The Word Is Murder

Nine Star Power

As we walked back to the tube station together, Hawthorne received a call on his mobile phone. He answered it but didn’t give his name. He just listened for about half a minute and then rang off.

‘We’re going to Brick Lane,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘The prodigal son has returned. Damian Cowper is back in London. It must have been difficult for him, fitting it into his busy diary. His mum’s been dead for over a week.’

I thought about what he had just said. ‘Who was that?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘On the phone.’

‘What does it matter?’

‘I’d just be interested to know where you’re getting your information.’ Hawthorne didn’t answer, so I went on. ‘You knew that Judith Godwin was at South Kensington station. Someone gave you access to the CCTV footage. You also knew about Andrea Kluvánek’s criminal record. For an ex-policeman, you seem to be remarkably well informed.’

He gave me the look that he did so well, as if I’d surprised and offended him at the same time. ‘It’s not important,’ he said.

‘It is important. If I’m writing this book about you, I can’t just have information being pulled out of thin air. Tell me you meet someone in a garage and we’ll call him Deep Throat if you like. No. Forget that. I need the truth. You’ve obviously got someone helping you. Who is it?’

We were walking through the village and passed a group of Harrow schoolboys wearing their uniform: blue jackets, ties, straw boaters. ‘I wonder if they realise they look like complete wankers,’ Hawthorne said.

‘They look fine. And don’t change the subject.’

‘All right.’ He frowned. ‘It was my old DCI. I’m not going to give you his name. He wasn’t too happy about what happened; the way I got blamed for what wasn’t my fault. In fact, he knew it was a load of bollocks and anyway he needed me. I mean, you’ve met Meadows. If you added up the IQ of half the officers in the murder squad, you still wouldn’t reach three figures. He brought me in as a consultant and he’s been using me ever since.’

‘How many of you are there, working for the police?’

‘There’s only me,’ Hawthorne said. ‘There are other consultants but they don’t get results. A total waste of time.’ He spoke without malice.

‘Brick Lane …’ I said.

‘Damian Cowper flew in yesterday, business class from LA. His girlfriend is with him. Her name’s Grace Lovell. They’ve got a kid.’

‘You didn’t mention he had a child.’

‘I mentioned he had a cocaine habit. From what I’m told, that matters to him more. He’s also got a flat in Brick Lane, which is where we’re heading now.’

We had passed Harrow School and headed back down the hill towards the station. I was beginning to worry about my role in all this. I was simply following Hawthorne around London, which reminded me that I wasn’t feeling comfortable with the shape of the book. From Britannia Road to the funeral parlour, then South Acton, Marble Arch, Harrow-on-the-Hill and, next up, Brick Lane … it felt more like an A to Z of London than a murder mystery.

I was annoyed that we seemed to have drawn a complete blank with Jeremy Godwin. Diana Cowper had texted that she had seen him but there was no way he could have crossed the city on his own, certainly not to commit a violent and well-planned murder. But if he hadn’t strangled her, who had? If I were in control of events I would have introduced the killer by now but I wasn’t at all certain that we had met anyone yet who fitted the bill.

There was something else preying on my mind. I hadn’t mentioned any of this to my literary agent, who was confidently expecting me to turn up with an idea for the next book after The House of Silk. I knew I was going to have to confront her sooner or later and I had a feeling she wouldn’t be pleased.

We took the tube to Brick Lane. We had to cross London all the way from west to east and it would have taken for ever in a taxi. The carriage was almost empty as we sat down facing each other, and just as the doors slid shut, Hawthorne leaned forward and asked: ‘Have you got a title yet?’

‘A title?’

‘For the book!’ So he’d been thinking about it too.

‘It’s much too early,’ I told him. ‘First of all, you’ve got to solve the crime. Then I’ll have a better idea what I’m writing about.’

‘Don’t you think of the title first?’

‘Not really. No.’

I’ve never found it easy coming up with titles. Almost two hundred thousand books are published in the UK every year and although some of them will have the advantage of a well-known author attached, the vast majority have just two or three words on a surface measuring no more than six by nine inches to sell themselves. Titles have to be short, smart and meaningful, easy to read, easy to remember and original. That’s asking a lot.

Many of the best titles are simply borrowed from elsewhere. Brave New World, The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Vanity Fair … all of these were drawn from other works. Agatha Christie used the Bible, Shakespeare, Tennyson and even The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam for many of her eighty-two titles. For my money, nobody has beaten Ian Fleming: From Russia, with Love, You Only Live Twice, Live and Let Die. His titles have passed into the English language although even he didn’t find it easy. Live and Let Die was almost published as ‘The Undertaker’s Wind’. Moonraker was ‘The Moonraker Secret’, ‘The Moonraker Plot’, ‘The Moonraker Plan’ and even, for a short time, ‘Mondays Are Hell’, while Goldfinger began life as ‘The Richest Man in the World’.

