The Wrong Man Read online

  The Wrong Man

  Adam Croft

  Contents

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  Books in this Series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

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  * * *

  Adam Croft

  * * *

  For more information, visit my website: adamcroft.net

  Books in this Series

  Books in the Kempston Hardwick series so far:

  1. Exit Stage Left

  2. The Westerlea House Mystery

  3. Death Under the Sun

  4. The Thirteenth Room

  5. The Wrong Man

  * * *

  To find out more about this series and others, please head to adamcroft.net/list.

  For Deborah Peterson, a great woman and dedicated fan who will be sorely missed.

  1

  Kempston Hardwick flicked the beer foam from the arm of his coat and tried to remind himself that the Freemason’s Arms was home. As much as he considered anywhere home, that is.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ the man in the navy blue boilersuit said, the tone implying that he wasn’t particularly sorry at all.

  ‘It’s fine. Mistakes happen,’ Hardwick replied, his tone implying that mistakes damn well wouldn’t happen if people were a little more careful and considerate.

  He took a sip of his Campari and orange and swilled it around his mouth. It had been a long time since he’d had one as bad as this. The landlord, Doug Lilley, insisted on bulk-buying ten-litre tubs of almost fluorescent orange ‘juice’ for use in mixers. Hardwick had often remarked it would be better used to clean the windows, but he couldn’t deny it — he quickly got used to it.

  That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway. That, he maintained, was what kept him coming back here. It certainly wasn’t the quality of the drinks or the service, and there was no way it was the cultured, civilised behaviour of the clientele — although the Freemason’s Arms was one of the better populated pubs in Tollinghill.

  The small market town prided itself on being traditional and upmarket. In reality, it was neither — unless ‘traditional’ meant backward-thinking and ‘upmarket’ described the inexplicible house prices.

  It was a remarkable town in which to be an observer, though, and Kempston Hardwick was the ultimate observer. Human behaviour had fascinated him for as long as he could remember, and the local pub was — in any town — the melting pot of the local community. No town needed a local newspaper or radio station when it had a place like the Freemason’s Arms.

  Here, friends and families would gather and pretend to enjoy themselves, all the while repeating the mantra that paying eight pounds for a glass of wine from a bottle that cost three was absolutely fine.

  Because this was Tollinghill, home of burying one’s head in the sand. Even so, Hardwick much preferred this thin veneer of faux respectability to the out-and-out crassness of many of the surrounding towns.

  ‘Same again?’ Doug Lilley, the landlord, asked, sidling over toward Kempston with a glass in his hand.

  Hardwick looked down at his own glass, still more than three-quarters full.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh well. Suit yourself. Not seen you in here for a while, Kempston.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve not been in here for a while.’

  Doug raised an eyebrow. ‘Been busy working on your interpersonal skills, I see.’

  Hardwick said nothing. He didn’t see much point in replying to things which didn’t require a reply.

  ‘Here, if you’re a fan of whisky you might want to have a drop of this,’ the landlord said, handing a presentation cased bottle over the bar to him.

  Hardwick looked at the box and could see immediately that this was a pretty special tipple.

  ‘Limited edition, that is. Only ever made a hundred bottles. Forty-six quid for a single measure.’

  Hardwick almost choked on his Campari. ‘Forty-six pounds? For a sip of whisky?’

  ‘It’s good whisky.’

  ‘It’d have to be.’

  ‘You here for the reading?’ Doug asked. Hardwick had seen a couple of posters on the walls of the pub advertising a book launch and reading by local novelist Rupert Pearson.

  Although he didn’t consider himself a fan of the author, Hardwick had, of course, heard of him. Pearson had won a prestigious national book award a number of years ago, which had catapulted him into the literary limelight. He’d played the ‘true to his roots’ card ever since and insisted on launching each of his new novels at his local pub, the Freemason’s Arms.

  ‘No, just an unfortunate coincidence,’ Hardwick replied.

  ‘But you’ll stick around for it, though?’

  Before Hardwick could even consider his answer, he detected a faint whiff of cheap aftershave and felt the slap of a palm on the back of his shoulder.

  ‘Kempston! Good to see you, mate!’

  ‘Ellis,’ Hardwick said, poorly feigning the slightest hint of happiness but not taking his eyes off the bar in front of him.

  ‘How’ve you been, buddy?’

  ‘Fine, fine.’

  It wasn’t that Hardwick didn’t like Ellis Flint — the man was fairly harmless — it was just that life always had a way of becoming considerably more complicated whenever he appeared in it.

  ‘Been ages since I saw you last!’ Ellis said, climbing up onto the stool next to him.

  ‘A fair while, yes.’

