The Word Is Murder

Twelve The Smell of Blood

We had left the other mourners standing in a confused circle around the empty grave as we set off after the coffin, which now reminded me of a tiny ship being tossed around in a stormy sea.

I had a suspicion that Hawthorne was amused by what had happened. It might be that the bleak, vindictive joke – if that’s what it was – had appealed to the darker side of his nature. More likely, it was the knowledge that the theory Meadows had put forward had been completely blown apart. Just a few minutes ago, he had been talking about a burglary that had gone wrong. There was no question of that now. Everything that had happened had pushed the crime far outside normal police experience and gave Hawthorne all the more opportunity to call the investigation his own.

I looked back and saw Meadows lumbering after us but for the time being Hawthorne and I were alone as we headed towards the chapel, which lay a short way ahead.

‘What do you think that was all about?’ I asked.

‘It was a message,’ Hawthorne said.

‘A message … who for?’

‘Well, Damian Cowper, for one. You saw his face.’

‘He was upset.’

‘That’s putting it mildly. He was white as a bloody sheet. I thought he was going to pass out!’

‘This has got to be about Jeremy Godwin,’ I said.

‘He wasn’t run over by a bus.’

‘No. But maybe he was carrying a toy bus when he was hit. Maybe he liked travelling on buses …’

‘You’re right about one thing, mate. It was a kiddy’s nursery rhyme so it’s likely to have something to do with a dead kiddy.’ Hawthorne stepped delicately over a grave. ‘Damian’s gone home,’ he went on. ‘But we’ll catch up with him soon enough. I wonder what he’s got to say.’

‘It’s been ten years since the accident in Deal.’ I was thinking out loud. ‘First Diana Cowper is killed. Then this. Someone’s certainly trying to make a point.’

We had reached the chapel. The coffin had already gone in. We waited until Meadows caught up with us.

‘I always knew things would go pear-shaped once you were involved,’ he grunted. He was terribly out of shape. Even the short walk had left him breathless. If he didn’t watch his diet, quit smoking and take exercise, he would soon be back in the cemetery for a more permanent visit.

‘I’ll be interested to hear how your burglar pulled this one off,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I can’t say I noticed anyone dressed up as a dispatch rider.’

‘What happened here may have nothing to do with the murder and you know it,’ Meadows replied. ‘There’s a Hollywood celebrity involved. It was a practical joke … someone with a twisted mind. That’s all.’

‘You might be right.’ Hawthorne’s tone of voice made it clear he didn’t believe a word of it.

We went into the chapel. By now the coffin was back on the trestles and Irene Laws was busily undoing the straps, watched by the vicar – wide-eyed with shock – and the four men from Cornwallis and Sons. She looked up as we came in.

‘I’ve been in this business for twenty-seven years,’ she said. ‘And nothing like this – nothing – has ever happened before.’

At least the nursery-rhyme music had stopped. I heard only the creak of willow as Irene finished her work and lifted the lid. I flinched. I had no desire to see Diana Cowper a week after she had died. Fortunately, she was covered by a muslin shroud and although I could make out the shape of her body, I was spared the sight of the staring eyes or the sewn-together lips. Irene leaned in and removed what looked like a bright orange cricket ball which had been placed between Diana Cowper’s hands. She handed it to Meadows.

He examined it with distaste. ‘I don’t know what this is,’ he said.

‘It’s an alarm clock.’ Hawthorne reached out and Meadows handed it to him, glad to be rid of it.

I saw that it was indeed a digital alarm clock, with the correct time displayed in a circular panel on one side. It had a number of perforations, like an old-fashioned radio, and two switches. Hawthorne flicked one of them up and it began again.

‘Turn it off!’ Irene Laws shuddered.

He did as she asked. ‘It’s an MP3 recording alarm clock,’ he explained. ‘There are plenty of them on the internet. The idea is, you can download your kids’ favourite songs so it wakes them up in the morning. I got one for my boy except I put my own voice on it. “Wake up, you little bastard, and get a move on.” He thinks it’s hilarious.’