I didn’t have a title for my new book. I wasn’t even sure I had a book.

Hawthorne and I didn’t speak for a long while. I let my thoughts wander as I watched the various stations rush past: Wembley Park, South Hampstead and then Baker Street, its tiled walls picking out the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. Now there was another master of the title, although Conan Doyle often had second thoughts too. Would A Study in Scarlet have struck such a chord if it had remained as ‘A Tangled Skein’?

‘I was thinking of “Hawthorne Investigates”,’ Hawthorne said, suddenly.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘For the book.’ The carriage had got more crowded. He crossed over and sat next to me. ‘The first one anyway. I think all of them should have my name on the cover.’

It had never occurred to me that he was thinking of a series. I have to say, my blood ran cold.

‘I don’t like it,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

I searched for a reason. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned.’

‘Is it?’

‘Parker Pyne Investigates. That’s Agatha Christie. Hetty Wainthropp Investigates. It’s been done before.’

‘Yeah. Well.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll come up with something.’

‘No, you won’t,’ I said. ‘It’s my book. I’ll think of the title.’

‘It’s got to be a good one,’ he said. ‘To be honest with you, I don’t much like The House of Silk.’

I’d forgotten I’d even mentioned it to him. ‘The House of Silk is a great title,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s a perfect title. It sounds like a Sherlock Holmes story and it’s what the whole plot is about. The publisher likes it so much, he’s even going to put a white ribbon in the book.’ I’d been shouting above the roar of the train but I suddenly realised we’d stopped. We were sitting in Euston Square. The other passengers were looking at me.

‘No need to be touchy, mate. I’m just trying to help.’

The doors slid shut and we were carried once again into the darkness.

In fact, I already knew quite a bit about Damian Cowper. I’d googled him the night before. Generally, I avoid Wikipedia. It’s very helpful if you know what you’re looking for but it contains so much misinformation that a writer, trying to appear authoritative, can all too easily fall flat on his face. More than that, I could imagine a successful actor doctoring his own entry, so preferred to look elsewhere. Fortunately, Damian had been the subject of quite a few newspaper articles, allowing me to stitch together his history.

He left the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art – RADA – in 1999 and had been snapped up by Hamilton Hodell, one of the major talent agencies, whose clients include Tilda Swinton, Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry. For the next two years, he played a series of parts with the Royal Shakespeare Company: Ariel in The Tempest, Malcolm in Macbeth, the title role in Henry V. After that he moved into television, starting with the BBC conspiracy thriller State of Play, which aired in 2003. He won his first BAFTA nomination for his role in Bleak House, another BBC drama, and in the same year picked up the Emerging Talent Award at the Evening Standard Theatre Awards for his performance as Algernon in The Importance of Being Earnest. It was rumoured that he turned down the opportunity to play Doctor Who (David Tennant was cast instead) but by now his career was taking off in films. He had been directed by Woody Allen in Match Point and followed this with Prince Caspian, two of the Harry Potter films, The Social Network and, in 2009, the reboot of Star Trek. He moved to Hollywood that year and was cast in two seasons of Mad Men. There was also a pilot that wasn’t picked up. Finally he’d been given the lead role in a new series, Homeland, with Claire Danes and Mandy Patinkin, which had been about to start shooting when his mother died.

I’m not sure at what stage he’d been able to afford a two-bedroom flat on Brick Lane but this was where he lived when he was in London. It was on the second floor of a warehouse that had been carefully converted to show off its original features: stripped wooden floors, exposed beams, old-fashioned radiators and lots of brickwork. My first impressions of the vast, double-height living room was that it looked almost fake, like a television set. There were different living areas with an industrial-style kitchen stage left, then a seating area with vintage leather sofas and armchairs around a coffee table, and finally a raised platform with glass doors leading out to a roof terrace: I could see lots of terracotta pots and a gas barbecue on the other side. A Wurlitzer jukebox stood against the far wall. It had been beautifully renovated, with polished aluminium and neon lights. A spiral staircase led up to the next floor.

