– Oh thank God.
She slumped a little, closed her eyes for a moment.
– I’m sure, said Child, that you’ve been through all this at least a couple of times already. But if you don’t mind. When was the last time you saw Daniel?
– Last night. In here. He wasn’t looking forward to getting up early. He likes his sleep. He didn’t know whether it was better to force himself to go to bed early or not. He was afraid he wouldn’t sleep.
– Apart from that he was in a good mood?
– Yes, he was fine. He’s always fine. He’s very … he doesn’t really do moods.
– You didn’t hear him leave this morning?
– No. He’s quiet in the mornings. He has his own floor, more or less. The top floor. Sometimes I hear him clumping around, but not this morning.
Her eyes had lost focus. She was calmer.
– Is Mr Andone still here? Hawthorn asked.
– He went to take a shower.
– Did you have a normal weekend? Child asked.
– Me? Yes.
– What about Daniel? Do you know if he was doing anything unusual this weekend?
– Not that I know of. I don’t know. He was out late on Saturday. He slept late yesterday. But that’s not unusual is it?
– Did he have anyone to stay?
– Not that I saw.
– Would you, typically, see people that Daniel had over?
– Sometimes, probably. On a weekend, yes, usually.
– Does he have a lot of people to stay?
She shrugged and smiled.
– What’s a lot? More than I do, that’s for sure.
– Anyone regular?
– Not lately, no.
– We’re not investigating anything other than Daniel’s shooting, but I need to ask you whether Daniel uses any drugs.
– How is that relevant?
She looked at Child, but she didn’t seem particularly surprised.
– Well it may not be. But most violent crime in this city is drug related.
She thought for a moment.
– He smokes the occasional joint. That’s all I know about. I’m sure that’s all he does.
– Where does he get it?
She hesitated, glanced at the door.
– Walter usually has some. He gets a little extra sometimes and Dan and I will have some.
– Does he get it locally?
– No, at uni I think. He knows someone. We haven’t had any in ages. Well, I haven’t. And I don’t think Dan has either.
Hawthorn cleared his throat.
– Do you know anyone who drives a vintage car?
Child looked at him.
– No.
– Anyone who has an old car, or an unusual one? A kit car or anything?
– I don’t know what a kit car is. I don’t know anyone who has any kind of car. Except our neighbours. Some people at work I suppose. I don’t really know anything about cars. Why?
He didn’t feel able to tell her. He wasn’t sure why. He shrugged.
– It’s not important, said Child. Do you pay Walter for the extra that he gets?
– Yes. Or Dan does, usually. It’s not very much. A fiver here and there.
– Would you mind, Hawthorn interrupted, if I had a look around?
– Go ahead.
Child closed his eyes briefly, gave a low sigh. Hawthorn smiled at Alison Gayle.
It was a warm, well-kept house. There were wooden floors, good rugs, framed prints on the walls. But there were pieces of old, solid furniture as well. The heavy, dark kitchen table. A dresser in the hallway. Bookcases in the living room that looked made for the space.
He stood in front of them. There was a large television and a games console. In the bookcases, as well as books, there were two shelves full of DVDs and some games. On one shelf there were a lot of old black-and-white films – Ealing comedies, World War II movies, lots of Hitchcock. On the other, science fiction, including TV box sets of American shows that Hawthorn recognized. The games meant nothing to him.
There were three doors off the first floor landing. The bathroom door was open and a warm mist hung in its bright light. Hawthorn paused. He could hear a radio, he thought, behind one of the closed doors. He continued up the stairs. The top floor landing was slightly smaller than the one below it. Three doors again. Hawthorn opened them.
One was a cupboard with water tanks and wooden
shelving
and piles of towels and bedding. The other was a small bathroom. No bath, just a shower unit, sink and toilet. It looked recently installed. There was a small stack of
magazines
on the window sill. Everything was clean.
The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn. He stood in the doorway and flicked the light switch and stepped in. He closed his eyes, briefly. He inhaled. He reached out and switched the light off again. Then he switched it on. He reached for his notebook.
