It was midafternoon by the time Hugo Hawksworthy arrived at the police enquiry office, tight-lipped and indignant. He’d surrendered quietly enough, Tom and I learned, over the vociferous protests of Isla Ferris, who’d practically thrown herself between Hawksworthy and Constable Doaks.
Tom and I were seated in Okoje’s office, facing a monitor on his desk. We held steaming mugs of tea. The old, waist-high radiator clunked out a comforting warmth.
“You can watch the interview from here,” Okoje had told us earlier. “You’ve spent time with Hawksworthy, Mrs. Hamilton, and you know the museum personnel. If there’s anything we should follow up, make a note.”
“Ask him if he got tea,” I said.
“Tea?” Okoje’s mouth turned down. “If you say so.”
“Is this usual procedure?” I whispered to Tom when he’d left. “Allowing private investigators to witness police interviews?”
“He says we deserve it, after all we’ve been through.”
“I agree with that. Still—”
“The real answer is no—it’s not usual procedure. If you ask me, Okoje’s taking a chance. He’s unconventional. If I’ve learned one thing about Elijah Okoje, it’s he’s willing to bend the rules to get results. So far he’s got away with it. If he keeps getting away with it, he’ll end up chief constable. If he doesn’t, he might find himself back in uniform.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Very much. He’s as smart as they come—and honest as an old penny, as Uncle Nigel used to say.”
The monitor on Okoje’s desk flickered. The camera in the interview room had been mounted near the ceiling, so we looked down on the small metal table. Dr. Hawksworthy sat on one side with his solicitor, a rather slick-looking man in a conservative navy suit and striped tie. Hawksworthy looked defiant. His solicitor looked worried.
Okoje entered the interview room, almost filling it with his height and breadth. He was followed by Varma and Constable O’Brien. The interview began with preliminaries. Constable O’Brien would be taking notes. Did Hawksworthy need anything? A cup of tea, perhaps? A glass of water?
Okoje let Varma take the lead. “We’ve brought you in today under caution because we’ve discovered new evidence in the shooting death of Gideon Littlejohn. We’d like to go over the account you gave earlier of your movements the morning of January fifth. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand your rights, Dr. Hawksworthy? It is Doctor, isn’t it?”
“That’s correct, but I don’t insist on it. Yes, I understand my rights.”
“Are you comfortable? Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink?”
“I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Very well,” Varma said cheerfully. “If you need a break at any time, let us know. Now, you’ve stated previously you were with Ms. Ferris, your administrative assistant, the morning of January fifth. Is that correct?’
“Ms. Ferris is the assistant director of the museum. I said I was with her, and I believe Ms. Ferris confirmed it.”
“You know a witness claims to have seen you at the Old Merchant’s House that morning a little before nine AM. Can you explain that?”
“As I told you before”—Hawksworthy pretended a false patience—“your witness is either mistaken or lying. I wasn’t there. I was with Ms. Ferris until about eight thirty; then I went for a run.”
Varma nodded. “Thank you. Where were you born, Dr. Hawksworthy? Where did you spend your youth?”
Was it my imagination, but did a muscle near Hawksworthy’s eye twitch?
“Exeter.”
“Can you be more specific? What area of the city—a particular estate?”
Hawksworthy attempted a bluff tone. “It’s no secret. I grew up on the Burnthouse Lane estate.”
“A rough place to grow up in the 1980s and ’90s. Would you agree?”
“Which is why I left as soon as possible.”
“To begin your stellar academic career. Well done. You’ve certainly come up in the world. Did you know Teddy Pearce growing up?”
Hawksworthy relaxed. “I knew who he was. We were on the same football team briefly, but we weren’t friends.”
“Does he know you grew up on the same estate?”
“Actually, I’m not sure he does. We’ve never spoken of it.” He blinked rapidly.
He was lying. I was sure of it. Whatever their involvement, both Hawksworthy and Pearce had put the horrific events of that night in 1992 behind them. Or tried to.
If Varma noticed the tell, he gave no indication of it. “Pearce is another lad from the estate who’s come up in the world, wouldn’t you say?”
“We’re all very proud of him.”
Tom leaned over. “Textbook police interrogation technique. I’m impressed.”
I was too. Varma was relaxed, intimate, supportive, often nodding his head at Hawksworthy’s responses. Putting him at ease. Okoje sat very still, a silent but ominous presence. Was Varma the so-called good cop and Okoje the bad cop?
“Did you also know a younger boy named Gordon Little?” Varma asked.
“Gordon Little …?” Dr. Hawksworthy looked at his solicitor. “I … may have done. You know kids—stick to their own.”
“Gordon Little changed his name to Gideon Littlejohn.”
“I learned that quite recently. I would never have recognized him—or he me.”
“Interesting that all three of you ended up in Coombe Mallet.”
“A coincidence.”
