a wonderful sense of elation. Indeed, it gave him enough confidence to stop and study the train departures on the information board, before turning to face the man in the ticket booth.
‘Top of the mornin’ to you,’ he said in a lilting Galway burr.
‘Morning,’ said a fat man, half asleep behind the screen.
‘Now, I was just wonderin’ how much it would be for a return to Birmingham?’ He was laying it on a bit thick, but then he always did.
‘The four fifty-five?’
‘Yes, that’ll be the one.’
‘Leaves from platform four in five minutes, and it is a hundred twenty pounds.’
‘Oh! As much as that? Well, well, well,’ he said taking out the cash. ‘There you go. I’m going to a wake, me brother-in-laws. I couldn’t stand the man, but a wakes a wake!’
Winking at the man and collecting his ticket he walked over to the newsagents. He didn’t go in. The early editions had grabbed his attention. There, on every front page, was a photograph of himself from every decade. Familiar eyes staring back from some nightmarish montage.
He knew the press would be relishing the whole tragedy, but somehow it was worse than he had imagined. He barely recognised himself, an old man with a puffy face, sad and bitter. His blood ran cold. Then ran colder still when Tindle appeared from the shop and looked directly into his eyes. For a moment the two men said nothing until Tindle stepped two one side, allowing Donald to pass.
‘So sorry,’ said Tindle with a smile.
For a moment Donald just stood there frozen to the floor. Then, from over the tannoy the announcer gave the final call for the Birmingham Lime Street train.
‘Looks like I’m out of time,’ said Donald as he turned and walked towards the barriers.
He wasn’t aware of it, but for a few moments Tindle kept his eyes on him, as if he had seen something untoward. Then he turned and walked across the concourse to join his colleague.
Donald’s disguise was such that when he stopped at the barriers and put his ticket into the slot, the officer merely sniffed the air, shook his head and waved him through.

Finding one of the quieter carriages, he climbed aboard, stashed the suitcase above him and collapsed into one of the seats. Across from him a large woman with greasy olive coloured skin sniffed the air noisily. Donald grinned inanely; alcohol on an empty belly always had the same effect. Her only reply was a disdainful glance, which she did to great effect, before rustling her paper and dipping behind it.
Donald smiled to himself and sat back in his seat, happy to be dry and warm again.
Looking around the carriage he smiled again as he wondered what the half a dozen or so passengers would have said if they knew they were in the company of Britain’s most wanted man.
On the front of the paper was another rather unflattering photograph of himself. Taken, he remembered, by an experimental Swedish photographer some years ago. Patti had talked him into it, but then quickly agreed that it made him look a little disturbed. What would she be thinking of him now? What would they all be thinking?
As the train pulled away from the platform, Donald felt an incredible sense of achievement. It was a feeling he had not felt for a long time. And, apart from Mrs Kelly, he had done it alone. It was only the first step, but often they are the most important.
Reaching inside his jacket he took out the newspaper cutting of Harry Kessler. With the obituary was the obligatory photograph. Kessler, with his athletic physique and movie star looks, was even more impressive than in the photograph given to him by Lizzie.
The date on the newspaper was Wednesday the 19, the day after he had seen Dorothy. Was that relevant? And if so how did it connect Kessler to Dorothy. Lizzie had known. That was why she had risked her life with the photograph. He was in no doubt that she and Bunny had been murdered because of the information he had shared with them, and after his final encounter with Tindle and Lott, he was also in no doubt who the killers were.
Through the window he could make out a small orange glow in the east, but its beauty could not quell the tears welling in his eyes. Before long the sun would silently creep above the sleeping city, and Donald envied people their beds and their mundane lives. Staring at his reflection in the window he wondered if he would ever return.
Soon he was overtaken by exhaustion, and now there was no need to fight against it. Instead, resting his head against the warm soft seat, he closed his eyes and slept.

Appearing through the clouds the smiling sun announced the arrival of a new day. Donald studied the spectacle and stretched in his seat. He had slept for maybe thirty minutes or so, until he was stirred into life by the train as it slowed to a stop. Apart from the newspaper reader across from him, and a young woman sitting a few rows ahead, the carriage was now deserted. As the train started to move again and Donald was about to close his eyes, he noticed the newspaper opposite him slowly lower, to reveal, not the large woman, but a slim male.
‘A good sleep?’ asked Tindle.
Donald said nothing as that all too familiar sensation of terror returned.
‘Are you going far?’ he continued.
‘No,’ said Donald remaining in character.
Tindle smiled. Donald wasn’t sure of what, the accent or the answer. For a few moments neither of the men spoke until Tindle sat forward and looked deep into Donald’s eyes.
‘You didn’t think I’d let you get away from me did you?’ He said it almost in a whisper.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mr Hawksmoor do you think I am a fool? You have the same fear in your eyes now as you did in the café and the station.’
‘I don’t know any Hawksmoor. My names O’Reilly.’
‘Oh, really, O’Reilly?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I’ve eradicated plenty of Mick's in my time, so another one, real or imagined, shouldn’t prove too much of a hindrance.’
‘Would you please leave me alone?’
‘If you say another word,’ he said reaching into his jacket. ‘I will kill you where you sit.’
Suddenly, the girl a few rows up stood up. Smiling at the two men as she passed, she then walked into the next carriage. Donald knew he was trapped and panicked accordingly.
‘What in god’s name is happening? I’ve done nothing!’
‘Oh, on the contrary Mr Hawksmoor you have done a great deal. Don’t undervalue your contribution, you are the spur for all the wheels now in motion.’
Jumping up Donald ran into the aisle towards the back of the train. As the carriages rocked from side to side, it made it almost impossible for him to move forward with any speed. To his dismay he was to find the next two carriages empty also. Finally, he reached a smaller carriage with a long narrow passageway. Closing the door behind him he then saw another, exactly the same, at the far end. Rushing to it he pulled at the handle, only to find it locked. Sliding to the floor he watched the door at the far end, knowing exactly what he would see. After the elation he had felt the feeling was unbearable. He was crying now, and felt totally and utterly defeated. As the door opened Donald lowered his gaze and waited as Tindle approached.
‘Thank you Mr Hawksmoor,’ he said, reaching over him and knocking on the locked door. ‘How very thoughtful of you. And I must commend you on your fitness level. Very impressive.’
Instantly the door opened and as Donald looked back he saw Lott with the same sickening smile. He didn’t struggle as they pulled him into the goods carriage and made no sound as they dragged him to the far end. Through his wet swollen eyes he could see bikes, boxes and sacks. Was this the last he would see?
Suddenly Lott pulled him up as his colleague stood before him.
‘Now,’ said Tindle. ‘The photograph if you please.’
Donald was a pitiful sight with his head bowed and brown make-up-filled tears running along his false nose.
‘Mr Lott?’
Reaching into Donald’s jacket, Lott took out the photograph and the newspaper clipping.
‘Well now you have impressed me. Perception must be added to your impressive array of talents, Mr Hawksmoor.’
‘The first sign of an intelligent man I always say Mr Tindle.’
‘Very true, but I fear for Mr Hawksmoor it’s just a little too late.’
Lott walked to one side of the carriage, leaving Tindle and Donald in the centre.
‘She is alive isn’t she?’ said Donald with a murmur. ‘Dorothy Kite?’
‘Have you any idea what you have started? You have stirred a hornet’s nest and I’m afraid for that you must die. Mr Lott?’
On cue his colleague pulled the long sliding door on the side of the train open. Instantly the glow of orange light illuminated the carriage and cold wind swirled inside, tugging at Donald’s hair and coat. Unlike Tindle and Lott. Despite the wind their short hair and buttoned overcoats remained still, turning them into something unearthly.
‘Did you enjoy killing them?’ Donald cried over the noise of the wind and rattling carriages. ‘Will you enjoy killing me?’
‘We always enjoy our work Mr Hawksmoor!’
Holding onto the door Lott looked towards the front of the train.
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Tindle. ‘I found your friend Bunny something of a disappointment.’ He put his face close to Donald’s. ‘He didn’t squeal half as much as I expected.’
‘Get ready!’ called Lott.
As they forced him to the open doorway he realised his fate. Glancing over his shoulder he could see the sun appearing over the hills and filtering through the mist in the valley. In that moment, with the sun on his face, Donald felt an incredible sense of clarity. And he knew then that he would decide his own fate.
‘Get ready!’ repeated Lott.
Tindle looked into Donald’s eyes as he waited for the command.
But before it could be given, Donald smiled and threw himself backwards out of the carriage and into the morning light.