The bed was unmade. A duvet was piled up at its centre as if picked up and thrown there. There was a large wicker laundry basket by the door, beside a wardrobe. There was a desk to the left of the bed. There were some cables sitting on it, for his laptop presumably. There was a hard drive. There was a phone charger. Hawthorn ducked and saw a large
plug-board
under the table, switched off at the socket, which was to the right, under the window. There was a bedside table – a little two-drawer locker – with a lamp, a clock radio and a glass of water sitting on it. On the other side of the bed there was a chest of drawers. A couple of jumpers sat neatly folded on top. There was a pair of jeans on the floor. There was a bookcase. It was full, mostly with books, though there were also some DVDs and CDs. There were two framed prints on the wall above the desk. One was an art deco poster
advertising
the tube. The other was a poster for a film, or perhaps a comic book, in French.
Hawthorn switched off the light again. The curtains were heavy. They excluded most of the day. The alarm clock had green digits. There was something glinting in the corner. He switched the light on. It was a tin on the lowest of the
bookshelves
. A metal box. A tin. A container. Little things were perched in front of the books all over the bookshelves. Little toy-like things. A ring. An old lighter. A London snow globe. There was an iPod box, a camera, a pair of gloves. There were a couple of photographs in frames. Some
postcards
.
Hawthorn went over and looked at the photographs. He assumed the mother, the sister. There was a family portrait a few years old. A younger Daniel, his hair longer, his mother and sister, a man with sunglasses, his arms folded. There were two postcards. One was signed
Dad
. It showed an
old-fashioned
space rocket standing upright against a blue sky. It was from the NASA Space Centre in Houston. Hawthorn couldn’t read the writing on the other one. It showed a view of Prague.
He walked to the door and looked out. He listened. He walked over to the stairs and looked down and listened. He could still hear the low sound of the radio on the floor below. Nothing else. He went back to the doorway of the bedroom. He turned the light off again.
He didn’t move at all for a while. Then he walked quickly into the room, slipping off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He took the duvet and spread it out properly. He looked at the door for a moment, and then he lifted the corner of the duvet and climbed into the bed.
He stared at the ceiling. The room was cold. He sniffed. He moved his legs. Then he shifted on to his left side, facing the bookcase. His left arm came out and draped itself across the pillows. He stayed like that for a couple of minutes, sniffing. Then he turned on to his right side, facing the little bedside table. He lay still for a while. Then he propped himself up on his elbow and turned on the bedside lamp.
The top drawer was full of socks and underwear. He
rummaged
a little and came up with two cufflink boxes, a tiepin and a pair of cheap flip-flops. In the lower drawer there were condoms, a bottle of poppers, various …
He heard a noise.
He switched off the lamp. Closed the drawer.
Nothing happened. He couldn’t hear it now.
Then he heard a creak, like a floorboard. A door closed. Below him somewhere. There was a small silence, and then the sound of someone trotting down the stairs. Or up the stairs. Up the stairs.
He lay back on the bed. He slid down so that his head was off the pillow, flat on the mattress. A figure appeared in the doorway. It seemed to pause. To look into the room. Hawthorn could see a silhouette only, and only the upper part of that. It looked like a little old man, hunched over, regarding him, tilting his head, considering Hawthorn. Sniffing. It sniffed. It seemed to stay still for a long time. Hawthorn did not breathe. He did not move his eyes. The silhouette reached out towards him. It seemed to. Then it was gone. There was the click of the airing-cupboard door opening. And a silence. Then the same click again. Closing. There were human noises – a half cough, a throat clearing, another sniff. Then feet,
trotting
down the stairs.
He got out of the bed and put on his shoes and his jacket and turned on the light and wrote down some of the book titles. There was a lot of history. He looked in the tin box, the container that had glinted in the dark. He struggled with the lid. It was empty.
– I’m not interested in anything other than the shooting. I’m not investigating Daniel.