“Yes, and all three of you became involved in the new museum exhibit—Famous Crimes in Devon’s History. Another coincidence.”
“That’s when I learned about Littlejohn’s past—that we’d actually grown up on the same estate.”
“I mentioned earlier that new evidence has come to light. We have a video we’d like you to view. Then I’ll ask you to comment.”
“Very well.” Hawksworthy rubbed his eyebrow. He had no idea what was coming.
Varma pushed several keys on a monitor. The program began.
“Many years ago,” Gideon Littlejohn said into the camera, “I failed to protect someone. A man who’d been kind to me. A man who changed my life. I failed because I was afraid. And in all those years, I never spoke up because I was ashamed. Today I will speak up, and in doing so, I intend to right an old wrong.”
Hawksworthy shifted in his seat as Littlejohn spelled out the events of June 1992—the gang of teens terrorizing the estate, the targeting of Billy Cole, and finally the fire that killed him. When the image of the football team appeared, Hawksworthy’s face went pale. “What is this?”
Littlejohn’s voice continued.
The boy in the front row, on the left, is someone you know—a respected academic, Dr. Hugo Hawksworthy, director of the Museum of Devon Life in Coombe Mallet. He is not what he seems to be, and I can prove it.
Hawksworthy went completely still as he watched Littlejohn wave a blue folder.
He claims to have graduated with highest honors from the University of Glasgow. The transcripts show he barely passed his courses. He claims to have earned a doctorate in the States. The university he calls his alma mater says he never attended classes there. He claims to have interned at the Smithsonian Museum. They say he worked one summer as a security guard.
“Stop the video.” Hawksworthy stood. “This is slander. I don’t have to listen to this. Stop the video.”
No one moved.
Thirty-three years ago, Hugo Hawksworthy murdered Billy Cole in cold blood. I saw it with my own eyes, and I’m going to make sure Hugo Hawksworthy finally pays for his crime …
Littlejohn’s face filled the screen. He was speaking, or so it seemed, directly to Hugo Hawksworthy.
His whole life is a collection of lies. Billy Cole will be avenged.
Okoje reached over and stopped the video.
“What is your response, Dr. Hawksworthy?” Varma asked.
“My response?” Hawksworthy’s face had turned an ugly shade of red. “It’s rubbish. It’s—”
“We need a break,” the solicitor said. “Now.”
“Certainly,” Okoje said. “Interview terminated at seventeen oh four.”
Varma, O’Brien, and Okoje picked up their papers and left the interview room.
The screen we were watching went black.
In ten minutes, everyone reassembled, and Okoje resumed the interview. Once again, Tom and I watched on the small screen in his office.
“My client would like to make a statement,” the solicitor said.
“Excellent,” Varma said. “We’re all ears.”
Hawksworthy rubbed his chin. He seemed to have shrunk. “I admit to being part of the gang on the Burnthouse Lane estate in June of 1992, and I admit I was the one who caused the fire which took the life of Billy Cole.” He took in a breath and let it out. “It was incredibly irresponsible of me, and I’m deeply ashamed. All I can say in my own defense is that his death was wholly unintentional. I wanted to cause damage, not death. I take full responsibility for my actions that night and will plead guilty in court—if it comes to that.”
“If it comes to that?” I asked Tom. “This has to be manslaughter at the very least.”
“Gross negligence manslaughter, I imagine.” He smiled sardonically. “You know what’s happening, don’t you?”
“Tell me.”
“His solicitor has advised him to plead guilty to the lesser charges. He knows they’ll match his DNA to the samples found in Littlejohn’s house. Keep listening.”
“Three months ago someone broke into Littlejohn’s house. Tried to access his computers. Was that you?”
Hawksworthy studied his hands. “Yes—I admit that as well. Foolish, of course, but I was desperate to find and destroy the evidence Littlejohn claimed to have.”
“So Littlejohn told you about the video three months ago.”
“Last September. I denied everything, of course.”
“And he never did air the video. Why not?”
“I don’t know. To make me sweat?” Hawksworthy gave a bitter laugh. “He succeeded. I lived in terror. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. But after a while—by early December—I’d convinced myself he was bluffing. He didn’t have any real evidence, that it was all speculation, that he’d believed me when I denied killing the old man. Then, when Littlejohn told me about the bloodstained dress and proposed donating it to the museum, I was sure he was going to drop the whole thing.”
“Is that the whole of your statement?” Okoje asked.
“Not quite, no.” Hawksworthy glanced at his solicitor, then back at Okoje. “I also admit to forging my academic record—at least part of it. I did not earn a doctoral degree in heritage studies at Georgetown University, and I did not intern at the Smithsonian. None of that is true. What is true is my undergraduate degree in museum studies and”—he held up a finger to emphasize his words—“my proven expertise. I earned the respect of the team at the Mary Rose. You can ask them. And I have done my very best for the people of Devon. No one has raised more money than I have, and no one could have expanded the museum as quickly. That, I hope, will be taken into consideration.”