SUNDAY. 7:20 AM.

The early morning sun was casting long shadows across the sprawling suburbia of London. Here and there early risers, idling, half asleep, took advantage of the clarity and the calm. It was a unique world. One in which joggers, hot and focused, criss-crossed dog walkers as if in some grand ballet; whilst scattered around the periphery eager minds digested the Sunday papers, oblivious to the beauty all around.
Randall, not a morning person but unable to sleep, had driven aimlessly for over an hour until he found himself outside the house of an old friend and colleague. David Tyler had joined the force after twenty years in the army and his final years as a copper had been spent in the cloak and dagger world of intelligence. Randall had always found him affable and trustworthy, if not a little obsessive, and as he climbed the steps and knocked on the door, he hoped that he, like most retired people, was still in the habit of waking early. Within seconds, his hope was realised.
‘Good lord, Elliot Randall!’ said a wiry man, stepping out and clasping his hand. His face was lean and hollow and had a look of mischief about it.
‘Morning David. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Disturbing me? Certainly not, it’s wonderful to see you. Come in.’
Taking his coat Tyler disappeared into the kitchen.
‘How have you been?’ said Randall.
‘Oh, you know, bearing up under the strain. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be with you in a couple of ticks.’
Randall knew the house well. It was Edwardian, conservatively designed and remarkably tidy. Although he had visited the house often, he suddenly noticed for the first time the total lack of colour in both the living room and now the drawing room. Other than tiny flecks of paint on divisions of miniature lead soldiers that filled every part of the room, the palette was remarkably grey.
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Tyler, suddenly reappearing at the door.
‘Actually, no.’
‘Hungry?’
‘Famished.’
‘Well, you timed it right, breakfast is almost ready.’
The mixed aromas of freshly brewed coffee and fried food brought a smile to Randall’s face as he explored the room. Then it slowly disappeared as he realised something else was wrong. For a while he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he realised. There was a distinct lack of the woman’s touch. That explained the black and whites, and it also explained the lack of warmth. Since his wife’s death his senses had become much more acute, like those of a man who has lost his sight.
Suddenly aware that he was staring at a painting over the fireplace, he moved closer to inspect the detail. It was a scene where French and British cavalry clashed on a mud-filled landscape. Strangely, the thing that had drawn his attention was not the battle scene itself, but a rider-less white charger running wild through the carnage, its bright coat standing out from the gloom like lightning in the night. Moving even closer he could see the animals eyes, and he could see its fear.
‘The charge of the Life Guards; Battle of Waterloo.’
Donald turned to see Tyler in the doorway with a tray.
‘Squadron of the 1st Life Guards meeting the 12th Regiment of Cuirassiers; a very decisive moment. Alfresco?’

Out on the patio Tyler removed a metal cover to reveal a platter of fried food.
‘Now to what do I owe the honour?’
‘Well,’ said Randall taking a seat, ‘I was hoping to pick your brains.’
‘Is it about that Hawksmoor character? Reminds me of a case where a young actor killed his colleague on stage. Apparently the replica gun he was using didn’t go off, so improvising he hit the other chap over the head with it! Killed him instantly. Got a standing ovation, I believe.’
‘In a roundabout sort of way it is about Hawksmoor,’ said Randall, cutting his flow. ‘But I was hoping you could tell me about Harry Kessler.’
‘Hawksmoor didn’t kill him as well did he?’
Randall smiled. Along the edge of the immaculately cut lawn he then noticed the long neat rows of dark maroon roses, like paratroopers on parade. Old soldiers never die.
‘Well, he was a highly decorated and well-regarded soldier; I know that. He fought in North Africa, Italy and the Balkans with the fledgling SAS. Then in the fifties he was in North Korea.’
‘Did you write his biography?’ said Randall with a hint of sarcasm.
‘No, I just love a good a obituary.’
‘And after Korea?’
‘Then it all gets a little grey. The basic consensus is that he, along with other retired SAS personnel, were doing their bit in African and the Middle East.’
‘Doing what exactly?’
‘The usual. Running training camps for despots and dictators.’
‘A mercenary?’
‘Not in the traditional sense. It was suspected at the time that they were funded by the British Government. No connection was ever made.’
‘Why?’
‘Oil of course. He was a member of the notorious Carlton Club. A group of bankers and industrialists, most of them ex- services, who regardless of what they where involved in always had old blighty close to their hearts.’ Up until that moment, he had been filling his plate from the platter, but now he stopped and stared at Randall. ‘Now, you tell me why you’re so interested in a dead capitalist, while I eat my breakfast.’
‘I don’t know if there is any connection, at the moment I’m just clutching at straws. What do you know about the Kessler Organisation?’
‘Set up by Harry Kessler in nineteen sixty-eight. Pretty similar to what David Stirling did the year before. A mercenary recruitment firm of retired and reserve status SAS officers.’
‘David Stirling that created the SAS?’
‘Yes, his set-up was called Watchguard International. But after that was created and Kessler came on the scene, a Major, by the name of ‘Mad dog’ Hamish Fraser started a company called A.B Holdings. Fraser’s nickname was well earned. He loved the army and he loved to fight. It wouldn’t surprise me if he set up the company just so he could keep his hand in. He would take any job he was offered. No conscience - no lack of work. Which of course meant he would accept anything Stirling’s set-up had turned down.’
‘And what sort of work would these companies undertake?’
‘Everything. From providing bodyguards to orchestrating coups.’
‘Really?’
‘Remember the coup in Oman in nineteen-seventy? Orchestrated by the SAS, with the help of the British Government. Of course, there was no “official” involvement but it’s since been discovered that SAS detachments were sent to Oman in that year. It’s never been made clear if any of these private firms were involved; but I’d bet my last dollar they were.’
‘Are they all still operating?’
‘Not sure, I’d need to look into that.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, but I’ll make some enquires. I still have a few friends in the department. But I’ll warn you now Elliot, watch yourself. Poking your nose outside your remit, especially when it comes to national security, is rarely welcomed.’