Damian Cowper was waiting for us when we arrived, perched on a bar stool beside the kitchen counter. There was something that wasn’t quite real about him too: the languid pose, the shirt with its wide collar open at the neck, the gold chain resting against the chest hair, the tan. He could have been posing for the front cover of a fashion magazine. He was remarkably handsome – and probably knew it – with jet-black hair swept back, intense blue eyes and exactly the right amount of designer stubble. He looked tired, which might have been jet-lag, but I was aware he had spent much of the day being interviewed by the police. There was also a funeral to arrange – or, at least, to attend. The arrangements, of course, had all been made for him.

He had opened the door for us using an intercom and he was talking on his mobile as he waved us in. ‘Yeah, yeah. Look. I’ll get back to you. I have people here. Look after yourself, babe. I’ll see you.’

He rang off.

‘Hi. I’m sorry about that. I only got back yesterday and, as you can imagine, it’s a bit crazy around here.’ He had just enough of a transatlantic accent to be annoying. I remembered what Hawthorne had told me about money problems, girlfriends, drugs, and I decided at once that I believed him. Everything about Damian Cowper made my hackles rise.

We shook hands.

‘You want a coffee?’ Damian asked. He pointed at the sofa, inviting us to sit down.

‘Thank you.’

He had one of those machines that take capsules and spin the milk round in a metal cylinder to froth it up. ‘I can’t tell you what a nightmare this whole thing has been. My poor mum! I spoke to the police for a long time yesterday afternoon – and again this morning. When they told me the news, I couldn’t believe it … not at first.’ He stopped himself. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything I can do to help you catch the bastard who did this …’

‘When did you last see your mother?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It was the last time I was over, in December.’ Damian opened the fridge and took out some milk. ‘She wanted to spend time with the baby – she has a granddaughter – and it’s easier for us to come here. I had some stuff to do anyway so we spent Christmas together. She and Grace get on really well. I’m glad they were able to get to know each other a bit better.’

‘You and your mum were close.’ Even as Hawthorne spoke there was a glint of something in his eye that suggested he thought otherwise.

‘Yeah. Of course we were. I mean, it wasn’t easy for her when I moved to America but she was a hundred per cent behind my work. She was proud of what I was doing and, you know, with dad dying a long time ago and her never remarrying, I think my success meant a lot to her.’ He had made two coffees, drawing a pattern across the foam even as he reminisced about his dead father. He glanced down at his work, then handed the cups over, adding: ‘I can’t tell you how gutted I was when I heard about it.’

‘She died over a week ago,’ Hawthorne remarked, without any particular rancour.

‘I had things to deal with. We’re rehearsing a new show. I had to shut down the house and get the dog looked after.’

‘You’ve got a dog. That’s nice.’

‘It’s a labradoodle.’

It was that last remark that made me wonder if the concerned, caring, recently bereaved Damian Cowper might not be quite as sincere as he seemed. It wasn’t just that his new show had come first in his list of priorities. He wanted us to know the breed of his dog – as if it might somehow help the investigation into his mother’s brutal murder.

‘How often did the two of you speak?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Once a week.’ He paused. ‘Well, once a fortnight, anyway. She used to come in here and check the place out for me, water the plants on the terrace and all the rest of it. She forwarded my mail.’ He shrugged. ‘We didn’t always speak. She was busy and the time difference didn’t help. We did lots of texts and emails.’

‘She texted you the day she died,’ I said.

‘Yes. I told the police about that. She said she was afraid.’

‘Do you know what she meant by that?’

‘She was referring to that kid, the one who got hurt in Deal—’

‘He was more than hurt,’ Hawthorne cut in. He had taken the corner of the sofa and was sitting there quite languidly with his legs crossed … more like a doctor than a detective. ‘He’s got serious brain damage. He needs twenty-four-hour care.’

‘It was an accident.’ Suddenly Damian seemed agitated. He searched in his pockets and, guessing that he wanted a cigarette, Hawthorne offered him one of his own. Damian took it. They both lit up. ‘Are you suggesting he’s got something to do with what happened? Because I spent half the afternoon talking to the police and they didn’t mention him. They think my mum died because of a burglary that went wrong.’

‘That may be one theory, Mr Cowper. But it’s my job to look at the whole picture. I’d be interested to know what you can tell me about Deal. After all, you were there.’