Taken into consideration? Was the man completely deluded? “Did no one check his credentials?” I asked Tom.
“You’d be surprised how often something like this happens,” he said. “Politicians, academics, scientists. I remember hearing about a cancer researcher in the States who claimed to have been a Rhodes Scholar to attain hundreds of thousands of dollars in grant money from the American Cancer Society. No one checked until the results of his clinical trials were published for peer review.” Tom shrugged. “If people see something in print, they tend to believe it.”
In the interview room, Hawksworthy shifted in his chair. DS Varma was closing in, and he knew it.
“You’ve made a good start, Dr.… er, Mr. Hawksworthy,” Varma said, emphasizing the Mister. “We still have the events of the morning of January fifth. The shooting death of Gideon Littlejohn. You were there, at the Old Merchant’s House, were you not?”
Hawksworthy glanced again at his solicitor, who nodded. “Yes, I was there.”
Tom leaned in toward the monitor.
“When was this?” Varma asked.
“We had an appointment at eight forty-five that morning. Littlejohn got me there under the pretense of talking about a bequest for the museum. I was thrilled, and I was hoping to persuade him to allow us to display the trunk in which the bloodstained dress was found.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Instead, he told me he hadn’t forgotten about the death of the old man, Billy Cole. He said he’d actually seen me shove the burning newspaper through the letter slot.
“Once again I denied it. I said he was mistaken. He must have seen someone who looked like me. I told him there was no way he could prove anything after all these years anyway.”
“You lied.”
“Yes, I admit that. But then he showed me some files. He said it didn’t matter that he couldn’t prove it because he knew something that would ruin me anyway. Proof that I’d falsified my résumé. He said he was going to make everything public. I tried talking him out of it. I said telling everyone about my academic record would ruin the museum, hurt the citizens of Coombe Mallet, affect everyone in Dartmoor. Then he said there might be a way out.”
“What was that?”
“The dress. If I could prove the dress belonged to Nancy Thorne, and if I could find evidence that she’d murdered a man named Luke Heron, one of the Romani Travellers on Dartmoor—”
I grabbed Tom’s arm. “Luke Heron was the young man in that old photo, the one with the mesmerizing eyes.”
“—and if I would make that information the centerpiece of the new crimes exhibit, he would consider keeping what he’d learned private.”
“But you’d already hired the private investigators. Wasn’t that enough?”
“I, ah”—Hawksworthy rubbed his mouth—“I’m not sure Littlejohn had full confidence in them.”
I looked at Tom. He raised an eyebrow.
“What did you say in response, Mr. Hawksworthy?”
“What do you think I said? I agreed.”
“What if you couldn’t fulfill your promise?”
“I would have, trust me—one way or another. Even if I had to forge the evidence. What difference would it make after all those years?”
Okoje broke in. “Did Littlejohn offer you tea?”
“What?” Hawksworthy looked confused.
“Did he offer you tea?”
“No, he didn’t offer me tea.”
I looked at Tom. “Someone got tea. There must have been a third visitor that morning.”
“When did you leave the Old Merchant’s House?” Varma asked.
“Around nine fifteen.”
“When did you decide to kill him?”
Hawksworthy sat up. “But I didn’t. I swear it. I didn’t kill him.”
“What did you do?”
“I went home. Isla got there a half hour or so after I did. She was so happy. The night before I’d agreed to marry her. Not that I was all that keen, but she just kept pushing and pushing. I decided to make her happy.”
“She didn’t mention it in her statement. Why would that be?”
Good point. I looked at Tom. “Isla did seem unusually animated that morning, but I’d have thought she’d be shouting it from the rooftops.”
“I made her promise to keep it quiet until I got the ring.” Hawksworthy lifted one shoulder. “The truth is, I was keeping my options open. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them.”
“Did you tell Isla what happened with Littlejohn?”
“Yes, of course. She already knew I’d faked my credentials. She’s loyal—I’ll give her that. She’d do anything for me.”
“What did she say?”
Hawksworthy looked down at his hands. I could almost see the gears turning in his brain. When he spoke, the words came slowly and deliberately. “She said, ‘Everything will be fine, Hugo. Leave it to me.’”
I felt a sudden coldness. “Tom—it had to be Isla who killed Littlejohn. Remember? She left the museum that morning just before ten. She’d been in such a good mood. Hugo had just agreed to marry her. She must have returned to his house to find out how the meeting with Littlejohn went. When she heard he had the proof of Hawksworthy’s deception, that he could ruin everything, she decided to take matters into her own hands.”
Okoje strode into his office. “This is one for the books. Three suspects brought in under caution in two days for the same crime. If Hawksworthy is telling the truth, Isla Ferris is our killer. I sent Doaks and O’Brien to bring her in.”