Shortly after breakfast Randall made his apologies and made his way back to the department. As he drove through the city, busy despite the day of the week, he found Tyler’s remarks not easy to forget. Doubt was spreading through his mind and upsetting his usual pattern of thought. Something wasn’t right and he felt it in his bones. He realised one other thing, too. If he had encountered this case at any other time, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be spending so much energy on it. But knowing it was his last, he realised how obsessive it was making him. A little like a child staring into the darkness and imagining things that could never be.

Stretching seventy miles across four counties, criss-crossed with ancient hedgerows and rich woodland stand the Chiltern Hills.
As the sun grew high above them, trapping and burning off pockets of mist in the valley below, two men suddenly emerged from dense woodland high above and surveyed the beauty. At first neither of them moved until the smaller of the two jumped down into a ditch and searched through the reeds.
‘You won’t find anything down there,’ said the man on the bank.
Simon was in his mid-twenties and full of youthful arrogance, a total contrast to the boy scurrying through the undergrowth.
‘What about these?’ asked Paul squinting in the sun.
‘Hebeloma crustuliniforme, poisonous. Quinn would take a rather dim view if you killed off most the flock with a bowlful of those. I’ll get the mushrooms. You get the berries.’
‘Sorry Simon,’ said the boy scrambling up the bank and looking around nervously.
‘Go down the hill near the railway track. There you will find blackberries.’ Like an eager puppy Paul nodded and started down the hill. ‘Bucket!’
‘Sorry!’ said the boy as he took it from him and then tumbled down the hillside.
Simon knew it would be sometime before he saw him again and so lay down and basked in the morning sun. After a while he heard the cries of birds high above him and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Scanning the skies he saw the unmistakable shape of Red Kites swooping over the wood behind him. He followed them as they dipped into the valley effortlessly. It was then he saw Paul jumping and waving frantically. With a sigh he got to his feet and tried to make out Paul’s faint cries. As he slowly descended the hill, Paul hurried to him, breathlessly.
‘A body! A body!’
‘What?’ said Simon, with no obvious interest.
‘A body,’ repeated Paul in a great state of excitement.
‘A body?’
‘Near the railway track,’ confirmed Paul, ‘on the banking. Come on I’ll show you.’
‘If this is a joke you do know I’ll hit you, don’t you?’
As they hurried down and Paul disappeared through a gap in a line of hawthorn, Simon tentatively peered through the branches. Then that he saw it. The body of a man laying face down, his legs out of view in the long grass of the ditch. Moving through the hedge he then saw the outstretched arms and the coat twisted round the head. It was a grizzly find.
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ asked Paul. ‘Do you think he’s been hit by a train?’ Simon, it quickly materialised, was in no mood for a quiz. ‘But if he’d been hit by a train,’ said Paul, concluding, ‘he’d be all over the place.’
‘Shut up!’ Simon shouted, his voice echoing across the valley. He was pale and more than a little agitated. ‘We need to find out if he’s alive.’
‘Okay,’ said Paul. Without hesitation he moved towards the body.
‘Wait!’ Simon said moving forward, tentatively. ‘Maybe I should go back and tell the elders?’
‘Okay, but let’s look first.’ Slowly Paul moved forward and pulled the jacket back from the man’s head. ‘Simon! Look, next to his head! It’s his nose!
Paul had barely finished the sentence when he heard a heavy thud. Now there were two bodies on the damp dewy grass. Realising he needed assistance, and fast, the boy rushed back up the hill as fast as his young legs could carry him until he reached the top and disappeared into the wood.

‘Have you seen this?’ said Tomblin throwing a newspaper onto the desk. ‘This is exactly what I’ve been hoping to avoid.’
Randall angled his head to see photographs of Tomblin and Donald and above them, the headline, “A Comedy of Errors”. The photographer had caught the Superintendent in a rather undignified pose where as Donald looked the picture of sophistication dressed in Kaftan on a chez-longue sipping champagne. As he fought to keep a smile off his face he wondered how many people across Britain would be eating their breakfasts that morning, mistakenly thinking Tomblin was the killer.
‘This isn’t doing me, or the department any good. Have you read this?’ Snatching up the paper he read out the editorial. ‘ “How can Mr Tomblin and his department expect the good citizens of London to sleep assured of their safety, when the simple task of capturing an ageing Thespian is beyond them?” And now there’s a twenty five thousand pound reward for his capture. Now I want some results!’
Before Randall could say a word the door opened and in rushed Hodges.
‘We’ve got a sighting.’
‘Where?’ said Tomblin excitedly.
‘Two girls downstairs, claim to have seen him this morning. They won’t say where. They want to speak to someone in authority.’
‘Right then they can speak to me,’ said Tomblin, heading for the door.