  ‘You’ve been away, someone told me.’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘Abroad?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Wow. I’d love a holiday. Been ages since I’ve been.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go away together some time. Again, I mean.’

  Hardwick looked at him. ‘I don’t think that would be wise.’

  ‘I’ve not been in here much myself, to be honest,’ Ellis said, regardless of the fact that Kempston hadn’t asked. ‘Mrs F’s had me on a bit of a diet, see. Said I needed to lose some weight.’

  Hardwick looked at Ellis for the first time that night. The man didn’t look any different to the last time he saw him. If anything, he’d probably gained a few pounds.

  ‘How long have you been on the diet, Ellis?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Just over a year now.’

  Hardwick nodded. ‘Well, you’re looking… You’re looking happy, Ellis. That’s the main thing.’

  ‘Oh, I am. I’m feeling much fitter.’

  Hardwick forced a smile. ‘Good.’

  Doug Lilley took Ellis’s order and asked him if he was here for Rupe
rt Pearson’s launch.

  ‘Who?’ Ellis replied.

  ‘Rupert Pearson. The writer. He has all his launches in here.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Ellis said. ‘And I didn’t think you served food.’

  ‘Launch, Ellis,’ Hardwick said, sighing inwardly. ‘His book launch. He’s got a new one out, apparently.’

  ‘Ah. Still never heard of him.’

  ‘I think his last book was a good couple of years ago,’ Hardwick said.

  ‘That’ll be why, then,’ said Ellis, who had the memory of a goldfish. ‘I don’t get much time for reading, that’s the thing. Although I’ve been reading a really good one recently. It’s a historical book about this little French bloke living under Roman occupation.’

  Hardwick closed his eyes and let out a small sigh. ‘Asterix was a Gaul, Ellis.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Same thing, ain’t it?’

  ‘Try telling the Belgians that.’

  Before Ellis could think of something suitable to say in return, they were distracted by one of the pub’s regulars, who’d come up to the bar to speak to Doug.

  ‘Seems like there’s a bit of a problem,’ the man said, gesturing towards the back room. ‘Apparently his publicist hasn’t turned up. He says she normally handles all these things.’

  Doug shrugged. ‘What needs handling? He’s done over a dozen of these things here before. She gets up, talks about the book, does a reading from it, sits down and he poses for a few photos. Surely he can manage that on his own?’

  ‘You know more than I do,’ the man said. ‘The thing he’s most bothered about at the moment is that there’s no-one to introduce him. Apparently his publicist normally does a talk about the background to the book and all that stuff.’

  Doug scratched his bearded chin. ‘Right. You wouldn’t mind doing that bit would you, Kempston?’

  Hardwick looked up, having barely been paying attention up until then. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re an intelligent bloke. You know about books and stuff.’

  ‘I’ve only read one Rupert Pearson book, and that was over a decade ago.’

  ‘Exactly. So you know what they’re like.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they’re all different. I don’t see that me having read and completely forgotten one of his books many years ago qualifies me to talk about his new, different, book.’

  ‘Well, you got any better ideas?’ Doug said to Hardwick.

  ‘Yes. He can do it himself. He wrote it.’

  The other man shuffled awkwardly. ‘I, uh, don’t think that’s going to cut it. He seems to be pretty superstitious about stuff like this. He never reads from his own books. If he doesn’t have someone else doing the reading, he’s not going to come out.’

  ‘Come on, Kempston,’ Doug said. ‘There’s a free drink in it for you.’

  Hardwick picked up his glass. ‘You should be paying me to drink this as it is.’

  Doug raised an eyebrow. ‘There are other pubs in Tollinghill. Feel free to go to one of those.’

  Ellis Flint leaned in. ‘None of them serve Campari though, Kem—’

  ‘Yes, thank you Ellis.’ Hardwick glanced towards the back of the pub, across the packed tables of people who’d assembled, waiting for Rupert Person to speak.

  ‘You can get him to sign a copy of his new book for you,’ Ellis said.

  ‘Ah. Don’t think you will,’ Doug interjected. ‘He “doesn’t do” signings. Says it’s wanton destruction of a beautiful work.’

  How modest, Hardwick thought. He looked back at the hopeful faces of Doug Lilley, Ellis Flint and the other man.

  ‘What’s the matter, Kempston?’ Ellis asked. ‘Been tongue-slapped by a fox?’

  Hardwick stared at him for a moment, blinking. ‘I think the phrase you’re looking for is “cat got your tongue”, Ellis.’

  ‘Same thing. Point is, Dougie’s waiting for an answer.’

  Hardwick sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Do I have much choice?’

  He opened his eyes again to the sight of the three men shaking their heads and smiling.