‘How was it activated?’ I asked.

Hawthorne turned it over in his hands. ‘It was set for eleven thirty. Whoever put it there timed it to go off in the middle of the funeral. They couldn’t have done a better job.’ He rounded on Irene Laws. ‘Have you got an explanation for how it got there?’ he asked.

‘No!’ She was taken aback, as if he was accusing her.

‘Was the coffin left on its own at any time?’

‘You’d really have to ask Mr Cornwallis.’

Hawthorne paused. ‘Where is Cornwallis?’

‘He had to leave early. It’s his son’s school play this afternoon.’ She was staring at the orange ball. ‘Nobody in our company would have done something like this.’

‘Then it must have been someone from outside, hence my question: was the coffin left on its own?’

‘Yes.’ Irene squirmed, hating to admit it. ‘The deceased was laid out at our facility on the Fulham Palace Road. She was brought from there today. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough space at our South Kensington office. We have a chapel close to Hammersmith roundabout, a place of bereavement. Members of the family and close friends would have been able to visit Mrs Cowper if they so wished.’

‘And how many of them so wished?’

‘I can’t tell you now. But we have a visitors’ book and nobody would have been allowed in without some form of identification.’

‘How about here at the cemetery?’ Hawthorne asked. Irene said nothing, so he went on: ‘When we arrived, the coffin was inside the hearse, which was parked around the back. Was there someone there the whole time?’

Irene deflected the question to one of the pall-bearers, who shuffled his feet and looked down. ‘We were there most of the time,’ he muttered. ‘But not all of it.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Alfred Laws. I’m a director of the company.’ He took a breath. ‘Irene is my wife.’

Hawthorne smiled mirthlessly. ‘Keep it all in the family, don’t you! So where were you?’

‘When we first arrived, we parked the vehicle and came in here.’

‘All of you?’

‘Yes.’

And was the hearse locked?’

‘No.’

‘In our experience, nobody has ever tried to remove a dead person,’ Irene remarked, icily.

‘Well, maybe that’s something you should think about in the future.’ Hawthorne closed in her, almost menacing. ‘I’ll need to talk to Mr Cornwallis. Where can I find him?’

‘I’ll give you his address.’ Irene held out a hand and her husband passed her a notebook and a pen. She scribbled a few lines on the first page, then tore it out and handed it to Hawthorne.

‘Thank you.’

‘Wait a minute!’ Meadows had been standing to one side throughout all this and it was as if he had only just realised he hadn’t said anything. At the same time – I saw it in his eyes – he knew he had nothing more to say. ‘I’ll take the alarm clock,’ he muttered, asserting his authority. ‘It shouldn’t have been handled,’ he added, forgetting that he had been the one who had taken it from Irene in the first place. ‘Forensics aren’t going to like that.’

‘I doubt forensics will find very much,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Well, if it was bought on the internet, there’s a good chance we’ll be able to find the identity of the purchaser.’

Hawthorne handed it to him. Meadows made a point of gripping it very carefully, with his thumb and second finger each side of the digital clock.

‘Good luck,’ Hawthorne said.

It was a dismissal.

The wake, if that was what it was, was being held at a gastropub on the corner of Finborough Road, a few minutes’ walk from the cemetery. This was the place that Damian had mentioned before he had stormed off. He wasn’t the only one who had gone straight home: half the mourners had decided to give it a miss too. That left Grace Lovell and about a dozen men and women hitting the Prosecco and miniature sausages, trying to console each other not just on the loss of an old friend but on the terrible farce that her funeral had become.

Hawthorne had said he wanted to talk to Damian Cowper and he had already called through to Robert Cornwallis, leaving a message on his mobile phone. But first of all he wanted to catch up with the other mourners. After all, if they hadn’t known Diana Cowper well, they wouldn’t have come to the funeral and it was his one chance to catch them while they were all together. There was a definite spring in his step as we crossed the Fulham Road and went in. Any sort of mystery energised him – and the more bizarre the better.