Interrogation room one was brightly lit, with an odd stench of melted plastic. In the centre of the room sat two young women at a small table. The larger of the two had dyed blonde hair, topped with a luminous plastic orchid. She had been playing a staring game with the policewomen near the door when quite unexpectedly her friend (a skinny girl draped across the table, fast asleep) suddenly, farted. Disgusted, the blonde nudged her, only to hear the offence being repeated.
At that very moment the door opened and Tomblin, Randall and Hodges walked in. As the policewomen went out (thankful for the fresh air) Randall and Tomblin seated themselves at the table, whilst Hodges stood near the door.
‘Now,’ said Tomblin, ‘I believe you have a sighting of Donald Hawksmoor?’
‘If that’s the name of the murderer you’re looking for,’ said the conscious one in a broad Liverpudlian accent, ‘yes we have.’
‘Well,’ he said before stopping and sniffing the air uncomfortably.
‘The policewoman,’ said the girl leaning forward. ‘What you feeding her on?’
Tomblin tried to hide his embarrassment. ‘Please go on.’
‘Right, before we do.’ She pulled a newspaper from under her friend’s head and slid it before Tomblin. ‘We want to know about this reward.’
‘Oh I see. You don’t want to help us find a murderer. You’re here for the money?’
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that!’ she said pulling at her friends arm. ‘We’ll be on our way.’
‘The reward,’ said Randall, calmly, ‘is only given if it leads to the capture of Hawksmoor. Now as you can imagine we’re desperate to catch this man before he kills again. So if you could tell us exactly what you saw?’
‘Well,’ said the girl giving Tomblin a nasty stare, ‘Tamsin and me had been to “The Pier”. Do you know “The Pier”?’
‘No,’ said Randall.
‘Well, we went there to meet Russell because he said he’d be in there with his mates, and it was good. But he’d got it all wrong because he wasn’t in and it was crap. So crap in fact that me and her left and went on to “Reamers”.
‘Could you get to the point please?’ said Tomblin.
‘The next time he speaks,’ she said to Randall with a growl, ‘we’re leavin’.’
‘Okay. Please carry on,’ Randall said with a strained smile.
The girl eyed Tomblin once again as Tamsin, quite suddenly, giggled loudly breaking the awkward silence.
‘Well, as I was saying we went on to “Reamers” and while we were in there, that’s when we saw him.’
‘Hawksmoor?’ asked Tomblin.
‘No Russell!’ she shouted wagging her finger at Tomblin, ‘I thought he was going to shut up?’
‘Okay, please go on.’
‘Well, while we were in there one of Russell’s mates took a fancy to Tamsin, but I didn’t like the look of him so I told him if he messed with her he’d have me to deal with.’
‘Poor sod,’ muttered Tomblin.
‘What did you say?’
‘Look,’ said Randall, ‘could you please get to the part of the story where you see Donald Hawksmoor?’
‘I was just gettin’ to that. You see Tamsin got a bit drunk. So we all decided to leave and get some breakfast. Anyway we went to this café on Drummond Street. You know the one, it’s Italian or French, or somethin’ foreign.’
‘Carlotti’s,’ said Hodges.
‘That’s it,’ she said smiling up at the Detective. ‘Well, anyway, when we walked in a man, that man,’ she pointed to Donald’s photograph on the front page, ‘threw a table in the air and ran out.’
‘Did you see which way he went?’ asked Randall.
‘I didn’t get a chance with the other ones barging past us.’
‘What other ones?’
‘The two blokes.’
Randall and Tomblin shared a quizzical glance.
‘Could you give us a description of the men?’
‘Hardly after what we’d drunk. Anyway, they were out in seconds.’
‘Could these two men have been police officers?’
‘I doubt it at their age.’
‘And what age do you think they were?’
‘Well, they must have been in their sixties. Mind you you’re a police man aren’t you love?’
‘Quite,’ said Randall rubbing his brow. ‘Now let me just get this right. You walked into the Carlotti’s café on Drummond Street, about what time?’
‘Must have been about four o’clock.’
‘And as you walked in, Hawksmoor threw a table in the air . . .’
‘I think it was at these two blokes actually.’
‘He threw a table over two men, who then chased him out of the cafe.’
‘And they say all crime is caused by the young, eh? Mind you I suppose if he’d have done that to me I’d have chased him out as well,’ she laughed loudly and was joined inadvertently by Tamsin.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Well, there was an old woman.’
‘An old woman?’
‘Yes, after they’d gone she was quite upset. She was crying her eyes out, poor love. Irish lady, I heard her talking to the café owner.’
‘Could you describe her?’
‘Small, grey hair with glasses. Little old lady.’
He pushed the newspaper across the table. ‘And you are quite sure it was that man?’
‘It was definitely him.’ She leant forward and stared at Donald’s photograph. ‘You wouldn’t think he was capable would you?’
‘Well, you have been most helpful. Now if you could make a statement and a brief description of the two men you can be on your way.’
‘Is that it? What about the money?’

As the two women were taken away the three men went out into the corridor.
‘So we were right,’ said Tomblin taking Randall by the arm. ‘He is still in London.’
‘Well,’ said Randall, ‘he was this morning.’
‘Who do you think the men were?’ asked Hodges.
‘Does it matter?’ said Tomblin. ‘There’s a reward! There’ll be all types of deviants trying to get their hands on him. What about the woman?’
‘As I remember,’ said Hodges taking out a notebook, ‘his housekeeper was Irish. Yes, here it is. A Mrs Kelly, lives on the same road.’
‘Get her in Elliot and the café owner.’
‘Sir,’ said Randall, turning to him. ‘Please let me do it my way.’
For a moment the two men stared at one another, and in that short time Randall was certain he saw a flash of anger in Tomblin’s eyes. Then, to Randall’s surprise, he nodded and began to walk off along the corridor. ‘Alright,’ he said without looking back, ‘but I need results Elliot, and I need them soon.’
Watching him disappear through a set of doors, Randall shook his head.
‘How old are you Hodges?’
‘Twenty eight,’ he said.
‘Take my advice, when the time comes take early retirement. But in the mean time go to the café owner, get a statement and then meet me at the housekeepers. Something’s not right here.’
‘You might be right. We’ve had calls claiming that Linda Kraner’s real name is actually . . .’
‘A one time variety performer by the name of Barbara Reed?’ Hodges seemed lost for words for a moment. ‘Don’t look so impressed Patricia Shaw gave me the same information. She knew her, apparently. But what I want to find is, how well Barbara Reed knew Dorothy Kite.’ Giving a sigh, he turned to face Hodges. ‘What’s the housekeeper’s name again?’
‘Kelly. Mrs Judith Kelly.’