‘I wasn’t in the car. Christ!’ He ran a hand through his immaculate hair. This was a man who wasn’t used to being questioned – not unless it was for a glossy magazine. For once, there wasn’t a publicist in the room, guiding the interview. ‘Look, it was ten years ago,’ he said. ‘Mum was living in Walmer, which is the village next to Deal. We’d always lived there. It’s where I was born. And after Dad died, she wanted to stay. The house meant a lot to her – the house and the garden. It was her birthday and I went down to see her for a few days. I’d just finished a run at the RSC and I was reading scripts, thinking about what to do next. The accident happened on a Thursday. She’d gone to play golf. We were meant to be going out to dinner that night but when she came in she was in a terrible state. She said she’d forgotten her glasses and she’d just hit someone in her car. She knew they were hurt but she had no idea that she’d actually killed one of them.’

‘So why didn’t she stop?’

‘I don’t mind telling you the truth, Mr Hawthorne. After all, you can’t prosecute her now. The fact of the matter is that she was worried about me. My career was taking off. I’d just had fantastic reviews for Henry V and they were even talking about taking it to Broadway. She thought that the bad publicity might hurt me and – I’m not saying she wouldn’t have turned herself in to the police. That was never in her mind. She just wanted to talk to me first.’

‘She’d killed a child.’ Suddenly Hawthorne was leaning forward, accusingly. It was another of those instant transformations I was getting used to: from witness to prosecutor, from friend to dangerous enemy.

‘I’ve already told you, she didn’t know.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, for what it’s worth, there were plenty of things about that accident that never added up.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, the nanny said that the two children ran across the road to get to an ice-cream shop. But the ice-cream shop was closed so that doesn’t make any sense. And then there was the question of the witness who disappeared.’

‘What witness was that?’

‘A man who was first on the scene. He tried to help. But when the police and the ambulance arrived, he suddenly took off and nobody ever found out who he was or what he’d seen; not at the inquest, not in court.’

‘Are you suggesting your mother wasn’t responsible?’

‘No.’ Damian drew on his cigarette. He held it like a black and white film star, in the O formed by his thumb and index finger. ‘Mum should have been wearing her glasses and she knew that. You have no idea how much it all upset her. She never drove again. And although it broke her heart, she realised she couldn’t stay living in Walmer. A few months later, she sold up and moved to London.’

Outside, in another room, we heard a telephone ring a few times before it was picked up.

‘So she never had any further communication with the family,’ Hawthorne asked.

‘The Godwins?’ Damian shrugged. ‘She did have “further communication” with them. Very much so. They never forgave her and they never accepted the court’s verdict. In fact the father, Alan Godwin, was hassling her just a couple of weeks before she died.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She told me. He actually came to the house in Britannia Road. Can you believe that? He was asking her for money to support his failed business. And when she told him to leave, he wrote to her. If you ask me, that’s harassment. I told her to go to the police.’

Alan Godwin had lost a child. His other child had been crippled. It was hard to think of Damian Cowper as the victim in all this. But before Hawthorne could say as much, a young, very attractive black woman came down the spiral stairs, leading a little girl by the hand and holding a mobile phone.

‘Dame, it’s Jason,’ she said. She sounded nervous. ‘He says it’s important.’

‘Sure.’ He took the phone from her and began to walk towards the terrace. ‘I’m sorry. It’s my manager. I’ve got to take this.’ He stopped at the window and frowned. ‘I thought you were putting Ashleigh down for a nap.’

‘She’s jet-lagged. She doesn’t know if it’s night or day.’

He went outside, leaving us with the woman and her child. This had to be Grace Lovell. There could be no doubt that she was – or had been – a model or an actress. She had the physique and the confidence that go with the job, a sort of look-at-me quality that demanded to be put on the screen. She was in her early thirties, quite tall, with very high cheekbones, a long neck and delicate, rounded shoulders. She was wearing the skinniest of jeans and an expensive loose-knit jersey that floated off her. The toddler couldn’t have been more than three. She was staring at us with saucer eyes. I imagined she’d had to get used to being trundled around the world.

‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘And this is Ashleigh. Are you going to say hello, Ashleigh?’ The child said nothing. ‘Has Damian offered you coffee?’

‘We’re OK, thank you.’

‘Are you here about Diana?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘He’s totally destroyed by this although you probably won’t have seen it. Damian is very good at hiding his feelings.’

I wondered why she felt the need to defend him.

‘He was devastated when he heard the news,’ she went on. ‘He adored his mum.’

‘He mentioned you were with her last Christmas.’

‘Yes. We did spend some time together although she was more interested in Ashleigh than me.’ She took a carton of juice out of the fridge, poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to the child. ‘I suppose that’s understandable. The first-grandchild thing.’

‘Are you an actor too?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Well, I was. That’s how we met. We were at RADA together. He played Hamlet. It was a fantastic production. They still talk about it years later. Everyone knew he was going to be a star. I was Ophelia.’