We saw Grace straight away. Although she was wearing black, her dress was very short and she had a velvet tuxedo jacket with extravagantly padded shoulders. Leaning against the bar, she could just as easily have come from a film premiere as a funeral. She wasn’t talking to anyone and smiled anxiously as we came over to her.

‘Mr Hawthorne!’ She was clearly glad to see him. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. I hardly know any of these people.’

‘Who are they?’ Hawthorne asked.

She looked around, then pointed. ‘That’s Raymond Clunes. He’s a theatre producer. Damian was in one of his plays.’

‘We’ve met.’

‘And that’s Diana’s GP.’ She nodded at a man, in his sixties, pigeon-shaped in a dark, three-piece suit. ‘His name’s Dr Butterworth, I think. The woman next to him is his wife. The man standing in the corner is Diana’s lawyer, Charles Kenworthy. He’s dealing with the will. But I don’t know anyone else.’

‘Damian went home.’

‘He was very upset. That song was deliberately chosen to upset him. It was a horrible joke to play.’

‘You know about the song?’

‘Well, yes!’ She hesitated, unsure if she could continue. ‘It goes back to that horrible business with those two children,’ she said. ‘It was Timothy Godwin’s favourite song. They played it when they buried him … in Harrow Weald.’

‘How do you know that?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Damian told me. He often talked about it.’ For some reason she felt a need to defend him. ‘He’s not someone to show his feelings but it really mattered to him, what happened all those years ago.’ She had a glass of Prosecco and drained it. ‘God, what a horrible day. I knew it was going to be horrible when I woke up this morning but I never dreamed it would be anything like this!’

Hawthorne was examining her. ‘I got the impression you didn’t much like Damian’s mother,’ he said, suddenly.

Grace blushed, the straight lines at the very top of her cheekbones darkening. ‘That’s not true! Who told you that?’

‘You said she ignored you.’

‘I said nothing of the sort. She was just more interested in Ashleigh, that’s all.’

‘Where is Ashleigh?’

‘In Hounslow, at my parents’ place. I’m picking her up when I leave here.’ She put her glass down on the bar and picked up another one from a passing waiter.

‘So you were close to her, then,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Damian and I had only been together a short while before Ashleigh arrived and she was nervous that being a father would hold him back.’ She stopped herself. ‘I know how that sounds but you have to understand that she was quite a lonely person. After Lawrence died, she only had Damian and she doted on him. His success meant the world to her.’

‘And the baby was in the way?’

‘She wasn’t planned, if that’s what you mean. But Damian loves her now. He wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘How about you, Miss Lovell? Ashleigh can’t have helped your career.’

‘You do say the most unpleasant things, Mr Hawthorne. I’m only thirty-three. I love Ashleigh to bits. And it doesn’t make any difference to me if I don’t work for a few years. I’m very happy with the way things are.’

She can’t have been that good an actress, I thought. I certainly wasn’t convinced by her now.

‘Do you enjoy Los Angeles?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It’s taken me a while to get used to it. We have a house in the Hollywood Hills and when I wake up in the morning, I can’t believe I’m there. It was always my dream when I was at drama school – to wake up and see the Hollywood sign.’

‘I imagine you’ve got lots of new friends.’

‘I don’t need new friends. I’ve got Damian.’ She looked over Hawthorne’s shoulder. ‘If you don’t mind, I have to say hello to some of these people. I’m meant to be looking after everyone and I don’t want to stay too long.’

She slipped away. Hawthorne followed her with his eyes. I could see his thoughts ticking over.

‘What now?’ I asked.

‘The doctor,’ he said.

‘Why him?’

Hawthorne glanced at me tiredly. ‘Because he knew Diana Cowper inside out. Because if she had any problems, she may have talked to him. Because he may have been the one who killed her. I don’t know!’

Shaking his head, Hawthorne approached the man in the three-piece suit whom Grace had pointed out. ‘Dr Butterworth,’ he said.