Opening his eyes Donald peered into the deep blue void above him. He was conscious that he was moving (or possibly floating) in a generally upward direction. And it was this sensation, combined with the memory of his recent exit from a moving train, which wrongly gave him the impression that he was going to a better place.
It wasn’t long, however, before he realised that he was not in flight but in fact lying on a stretcher, and the four bobbing heads around him were not those of angels, but of men. He ached terribly and it was a pain that got worse the higher they climbed. Nearing the top of the hill Donald attempted a quick inventory of body parts, but as he did he felt the hot rush of pain engulf him completely, and in a second he was unconscious once more.
From the rear of the entourage Paul watched as the stretcher was carried towards the wood. He had run nearly two miles to get help but all he could do now was watch as the mysterious stranger was carried to the house. What guiding hand had put him in that part of the valley that morning? And in being there, had he saved the man’s life?
He would soon find out, he thought, as he followed the stretcher-bearers towards the dense wood. It was just then as he reached the dappled shade of the trees that he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Down in the valley, a mile or so from where they had discovered the injured man, he was certain he saw two figures emerging from one of the three train tunnels down in the valley. But as he shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand and looked along the ditches and bushes he could see nothing. Then, thinking nothing more of it he ran into the wood and disappeared into the shadows.

Squashed between two blocks of pre-war residential flats, stood 26 Lucent Avenue. It was, like it’s owner, small, yet impressive. Mrs Kelly and her late husband had inherited the property from her wealthy, yet eccentric, Uncle Finbar many years past. It had come as a great surprise to the young lady from Galway, as she had never been aware of having an uncle Finbar, wealthy or otherwise.
Randall had spotted the building described by Hodges as he parked the car. Ringing the bell, he waited for a minute or so before going to the bay window and staring pointlessly at the net curtain on the other side. Returning to the door he was preparing to ring the bell once more when he saw a bobbing white haired shape through the patterned glass.
‘Mrs Judith Kelly?’ he said as her small face appeared through the gap.
‘Depends who’s asking?’
‘My name is Randall . . .’
‘Are you now? And are you normally in the habit of staring through peoples front windows in the middle of the day?’
‘I’m sorry. There was no reply.’
‘I was doing me feet. If that’s all right with you.’
‘Yes . . .’ Not many people could put Randall on the back foot. Nevertheless, that’s where he found himself. Hurriedly he regrouped. ‘My name is Randall, Chief Inspector Randall.’
Since that night in the café, she had been dreading this very moment. ‘Well you see I don’t care, because you’re not coming in without a warren.’
‘You mean a warrant.’
‘I know what I mean and you’re not coming in!’
She closed the door.
‘Mrs Kelly,’ he said, calling through the letterbox. ‘Mrs Kelly, I want to talk to you about the early hours of this morning at Carlotti’s café.’ Slowly the door opened. ‘You know the one on Drummond Street? But what I would like to talk about mostly, is why you haven’t informed the police of the whereabouts of Donald Hawksmoor?’
As she slammed the door again the glass panes all across the first floor rattled, violently. Then after a few moments the door opened again and her face reappeared, this time tearful and flushed.
‘Shall we go in?’

Blowing her nose noisily Mrs Kelly was trying her best not to catch Randall’s eye. She needn’t have worried. His gaze was not on her but the many photographs that cluttered the small room. He guessed the young girl in the wedding dress was the old girl in her prime and that the gangly, almost embarrassed pleasant looking young man, was Mr Kelly. He quickly realised the wedding photo was not dissimilar to his own. Where was that now? Oddly, he had packed it away shortly after Emily’s death. An act now that gave him a strong sense of shame. Looking away, as if to shake off the sensation, he then realised from the amount of pictures of Donald that her husband had not been the only man in her life.
‘So you know Mr Hawksmoor well?’
She nodded as she wiped her nose. ‘I was his housekeeper for over thirty years. I stopped last year . . . but I’ve since resumed my duties,’ she added quickly.
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Mr Hawksmoor went through a bad time and he couldn’t pay me, but I would have done it for nothing. He knew that. He’s a good man and he’s not responsible for these murders.’
‘Did he say that?’
‘I’m saying that.’
‘How did he contact you?’
‘I don’t want to say, I don’t want to get him in trouble.’ Suddenly, she realised what she’d said. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘Mrs Kelly you either tell me here or down at the station, but I need to know what he told you and what went on in that café. I have a detective interviewing the café owner right now. He will be meeting me here soon. I think it would be a good idea if both of your stories matched, don’t you?’ The tears in her eyes had gone now, but had been replaced with a glare of tenacity. Randall saw it instantly and so pressed her again. ‘Do I have to spell this out? You are in serious trouble. You have assisted a criminal in . . .’
‘They told Mr Hawksmoor they’d shoot me!’
He knew it was coming but was taken aback nevertheless when it came. Remaining silent as she stood up, he waited, as he had always waited, for the guilty conscience to free itself from its bounds and run wild. Opening a cabinet littered with photographs she took out a bottle of sherry. Three times she waved a little fat forefinger at him and started to speak, but her anger was such that each time she choked up. Finally she filled a glass and sank it in one. It seemed to free her instantly. Slamming down the glass she glowered at him, her chest rising and falling alarmingly as if it was about to explode.
‘When the door opened and some people came in he took his chance and ran out, probably saving my life! Now is that the actions of a murderer?’
‘He left you behind, though?’
‘I know but . . .’
‘Not exactly the actions of a loyal friend?’
‘’They weren’t after me you nasty swine!’ she growled as she gripped the sherry bottle.
‘Mrs Kelly,’ he said jumping to his feet. ‘This may come as a big surprise but I think I may be the only one who can save him.’ Turning her back on him she poured herself another drink. ‘Now if I’m going to do that, I need all the information I can get, so please tell me what you know.’
She stared at him long and hard, before sinking the drink in one (this one quicker than the first) and walking to the armchair. It didn’t take long for her to tell what she knew and he realised as she did what a great burden it had all been for her. As she talked, Randall attempted to link the names, the places and the information building in his head. It was an elaborate puzzle, a jigsaw with no guarantee that all the pieces were the right ones.
When finally she stopped and the room became silent once more, Randall took the glass from her and topped it up again.
‘No I couldn’t. I rarely drink,’ she said as he handed her the glass.
‘One more won’t do any arm. Go on you’ve earned it.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ she said taking it from him.
‘When you’ve finished it, I want you to pack a case.’
‘But I’ve told you all I know.’
‘I need you out of the way until this is all over? Is there anyone you can stay with at short notice?’
‘Well, there’s Mrs Peel. She lives over in Greenwich. Why?’
‘The two men in the café,’ he said turning to face the window. ‘They’ll be back.’ Slowly he approached the net curtain and drew it aside with the back of his hand. For a moment, as if reminded of some terrible nightmare he stared out. Then he turned. His warm smile fixed as ever across his small welcoming face. ‘I want you out of the way Mrs Kelly. Call your friend and tell her there’s an emergency. You’ve got no power or something. She’ll understand.’
‘But is there any need for me . . .’
‘If there wasn’t I wouldn’t have suggested it.’
His tone was overwhelming. ‘I’ll get my things.’
As she walked to the bedroom, the thin shrill of the doorbell rang out along the hall. For a moment there was a look of absolute terror on her face.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s the Detective I told you about. I’ll get it while you pack.’
As she called her friend, Randall took Hodges into the living room.
‘How did you get on?’
‘Well,’ said Hodges, ‘the café owner, an Antonio Carlotti, found Hawksmoor collapsed on the pavement outside the café when he opened up. He was about to call for an ambulance when the housekeeper appeared.’
‘And she talked him out of it?’
‘That’s right. One other thing, he claims he saw Hawksmoor a few days before, apparently he was with a girl.’
‘Wednesday morning?’ asked Randall.
‘That’s right, the day after he was arrested in the pub.’
‘Yes, that ties in. He was realised from the station around that time.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hodges, confidently. ‘What’s she doing?’
‘She’s going away for a few days.’
‘Aren’t we nicking her?’
‘I’ll explain later,’ said Randall, as she appeared inappropriately dressed for the hot day in a thick coat and hat.
‘I’ve just remembered something . . .’ Noticing Hodges, she suddenly stopped.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Well, two things. One of the men, the one with the gun . . . he only had half an ear.’
‘An ear?’ said Hodges in disgust.
‘And the other?’ added Randall.
‘The other one was fine.’
‘No, the other thing you had remembered.’
‘Oh, yes. Mr Hawksmoor showed me a photograph.’
‘Of what?’
‘A group of people, it was taken quite a while ago, the sixties I would say by their dress.’
‘Did you recognise any of them?’
‘Yes, there was the actress Dorothy kite and a man who died recently, Harry, now what was his other name?’
‘Kessler,’ said the two men as they looked at one another; their shock almost palpable.