  2

  Hardwick held the book in front of him and peered down his not-inconsiderable nose at the text, remembering why he’d never bothered to read a second Rupert Pearson novel.

  The crowd watched and waited anxiously, but Kempston Hardwick was not the sort of man to be rushed. Nor would he read something aloud without having first read it to himself.

  The room was silent, apart from the occasional tutting or teeth-sucking from Hardwick as he winced his way through the prose.

  Eventually, with a slight cough to clear his throat, he began reading.

  ‘The light of the moon fell steadily across the rocks as Sandra lay her head in his lap, her eyes gazing unwaveringly at the moon. José watched as a lock of hair fell over her face, discarded from her head like,’ Hardwick said, pausing. ‘Like a disposable coffee cup.

  ‘They could hear the waves lapping at the shore, breaking against the rocks, as if calling them in. Were the night not so chill, they might have been tempted. For now, they watched and waited, caught in a moment from which neither of them wanted to escape. There had been other moments, of course. Other men. But with José she felt comfortable, safe. It was an almost paternal safety, as if José was her father. A father,’ he continued, before stopping and clearing his throat again. ‘A father with whom she’d quite like to have sex.’

  Hardwick looked out at the crowd, and was not altogether surprised to see them enraptured by the reading. If this was how far standards and expectations had fallen, he thought, there really was no hope.

  He looked down at the book and continued, unsure as to whether he was more embarrassed for Rupert Pearson or himself.

  ‘“Shall we take a walk?” José said, his accent like butter atop a crumpet. “No,” Sandra replied. “I’m content just to lay here, embraced by you.”’ Hardwick clenched his teeth. Who spoke like that? Not even he spoke like that.

  ‘José held her tighter, as if worried the sea foam might take her, dragging her down to the depths of the sea, where the mermaids might claim her as one of their own. And they could. He’d often been struck by how angelic she seemed; how otherworldly. And now, on this night, he truly believed it.’

  Kempston closed the book and held it in his hands. He’d promised Rupert Pearson he’d say a few words about the book after reading it, so he did.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, that was from The Clarion Call, by Rupert Pearson. Please welcome Rupert Pearson.’

  Before even checking to see if the author was on his way to the makeshift stage, Hardwick put the book down and strode back to his bar stool. All of a sudden, another of Doug’s Campari and oranges seemed very appetising indeed.

  He was already back on his stool before Pearson had realised what was happening and bumbled out from the back room.

  ‘Thank you, thank you ladies and gentlemen,’ Pearson said, his gamine smile accepting their applause whilst promising them riches to come.

  ‘I first got the idea for The Clarion Call a number of years ago, and the characters have remained with me ever since, occasionally making themselves known to me once more, yearning for me to write them. Like my very own clarion call, perhaps,’ he said, pausing for the rumble of obsequious laughter, which inevitably came.

  ‘I think, in many ways, The Clarion Call is the most difficult novel I’ve ever written. There’s a lot of myself in there. Writing it reminded me of some painful periods in my life, and the book has been a form of therapy for me. And I think that’s the real power of literature, isn’t it? That it can not just entertain and enthrall the reader, but act as a sort of blood letting for the author. It’s a cathartic process at times, and none so much as with this book. Now, I don’t want to waffle on too long so I’m going to open the floor to questions. Does anyone have anything they’d like to ask about the book?’

  A number of hands shot up. Pearson scanned the room, then pointed towards Hardwick.


  ‘Yes, you there in the denim jacket,’ Pearson said, letting Hardwick know that he certainly wasn’t talking about him. ‘Do you have a question?’

  It was Ellis.

  ‘Yes,’ Ellis said. ‘What’s it about?’

  A light chuckle rumbled across the room, but Pearson greeted the question with a friendly smile.

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ he said. ‘I guess one might say it’s a story of hope. But a sad one, mind. It’s a story of someone who’s been so badly downtrodden in the past, they see hope and optimism wherever they can, even when that shining light turns out to be nothing more than a dud torch. It’s about blind faith, and trying too hard. Sometimes, the best things in life come only when we’re not actively seeking them.’

  Pearson scanned the room for another raised hand, but was interrupted by Ellis.

  ‘No, I mean what happens? Like, what’s it actually about?’

  Pearson smiled. ‘I think it’s a love story.’

  ‘Ah. Doesn’t sound like my sort of thing,’ Ellis said, perhaps a little too loudly, turning back to the bar and draining half his pint glass into his mouth. He let out a small belch before elbowing Hardwick in the arm. ‘So what’ve you been up to, Kempston? You still living in that spooky church place?’

  ‘The Old Rectory, yes. And there’s nothing spooky about it, Ellis.’

  ‘Not now you’re down here in the pub, no. But give it a couple of hours…’