– It sounds like you are.
– Really, I’m not.
– Walter, just tell him.
– It has nothing to do with anything.
– It probably doesn’t. But I’m sure you’d want to be certain. For peace of mind. I’m not interested in some minor pot buying, believe me. Or selling.
– I know …
Hawthorn stepped into the kitchen.
– Who are you?
Walter Andone was small, muscular, clean-shaven,
dark-haired
. His accent was very lightly East European, or possibly Italian.
– I’m Detective Hawthorn.
– May I see some ID please?
– Oh, Walter, for Christ’s sake.
– Of course.
Hawthorn rummaged for it, smiling. Alison Gayle looked apologetically at him.
– Did you find your way around all right? she asked.
– Thanks, yes.
– You were upstairs?
Hawthorn glanced at Child and Alison Gayle. He found his warrant card and held it out.
– Yes. You must be Mr Andone.
He snatched the card from Hawthorn’s hand.
– Where were you? Doing what?
Hawthorn smiled at him.
– I was having a look in Daniel’s room.
Andone stared at him. Not at the card. He hadn’t even looked at the card.
– Just now?
– Yes. I was in the living room as well. That’s all. Who’s the movie buff?
Andone continued to stare.
– You have a search warrant?
– No.
– I thought you needed a warrant to search anywhere.
– It’s not a search, said Child. But in any case, when someone is the victim of a crime, the law allows us to assume consent in relation to their premises.
Child spoke genially. Andone nodded, his eyes on Hawthorn. He looked at the card and handed it back.
– What are you looking for?
– We’re just trying to get an idea of who might have wanted to shoot Daniel.
It was Child who was talking, but Andone looked at Hawthorn.
– In his room?
– We don’t have the benefit of knowing him. How long have you known him?
– A year. A little more.
Hawthorn said nothing.
– I am not telling you anything about any drugs. I am saying nothing about it whatsoever.
Child sighed.
– Well tell me this at least. Do you know any dealers who are local?
Andone turned his attention to Child.
– No. I can say that. No.
– Do you know any from Tottenham?
He considered this. Hawthorn stood by the wall.
– No. Not at all.
– Do you know, Hawthorn said, anyone who owns a vintage car?
Andone glared at him again.
– A vintage car? No.
– Tottenham, said Child. Do you have any connection with Tottenham? With anyone in Tottenham who is involved in selling drugs?
– From a vintage car?
– Forget the vintage car.
– No. I do not know anyone from Tottenham.
They all looked at each other. Hawthorn took out his notebook. The others watched him do that, as if they expected something to come of it.
Child coughed.
– OK, he said. OK. If you do think of any connection to Tottenham, please let us know. It could be very important.
As they walked back to the car Hawthorn looked through his notebook while Child talked. While Child complained.
Hunched … tin box … NASA
. He complained about Andone and Alison Gayle.
Marine … pools of light /pools of shadow
…
ribbing
. He complained about Hawthorn.
London, A Biography … Jewish London … The Man Who Knew Too Much.
He complained about the car.
Hawthorn read his notebook while he pretended to listen to Child. Or, he listened to Child while he pretended to read his notebook. He didn’t know which it was.
Daniel Field was alive and would recover. He was heavily sedated and sleeping. A family liaison officer met them outside an intensive care waiting room. Through the small window in the door they could see Mrs Field pacing up and down, talking on the telephone while her daughter sat in a corner, her attention fixed on the mobile phone in her hand. They waited.
– Did he regain consciousness at all? Hawthorn asked.
– Briefly, yes, in recovery.
– And?
– And what?
– What did he say?
– Nothing. After four hours of surgery? Nothing at all.
– Who’s she talking to?
– Her ex-husband. Any arrests yet?
– Last seen heading north, said Child. They think they’re in Manchester. There’s pictures of them all the way up the M6.
– In the Hyundai?
– In the Hyundai. Not the brightest, these boys.
– And crack high.
– This is the third of these in the last year.
– Third?