The first thing Donald saw when he opened his eyes for the second time that day was a large gleaming metal cross at the bottom of his bed. Apart from that, a small table next to the bed and a cheap reproduction painting of Madonna and child, the room was quite bare.
‘Welcome to Orchid House,’ said a voice.
Slowly Donald turned his aching head to see a very tall man standing next to an open window. His greying beard and hair contrasted strongly with his suntanned face, and when he smiled Donald could almost feel his warmth. Then he noticed the other man near the door. He was small and rotund with long thinning black hair and a large red blemish on his right cheek.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ said the man at the window. ‘Just rest.’
Ignoring the instruction, Donald tried to push himself up. Even though he had slept for most of the morning he was still aching and exhausted.
‘It’s alright,’ continued the man moving towards the bed. ‘You don’t have to worry, you’re safe here.’
‘Don’t tell them where I am?’ whispered Donald.
‘It’s okay you’re safe; relax. My name is Quinn and this is Peter. You can stay with us as long as you need too.’
‘I need a drink.’
‘I have prepared some nutritious fare,’ he said with a smile. ‘We live off the land here and as you will quickly discover our way of life can revitalise even the most troubled of souls.’
There was a knock at the door and Peter opened it to reveal Paul with a tray of food and water.
‘This is the young man who found you.’
Donald was so weak he could barely see him.
‘That’ll be everything,’ said Quinn, as Paul put the tray on the table and backed out, his eyes fixed on Donald. ‘If you need anything just ring the bell, we’ll be back to check on you later. Eat what you can and try to sleep.’
Death, Donald decided when he woke an hour later, was toying with him; prolonging the agony. It was showing him its terrors and then releasing its grasp for another time. Indeed, if it hadn’t had been for his current disability and his abject fear of pain, he would have gladly taken on the responsibility himself, and in doing so deprive the Reaper of his moment of glory.
Looking down the bed he could see his right arm and wrist were heavily bandaged and beneath the covers he was aware that his foot, until then all but healed from the fateful night on the balcony, was once again throbbing with an aching dull pain. With this in mind he knew there was no possible way he could raise any part of his shattered body to quench his thirst, and within no time at all he had fallen back into a deep sleep.

Later, with a soft breeze pushing at the curtains, Donald woke to the sound of a blackbird. Its song seemed unearthly and for a moment he couldn’t understand why. Then it became clear. From another part of the house there was music, but far from drowning out the song of the bird it complemented it. Man and nature as one.
After a while he forced himself up and peered out of the window. He couldn’t see any other part of the building he was in but from the view he realised he was on the first floor. Then he glanced up and noticed the small chapel high on the hill. Built in a light stone and surrounded by dark green grass it seemed like a dream. An image that time would never change. He studied it for some time until the door suddenly opened and Paul appeared.
‘Sorry, I thought you might still be sleeping.’ He came in and closed the door. ‘What’s your name?’
‘You’re the boy who found me?’ During the morning he had grown in strength, but even now he was still frail.
‘Yes. I’m Paul.’
He was small with bad teeth and straight mousy hair. The bullied type that never really amounts to anything, but has an inherent sense of joy for the world, regardless of circumstance.
Donald put his head down on the pillow and looked up to the ceiling. ‘Where am I?’
‘Orchid House. Didn’t Quinn tell you?’
‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes, will you be staying with us?’
‘Us?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy smiling with pride. ‘We are the Brotherhood of Christ.’
‘Are you really?’ Donald muttered to himself. ‘Who is Quinn? Your leader?’
‘He’s one of the elders. But I suppose he’s the man in charge, the man who makes all the decisions.’
‘And where is,’ suddenly a series of coughs took the words form his mouth. ‘Where is, Orchid House?’
‘In the Chiltern Hills, about ten miles from Amersham. Where do you come from?’
‘You ask a lot of questions? Tell me what was that singing I heard earlier?’
‘That would be Simon. He was with me when I found you. He fainted,’ he giggled, ‘we thought your nose had fallen off. Was it fancy dress?’
‘Something like that.’ For a moment Donald watched the boy. Ever since he had appeared he had been running his fingers along a thin silver chain around his neck. ‘What will happen to me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you watch the news?’ Donald said, sarcastically.
‘No, we don’t have any power here, and the only contact we have with the outside is when we sell our produce at the local market.’
Donald sat up and looked at the boy.
‘What about newspapers?’
‘We’re not allowed them. Quinn says they’re peddlers of evil.’
‘Well, I’ll agree with him there. So what is this Brotherhood of Christ?’
‘Well, Quinn says that we are the disciples.’
‘He does, does he?’
‘We are here to learn about Jesus and what he stood for and then we are,’ he looked up and focused like a child in a nativity play. ‘To be cast to the four corners of the earth to spread the teachings of the lord.’
‘I see,’ said Donald, trying to hide grin. It was then he noticed a small silver cross on the boy’s chain. It glowed in the light. ‘And what do you think about all of that?’
‘I don’t really know. But it’s good and it means that I will get into heaven.’
‘What makes you think you won’t get in anyway?’
‘Quinn says I must redeem myself.’
‘I see. And why does he say that?’
‘Because I’ve been to a young offenders institute.’
‘Prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the food like?’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. Where are my clothes?’
Dragging back the covers pushing himself forward he promptly collapsed onto the floor. Paul was out of the door in a second. By the time he returned with Quinn and Peter, Donald had managed to pull himself back onto the bed and was feeling decidedly the worse for wear.
‘Get more pillows,’ ordered Quinn.
As Paul scurried out of the room again, Quinn stepped forward with a knowing smile. Then placing a hand on Donald’s shoulder he leant forward and whispered in his ear.
‘If you wanted to explore our world Mr Hawksmoor, you only had to ask.’