‘Buttimore.’ The doctor shook hands. He was large, bearded, with gold-framed glasses, the sort of man who would happily describe himself as ‘old school’. It had offended him, Hawthorne getting his name wrong, but he warmed up a little once Hawthorne had explained his connection to Scotland Yard. I often noticed this. People enjoy being drawn into a murder investigation. Part of them wants to help but there’s something salacious about it too.

‘So what was all that about, back in the cemetery?’ Buttimore asked. ‘I bet you’ve never seen anything like that, Mr Hawthorne. Poor Diana! God knows what she would have made of it. Do you think it was done on purpose?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have loaded an alarm clock into a coffin by accident, sir,’ Hawthorne said.

I was grateful for the final ‘sir’. Otherwise, he would have sounded too obviously contemptuous.

‘That’s absolutely true. I take it you’re going to look into it.’

‘Well, Mrs Cowper’s murder is my first priority.’

‘I thought the culprit had already been identified.’

‘A burglar,’ his wife said. She was half the size of her husband, in her fifties, severe.

‘We have to explore every avenue,’ Hawthorne explained. He turned back to the husband. ‘I understand you were a close friend of Mrs Cowper, Dr Buttimore. It would be helpful to know when you last saw her.’

‘About three weeks ago. She visited my surgery in Cavendish Square. She’d come in to see me quite a few times, as a matter of fact.’

‘Recently?’

‘Over the last few months. She was having trouble sleeping. It’s quite common, actually, among women of a certain age – although she was also having anxiety issues.’ He glanced left and right, nervous of sharing confidential information in a public place. He lowered his voice. ‘She was worried about her son.’

‘And why would that be?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’m speaking to you as her doctor as well as her friend, Mr Hawthorne. The truth is that she was worried about his lifestyle in Los Angeles. She had been opposed to his going in the first place and then she’d read all these vile things in the gossip columns – drugs and parties and all the rest of it. Of course, there wasn’t an iota of truth in it. The newspapers will print rubbish and lies about anyone who’s famous. That’s what I told her. But she was clearly in a state so I prescribed sleeping pills. Ativan to begin with and, later on, when that wasn’t strong enough, temazepam.’ I remembered the pills that we had found in the dead woman’s bathroom. ‘They seemed to do the trick,’ Buttimore went on. ‘I last saw her, as I just mentioned, at the end of April. I gave her another prescription—’

‘You weren’t afraid of her getting addicted?’

Dr Buttimore smiled benignly. ‘Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne, but if you knew anything about medicine, you’d know there’s very little chance of addiction with temazepam. It’s one of the reasons I prescribe it. The only danger is short-term memory loss but Mrs Cowper seemed generally in excellent health.’

‘Did she talk to you about visiting a funeral parlour?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She went to a funeral parlour. She arranged her funeral the very same day she died.’

Dr Buttimore blinked. ‘I’m absolutely astonished. I can’t think of any reason why she would have done that. I can assure you that apart from the anxiety problem, she had no reason to believe her health was in decline. I can only assume the timing of her death was a coincidence.’

‘It was a burglary,’ his wife insisted.

‘Exactly, dear. She couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.’

Hawthorne nodded and the two of us moved away. ‘Fucking prat,’ he muttered, as soon as we were out of earshot.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.’

I looked puzzled.

‘You heard what he said. It didn’t make any sense,’ Hawthorne said.

‘It made sense to me.’

‘He’s a prat. Just make sure you write that down.’

‘A fucking prat? I assume you’d like the expletive.’

Hawthorne said nothing.

‘I’ll just make sure it’s clear it was you who said it,’ I added. ‘That way, he can sue you instead of me.’

‘He can’t sue anyone if it’s the truth.’

We moved on to Charles Kenworthy, the lawyer. He was still in the corner, talking to a woman I assumed to be his wife. He was short and round with curling, silver hair. She was a similar shape but heavier. The two of them could have come down to London from the country as they both had a horsey quality, with ruddy cheeks from all that fresh air. He was drinking Prosecco. She had a fruit juice.