‘You’ve been together for a while, then.’

‘No. After RADA, he got picked up by the RSC and went off to Stratford-upon-Avon. I did a whole load of TV … Holby City, Jonathan Creek, Queer as Folk … that sort of thing. We actually met up again a few years ago. It was a first-night party at the National. We got together – and then Ashleigh came along.’

‘It must be difficult for you,’ I said. ‘Having to stay at home.’

‘Not really. It’s my choice.’

I didn’t believe her. There was a nervousness in her eyes. I’d seen it when she held out the telephone for Damian. She’d been afraid he was going to snatch it from her. In fact, she was probably afraid of Damian. I had no doubt that success had made him a very different man from the one she had met at drama school.

Damian had finished the call and came back into the room. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘They’re all going crazy out there. We start shooting next week.’

‘What did he want?’ Grace asked.

‘He wants to know when I’m coming back. Jesus! He’s such an arsehole. I’ve only just arrived.’ He looked at his watch, a great chunk of steel with several dials. ‘It’s five o’clock in the morning in LA and he’s already on his treadmill. I could hear it as he talked.’

‘When will you go back?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘The funeral’s Friday. We’ll go back the day after.’

‘Oh.’ Grace’s face fell. ‘I hoped we could stay longer.’

‘I’m meant to be rehearsing. You know that.’

‘I wanted to spend a bit of time with Mum and Dad.’

‘You’ve already had a week with them, babe.’

That word – ‘babe’ – sounded both patronising and faintly menacing. ‘Is there anything else you need?’ he asked us, his mind clearly elsewhere. ‘I don’t see how I can really help you. I told everything I know to the police and, to be honest with you, their investigation seems to be moving in a completely different direction. Losing Mum is bad enough but having to go over what happened in Deal really sucks.’

Hawthorne grimaced, as if it genuinely upset him to continue with this line of enquiry. It didn’t stop him though. ‘Did you know your mother had planned her funeral?’ he demanded.

‘No. She didn’t tell me.’

‘Do you have any idea why she might have decided to do that?’

‘Not really. She was someone who was very organised. That was part of her character. The funeral, the will, all of that …’

‘You know about the will?’

When Damian was angry, two little pinpricks of red, almost like light bulbs, appeared in his cheeks. ‘I’ve always known about the will,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to discuss it with you.’

‘I imagine she left everything to you.’

‘As I said, that’s private.’

Hawthorne stood up. ‘I’ll see you at the funeral. I understand you’re going to be performing.’

‘Actually, that’s not what I’d call it. Mum left instructions for me to say a few words. And Grace is going to read a poem.’

‘Sylvia Plath,’ Grace said.

‘I didn’t know she liked Plath. But I had a call from the undertaker, a woman called Irene Laws. Apparently, everything was written down.’

‘You don’t think it’s a bit strange that she made all these arrangements the same day she died?’

The question seemed to annoy him. ‘I think it was a coincidence.’

‘A funny coincidence.’

‘I don’t see anything funny in it at all.’ Damian walked over to the front door and opened it for us. ‘It’s been nice meeting you,’ he said.

He hadn’t even tried to make that sound sincere. We left and went down the single flight of stairs and out into the busy street.

Once we got there, Hawthorne stopped. He looked back, deep in thought. ‘I missed something,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know what. It was when you asked him about the text that Diana Cowper sent. After what I told you, why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?’

‘The hell with you, Hawthorne!’ Right then, I’d really had enough. ‘Don’t you ever talk to me like that. I’m listening to you. I’m taking notes. But if you think I’m going to follow you around London like some kind of pet dog, you can forget it. I’m not stupid. What was wrong with asking him about the text? It’s obviously relevant.’

Hawthorne glared at me. ‘You think!’

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know! Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But there was something he’d just told me that was important. You broke my train of thought and I haven’t picked up on it. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘You can ask him at the funeral.’ I walked away. ‘Let me know what he says.’

‘It’s eleven o’clock on Friday!’ he called after me. ‘Brompton Cemetery.’

I stopped and turned round. ‘I can’t come. I’m busy.’

He stalked after me. ‘You’ve got to be there. It’s a big deal. That’s what this is all about, remember? She wanted a funeral.’

‘And I’ve got an important meeting. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to take notes and tell me about it afterwards. I’m sure you’ll be more accurate than me anyway.’

I saw a taxi and flagged it down. This time, Hawthorne didn’t try to stop me. I was careful not to turn round but I saw him reflected in the mirror – standing there, lighting another cigarette as we accelerated round a corner.