When Mrs Kelly had been safely dispatched to Greenwich, Randall made his way back to the city centre by the way of the Thames, where, to Hodges’ surprise, he turned off and approached a small pub nestling next to the river.
‘I thought we’d be getting back?’ said the young man. Randall said nothing as he got out of the car and stretched. ‘I was just thinking of Mr Tomblin, sir. You know what he’s like about pubs?’
‘I do. Better than most.’ He turned and looked at him across the top of the car. ‘Hodges, do you want a drink or not?’
‘Well, yes I suppose so.’
‘Fine. Then let’s do that away from the prying eyes of Chief Superintendent Tomblin.’

The sun was low in the sky sun as they sat down and looked out across the Thames. At first Randall seemed distant. And for one terrible moment Hodges feared he might have discovered Tomblin’s secret visit a few days earlier.
‘Quite a sunset.’
‘Yes,’ said Hodges, gulping down his pint nervously.
‘Quite a city. Do you like it here?’
‘I love it here.’
‘Yes, you have to love it. Love seems to mask the faults we know are there. A bit like being married. If there’s no love, hatred soon rears its ugly little head. I’ve always loved this city.’
Hodges was slightly embarrassed by the remark. Randall the philosopher was a part he had never seen.
‘So why move the old lady?’ he muttered nervously.
‘Because of what she witnessed in the café,’ said Randall putting his drink down. ‘The men who chased Hawksmoor out were armed. Why? Who were they?’
‘Bounty hunters as Tomblin said?’
‘Come on Hodges, I know we’ve got gun crime but we haven’t got to that point yet. These men weren’t amateurs. They knew were he was, which means they had either followed him or the old woman. And if they’d followed her it means they were watching her house. Which begs the question, why weren’t we? Mrs Kelly, and possibly the cafe owner are the only ones who can identify them.’
‘What about those girls from the club?’
‘What in their state?’
‘They recognised Hawksmoor.’
‘Only because he barged into them and his face is plastered over every newspaper in London.’ He took up his glass again and was about to sink another mouthful when he stopped and put it down suddenly. ‘Were there any incidents at Marylebone station this morning?’
‘Marylebone? None that I know of. I can check. We’ve got people at every station. Why Marylebone?’
‘Because, as far as I’m aware, it’s the nearest main line station to Drummond Street. Now if he did manage to get away from his pursuers and was trying to get out of London, and I think he was, it’s just up the road.’
‘So you think he’s already out?’
‘Of London? I think there’s a good chance.’
Hodges watched him for a second and then looked out over the river. ‘Will you tell Tomblin?’
Randall smiled to himself. ‘We better be getting back.’
‘Could I just show you something first?’ Randall hadn’t spotted it, but there was a thick manilla envelope stuffed into his jacket pocket. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I managed to dig out a copy of The Times from Boxing Day nineteen sixty-nine?’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Dorothy Kite.’
‘Hodges, I thought I told you to let it go?’
Yes, I know, but just listen. It confirms what we already knew about the plane being struck by lightning. But it appears the pilot tried to make an emergency landing on Loch Erine and all though he was partially successful and some passengers survived the initial impact, the rest died trying to get ashore.’
‘I see,’ he said, casually. ‘And Kite?’
‘It just mentions the fact that she was on the flight.’
‘What was the planes destination?’
‘Kinloss.’
‘That’s the highlands isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. And next you’re going to ask where Loch Erine is?’
Randall smiled and shook his head. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out. Go on then, where is Lock Erine?’
‘The west coast.’
‘Maybe the storm was so bad they had to alter course?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And that’s it?’
By the excited look on his Hodges’ face he knew it wasn’t. The young detective was glowing with youthful confidence, and despite his negative tone, Randall was finding it rather infectious.
‘Well,’ he said swallowing a mouthful of beer, ‘last night I was looking on the Internet and I discovered there are quite a few conspiracy theories regarding the crash.’
‘Go on then, get it over with.’
‘The odd thing is, at the enquiry it was stated that the plane, a De Havilland Devon, took off from RAF Brize Norton with three crew and one passenger.’
‘The one passenger being Dorothy Kite?’
‘Yes, but according to an ex-RAF serviceman, there wasn’t one passenger, but four.’
‘I see,’ said Randall, trying to hide his growing curiosity. ‘And why was Kite flying north?’
‘According to this she was visiting an orphanage. Apparently, she was the patron.’
‘And she flew from an RAF base? Is that common practice?’
‘I don’t know, maybe not. But according to this guy Ronnie Cope, there were definitely seven people on the plane.’
‘Was he called to the enquiry?’
‘Doesn’t say.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘I could find out. His address is in there.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Randall, pushing his empty glass across the table. ‘We’ve got enough on our plate. But I’ll take this,’ he said taking up the battered envelope. Then standing from the table he turned and winked. ‘This could be a project for my retirement.’