‘How do you do? Yes, yes. I’m Charles Kenworthy. This is Frieda.’

He could hardly have been more affable. As soon as Hawthorne had introduced himself, Kenworthy made it his business to tell us as much about himself as he could. He had known the dead woman for more than thirty years and had been a close friend of Lawrence Cowper (‘Pancreatic cancer. Absolutely shocking. He was a remarkable man … a first-rate dentist’). He still lived in Kent – in Faversham. He had helped Diana sell the house after that ‘dreadful business’ and move to London.

‘Did you advise her at the time of the trial?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Absolutely.’ Kenworthy couldn’t help himself. He didn’t just talk. He gushed. ‘There was no case against her. The judge was absolutely right.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Weston? We’d met once or twice. A fair-minded chap. I told her she had nothing to worry about, no matter what the newspapers said. Still, it was a difficult time for her. She was very upset.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last week … the day she died. At a board meeting. We were both on the board of the Globe Theatre. As you may know, the theatre is an educational charity. We rely very heavily on donations to be able to continue.’

‘What sort of plays do you put on?’

‘Well … Shakespeare obviously.’

I wasn’t sure if Hawthorne really was unaware that the Globe was a reconstruction of a theatre that had stood on the south bank of the Thames four hundred years ago and that it specialised in authentic performances of mainly Elizabethan plays. There was nothing about him that suggested he had any interest in drama – or, for that matter, literature, music or art. At the same time, though, he was remarkably well informed about a great many things and it was quite possible that he was simply trying to get under the lawyer’s skin.

‘I understand that you had a bit of an argument that day.’

‘I wouldn’t say so. Who told you that?’

Hawthorne didn’t answer. It was actually Robert Cornwallis who had heard raised voices when he had called Diana Cowper to ask about plot numbers in Brompton Cemetery. ‘She resigned from the board,’ he said.

‘Yes. But that wasn’t because of any particular disagreement.’

‘So why did she resign?’

‘I have no idea. She simply said that she’d been thinking about it for some time and that she would leave with immediate effect. Her announcement took us all by surprise. She had been a passionate supporter of the theatre and a driving force in our fundraising and educational programmes.’

‘Was she unhappy about something?’

‘Not at all. If anything, I would have said she was quite relieved. She had been on the board for six years. Maybe she thought it was enough.’

Next to him, his wife was becoming uneasy. ‘Charles – maybe we ought to be on our way.’

‘All right, dear.’ Kenworthy turned to Hawthorne. ‘I can’t really tell you anything more about the board. It’s confidential.’

‘Can you tell me about Mrs Cowper’s will?’

‘Well, yes. I’m sure that will become public knowledge soon enough. It’s quite simple. She left everything to Damian.’

‘From what I understand, that’s quite a bit.’

‘It’s not for me to go into details. It’s been very nice meeting you, Mr Hawthorne.’ Charles Kenworthy put down his glass. He fished in his pocket and handed a car key to his wife. ‘Off we go then, dear. You’d better drive.’

‘Righty-ho.’

‘The keys …’ Hawthorne was speaking to himself. His eyes were fixed on Charles and Frieda Kenworthy as they walked away but at the same time he was no longer interested in them. His thoughts were elsewhere. Frieda was still holding the car key. I saw it in her hand as she went through the door, and realised that it had thrown some sort of switch, reminding Hawthorne of something he had missed.

And then he worked it out. I actually saw the moment when it happened. It was almost shocking, as if he had been physically hit. I wouldn’t say that the colour drained from his face, as there had never been much colour to begin with. But it was there in his eyes: the terrible realisation that he had got something wrong. ‘We’re going,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘There’s no time. Just move.’

He was already on his way, pushing past a waiter, making for the door. We overtook the Kenworthys, who were saying goodbye to someone they knew, and burst out onto the street. We arrived at a corner and Hawthorne came to a halt, seething with fury.

‘Why are there no bloody taxis?’

