‘Go on.’
‘There’s not very much more to tell. A whole crowd of people seemed to appear from nowhere very quickly. There was a chemist’s next to the ice-cream shop and the owner was the first to arrive. His name was Traverton. He was very helpful.’
‘How about the people from the ice-cream shop?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘It was closed,’ Judith said and there was a bitter quality to her voice.
‘It somehow makes it even worse that the boys hadn’t noticed,’ Mary agreed. ‘The shop was closed anyway. But there was just a small sign in the door and they hadn’t seen it.’
‘What happened next?’
‘The police arrived. An ambulance came. They took us to hospital … all three of us. All I wanted to do was ask about the boys but I wasn’t their mother and they wouldn’t tell me. I got them to call Judith … and Alan. It was only when they finally got there that I found out.’
‘How long did it take the police to find Diana Cowper?’
‘Her son drove her to the police station in Deal two hours later. She would never have got away with it. One of the witnesses had seen her registration number so they knew who the car belonged to.’
‘Did you see her again?’
Mary nodded. ‘I saw her at the trial. I didn’t speak to her.’
‘And you haven’t seen her since?’
‘No. Why would I want to? She’s the last person in the world I’d want to see.’
‘Someone murdered her last week.’
‘Are you implying I did it? That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even know where she lived.’
I didn’t believe her. It’s easy enough to find anyone’s address these days. And she was certainly hiding something. Looking at her more closely, I realised Mary O’Brien was more attractive than I had first thought. There was a freshness about her, a lack of sophistication, that made her very appealing. At the same time, though, I didn’t trust her. I got the feeling that she wasn’t telling us the whole truth.
‘Mr Hawthorne thinks that Jeremy might have visited that woman on his own,’ Judith Godwin said.
‘That’s completely impossible. He never goes anywhere on his own.’
Hawthorne wasn’t even slightly fazed. ‘That may be the case. But you might as well know that, just before she was murdered, Mrs Cowper sent a rather strange text message which suggested she had seen him.’ He rounded on the nanny. ‘Were the two of you here on Monday the ninth?’
Mary didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t accompany Mrs Godwin on her shopping trip to South Kensington?’
‘Jeremy hates shops. It’s a nightmare buying him clothes.’
‘Why don’t you talk to him?’ Judith suggested. Mary looked surprised. ‘It’s the easiest way to show them.’ Judith turned back to Hawthorne. ‘You can ask him some questions if you want to, although I would ask you to be a little more sensitive. He gets upset very easily.’
I was as surprised as the nanny but I suppose it was the easiest way to get rid of us. Hawthorne nodded and Judith took us up. The stairs creaked underneath our feet. The further up we went, the older and dowdier the house seemed to be. We reached the first floor and crossed a landing into what might once have been the master bedroom, with views out onto Roxborough Avenue. It had been given over to Jeremy, who had his bed-sitting room here. Judith knocked on the door and took us in without waiting for an answer.
‘Jeremy?’ she said. ‘There are two people who want to see you.’
‘Who are they?’ The boy had his back to us.
‘They’re just friends of mine. They want to talk to you.’
Jeremy Godwin had been sitting in front of a computer when we came in. He was playing a game – Mortal Kombat, I think. Hearing him speak, it was immediately obvious that something was wrong. His words were half formed, coming as if from the other side of a wall. He was overweight, with long black hair that he hadn’t brushed, and wore baggy jeans and a thick, shapeless sweater. The bedroom was decorated with Everton football posters and an Everton quilt on the bed, which was a double. Everything was well looked after but still seemed shabby, as if it had somehow been left behind. Jeremy came to the end of a level in his game and hit the Pause button. As he turned to face us, I saw a round face, thick lips, a wispy beard around his cheeks. The brain damage was painfully evident in brown eyes which showed no curiosity and simply didn’t connect with us. I knew he was eighteen but he looked older.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m Hawthorne. I’m a friend of your mum’s.’
‘My mum doesn’t have many friends.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ Hawthorne looked around him. ‘You’ve got a nice room, Jeremy.’
‘It’s not my room any more. We’re selling it.’
‘We’ll find somewhere just as nice for you,’ Mary said. She had brushed past us and sat down on the bed.
‘I wish we didn’t have to go.’
‘Do you want to ask him anything?’ Judith was standing by the door, anxious for us to be on our way.
‘Do you go out a lot, Jeremy?’ Hawthorne asked.
I couldn’t see any point in the question. This young man would never be able to take himself off into the centre of London. Nor did he seem to have a shred of aggression about him. The accident had taken that from him, along with the rest of his life.
‘I go out sometimes,’ Jeremy replied.
‘But not on your own,’ Mary added.
‘Sometimes,’ he contradicted her. ‘I went to see my dad.’
‘We put you in a taxi and he met you at the other end.’
‘Have you ever been to South Kensington?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘I’ve been there lots of times.’
‘He doesn’t know where it is,’ his mother said, quietly.
I couldn’t stay here any more and quietly backed away, for once taking the initiative. Hawthorne followed me out. Judith Godwin took the two of us downstairs.
‘It’s a credit to the nanny that she stayed with you,’ Hawthorne said. He sounded impressed but I knew he was digging for more information.
‘Mary was devoted to the boys and after the accident she refused to leave. I’ve been glad to have her here. It’s very important for Jeremy to have continuity.’ There was a coldness in her voice and I was aware of something being unsaid.
‘Will she stay with you when you move?’
‘We haven’t discussed it.’
We reached the front door. She opened it. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t come back,’ she said. ‘Jeremy hates disruption and he finds strangers very difficult. I wanted you to see him so you’d understand how he is. But we have nothing to do with what happened to Diana Cowper. The police clearly don’t believe we’re involved. We really have nothing more to say.’
‘Thank you,’ Hawthorne said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
We left. The door closed behind us.
The moment we were outside, Hawthorne took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. I knew how he felt. I was glad to be out in the open air.
‘Why didn’t you show her the letter?’ I asked.
‘What?’ He shook the match, extinguishing it.
‘I was surprised that you didn’t show her the letter that Diana Cowper received. The one you got from Andrea Kluvánek. Maybe Judith wrote it. Or her husband. She might have recognised the writing.’
He shrugged. His thoughts were elsewhere. ‘That poor little sod,’ he muttered.
‘It’s a horrible thing to have happened,’ I said. And I meant it. My two sons insist on cycling in London. They often forget to put on their helmets and I shout at them – but what can I do? They’re in their late twenties. For me, Jeremy Godwin was the embodiment of a nightmare I tried not to have.
‘I’ve got a son,’ Hawthorne said, abruptly, answering the question I’d put to him about twenty-four hours before.
‘How old is he?’
‘Eleven.’ Haw
thorne was upset, his thoughts elsewhere. But before I could ask anything more, he suddenly turned on me. ‘And he doesn’t read your fucking books.’
Pinching the cigarette between his fingers, he raised it to his lips, then walked away. I followed.
As we went, something strange happened. Maybe it was some instinct or maybe a movement caught my eye but I realised that we were being watched. I turned round and looked at the house we had just left. Someone had been standing in the window of Jeremy Godwin’s room, staring down at us, but before I could see who it was, they had backed away.
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. Th
e 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.