Grey and frail, Donald was wheeled through the house in a dilapidated wheelchair. With its wrought iron frame rattling beneath him, and the solid rubber wheels transferring ripples of pain through his aching body, it was more like a chair of torture than one of recuperation. Eventually he was directed into Quinn’s study where he was suddenly and unceremoniously parked in a corner.
Situated, as it was in the very centre of the house, above the protruding entrance hall, the room commanded an astonishing view of the valley below. Nonetheless, Donald’s focus remained in the room. From floor to ceiling the space was overflowing with books of all sizes. The whiff of mouldy paper was overwhelming but despite it, he marvelled at the ranks of leather bound manuscripts, some so thick and heavy it seemed the house itself was built around them. Like some ancient archive it held a magical presence, one that Donald, a great lover of the written word, sensed deeply.
Suddenly he noticed movement out on the terrace and watched as a silhouetted figure moved towards the door. For a moment he was afraid, then he realised who it was. Quinn was indeed a big man, six-foot-six or possibly six-foot-seven; either way two or three inches taller than himself. He radiated self-assurance, engendered from another place; unlike Donald’s that now only flickered, briefly, when fired by the booze.

Stopping before him Quinn smiled and studied him for a moment, before circling the chair and taking him out onto the terrace. The view was indeed outstanding. With the hills to the rear of the house there was an almost limitless expanse of countryside ahead. But again Donald was not aware of it. He was too preoccupied by Quinn moving gracefully to the terrace wall. As they shared a glance Donald suddenly understood how men like him could inspire so much in others.
The sun was dipping behind the hills, turning the evening clouds and his host’s countenance a very deep red. Donald was sure there was an analogy there somewhere, but he was far too tired to think.
‘Stunning isn’t it?’
‘Marvellous,’ said Donald sarcastically, massaging his bandaged hand.
‘How are you feeling? The sleep did you good I take it?’ Donald didn’t answer; instead he stared down at the wheels of the chair, worn smooth over the decades. ‘I called in on you a couple of times; you were sleeping like a child.’
Again Donald said nothing, prompting Quinn to move closer to his patient.
‘Mr Hawksmoor I can’t imagine what you have gone through, but at least let me help you get back on your feet. Then maybe in time we can talk at length about your . . .’ He paused for a moment, searching for the right word. ‘Your problems?’ Still Donald looked away. ‘I saw you on stage in the Edinburgh festival once, many years ago.’
‘Really?’ said Donald finally looking up. ‘I thought your face looked familiar.’
Quinn drew his head back and laughed. ‘Well, it is nice to see the situation hasn’t dulled your wit.’
‘I try my best.’
‘You were a fine actor.’
‘Still am.’
‘I’m sorry. They said in the press you had retired.’
‘Just resting.’ He smiled and patted the wheelchair. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘It was Hamlet as I remember. You were, if you don’t mind me saying, quite magnificent. I seem to remember your scenes with Ophelia being quite electrifying. Who was the actress again?’
‘A woman by the name of Kite. Dorothy Kite.’
‘Ah, yes, she died tragically I believe.’
‘Apparently so,’ said Donald shuffling uneasily in the chair. He looked up. ‘So do you listen to a transistor under your bedclothes at night?’
‘Nothing as romantic as that,’ said Quinn laughing again. ‘No, I saw you’re photograph in the post office last market day.’
‘So how long before the police arrive?’
‘You sound like a gangster.’
‘Do I?’ said Donald, angrily. ‘And how should I sound?’
‘Try not to get excited.’
‘I didn’t kill those people you know?’
Thinking of Dorothy again had unsettled him.
‘I don’t care,’ said Quinn. ‘And just for the record I have no idea when the police will arrive. They have not been informed.’
‘How very Christian of you.’
Quinn smiled. ‘You’re very bitter.’
‘I have reason to be.’
‘You must realise,’ he said, suddenly leaning forward and placing his hands on the chair. ‘You’re safe here. I have no intention of informing the police. That is a decision you must make on your own when you are strong enough.’
‘And what if I decide, when I’m strong enough, not to confess to my terrible crimes? What then? Will you be content in the knowledge that the lord will strike me down in his own good time? Or is it burn in the eternal fires of hell? I never am sure with you people.’ Quinn’s smile remained as steady as ever. ‘What about the rest of your brotherhood?’ he snapped. ‘Do any of them know of my awful secret?’
‘No one else is aware of your identity. As I said, you are safe. Now don’t tire yourself.’
Donald shuffled awkwardly again before noticing a group of young men coming in from the fields.
‘What is this place, and where do you find all these poor devils?’
‘We are a colony of like-minded souls who sense the pain of humanity.’
‘Did you just make that up?’
‘The world is lost Mr Hawksmoor.’ He said as he turned and slowly paced the terrace. ‘And it will be people like myself that man will look to when the mountains fall into the seas and chaos is brought upon the world.’
‘Really? Well, good luck to you old boy. But please save the sermon because it’s wasted on me. What the hell do you want from me anyway? Three people are dead, probably because of me. Every police officer in Britain is after me and on top of all of that yesterday two deranged pensioners tried to throw me from a moving train! Now what do you want me to do? Throw myself at your feet and repent of my sins? Do you? Well, I don’t do that sort of thing. I realise its probably a daily occurrence in a place like this with a man like you in charge, but I don’t go for all that fire and brimstone nonsense. Now if you don’t mind I like to get some rest . . .’
‘Let me pray for you?’ said Quinn grabbing him by the arms, his face inches from Donald’s.
There was a brief moment of tension, until Donald broke it with a grin.
‘Only if it’s something you feel strongly about.’ Quinn realised his grip, but now there was no smile. ‘No,’ said Donald, ‘I think we both realise what a waste of time that would be.’
Quinn walked to the balcony and for a moment, despite the bravado, Donald was frightened and unsure what to say or do. Instead, concealed within Quinn’s huge shadow, he watched the man’s incredible stillness. The moment seemed endless. Then, finally, as an arrow of geese shot across the evening sky, Quinn turned.
‘I think you’re probably right, Mr Hawksmoor. You do need to rest.’

Peter was reading a passage of the bible to Paul as Quinn appeared in the doorway.
‘Take Mr Hawksmoor to his room, Paul,’ he said, placing a hand on Donald’s shoulder. ‘We will speak further in the morning. Sleep well.’
As Paul struggled with the antiquated chair the two men watched as they disappeared along the passageway.
‘This man needs more help than I realised. I sense much is wrong with his soul, and our time is short.’ As he stepped back into the room Peter saw how pale he had become. ‘Tomorrow evening the chapel must be prepared and everyone should be in attendance.’ His large brown eyes, normally so clear and alive, seemed suddenly empty and black. ‘Dark forces are massing and we must be prepared.’