He was right. Despite the heavy traffic, there wasn’t a taxi in sight – but as we stood there, I saw one pull in on the other side of the road. It had been hailed by a woman carrying shopping bags. Hawthorne shouted – a single exclamation. At the same time, he ran across the road, blind to the traffic. Taking a little more care – I was remembering that the cemetery was just around the corner – I followed. There was the screech of tyres, the blast of a horn, but somehow I made it to the other side. Hawthorne had already interposed himself between the woman and the driver – who had clicked on the meter, turning off his yellow light.

‘Excuse me …’ I heard the woman say, her voice rising with indignation.

‘Police,’ Hawthorne snapped. ‘It’s an emergency.’

She didn’t ask him for ID. Hawthorne had been in the police force long enough to have assumed its authority. Or maybe it was just that he looked too dangerous, somebody you wouldn’t want to argue with.

‘Where do you want to go?’ the driver asked as we both bundled in.

‘Brick Lane,’ Hawthorne said.

Damian Cowper’s home.

I will never forget that taxi journey. It was a few minutes past midday and there wasn’t actually that much traffic but every snarl-up, every red traffic light, was torture for Hawthorne, who sat hunched up next to me, almost writhing. There were all sorts of questions I wanted to ask him. What was it about a set of car keys that had alerted him? Why had they put him in mind of Damian Cowper? Was Damian in some sort of danger? But I was sensible enough to keep silent. I didn’t want Hawthorne’s anger to be turned on me and – I don’t know why – but somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was whispering that whatever was happening, it might somehow be my fault.

It’s a long way from Fulham to Brick Lane. We had to cross the whole of London, west to east, and it might have been faster to take the tube. We actually went past several stations – South Kensington, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner – and each time I saw Hawthorne making the calculation, trying to work out the amount of traffic ahead. As we headed down towards Piccadilly, he took out some of his frustration on the driver.

‘Why are you going this way? You should have gone past the bloody palace.’

The driver ignored him. It was true that the traffic crawled as we came down towards Piccadilly Circus but when you’re in a hurry in London, every route will be the wrong one. I looked at my watch. It had so far taken us twenty-five minutes to get here. It felt a lot longer. Next to me, Hawthorne was muttering under his breath. I sat back and closed my eyes. He still hadn’t told me what was actually going on.

Eventually, we reached Damian Cowper’s flat. Hawthorne leapt out, leaving me to pay. I handed the driver £50 and, without waiting for change, followed Hawthorne through the narrow doorway and staircase that led up between two shops. We reached the entrance on the first floor. Ominously, the door was ajar.

We went in.

It was the smell of blood that hit me first. I’d written about dozens of murders for books and television but I had never imagined anything like this.

Damian Cowper had been mutilated. He was lying on his side in a puddle of dark brown blood that had spread all around him, seeping into the floorboards. One of his hands was stretched out and the first thing I noticed was that two of his fingers had been half severed as he had flailed out, trying to protect himself from the knife that had cut him half a dozen times and which had finally been left sticking out of his chest. One of the blows had slashed him across the face and this injury was more horrible than any of the others because when we meet someone it’s the first thing we look at. Lose an arm or a leg and you are still you. Lose your face and almost everything we know about you is taken away.

Damian had a deep cut that had taken out one eye and folded back a great flap of skin all the way down to his mouth. His clothes might hide the worst of his other injuries but here there was no disguising the madness of what had been done to him. One of his cheeks was pressed against the floor and his whole head had taken on the melting quality of a punctured football. He no longer looked anything like himself. I had really only recognised him by his clothes and the tangled black hair.

The smell of his blood filled my nostrils. It was rich, deep, like freshly dug earth. I had never known that blood smelled like that but then there was so much of it and the flat was warm, the windows closed, the walls bending …

‘Tony? Come on! For Christ’s sake!’

For some reason, I was looking at the ceiling. The back of my head was hurting. Hawthorne was leaning over me. I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped myself. I couldn’t have fainted. That was impossible. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing.

But I had.