The Word Is Murder(14)

Hawthorne rifled through the drawers, wardrobes and bedside cabinets. He glanced briefly at a framed photograph of Damian Cowper, propped up on her make-up table. I vaguely recognised him, although to be honest I’m not good with faces and most of these young, handsome, English actors blend into one another … particularly once they’ve made the move to Hollywood. He discovered a safe behind Mrs Cowper’s shoe rack, scowled when he found it was still locked but then forgot it. I was fascinated by the way he searched for clues. He didn’t speak to me. He barely noticed I was there. He reminded me a little of a sniffer dog at an airport. There is never any reason to suppose that there will be drugs or bombs in any of the suitcases but the dog will examine every one of them and will be sure to find anything that’s there. Hawthorne had the same vagueness, the same certainty.

From the bedroom, he moved into the bathroom. There were about twenty little bottles gathered around the bath: she’d had the habit of taking the shampoo and bath gel from hotels. He opened a cabinet above the basin and took out three packets of temazepam – sleeping pills. He showed them to me.

‘Interesting,’ he said. It was the first word he had spoken for a while.

‘She was worried about something,’ I said. ‘She couldn’t sleep.’

I followed Hawthorne as he continued around the house. There were two guest rooms on the upper floor but they clearly hadn’t been used for a while. They were almost too clean with a chill in the air, the central heating turned down to save on bills. He took a brief look around, then went back out into the corridor.

‘What do you think happened to the cat?’ he muttered.

‘What cat?’ I asked.

‘The old lady’s cat. A Persian grey. One of those horrible bloody things that look like a medicine ball with fur.’

‘I didn’t see a photograph of a cat.’

‘Nor did I.’

He didn’t add anything and I was suddenly irritated. ‘If I’m going to write about you, you’re going to have to tell me how you work. It’s all very well making these pronouncements but you can’t just leave them hanging in the air.’

He frowned as if he was trying to make sense of what I had just said, then nodded. ‘It’s pretty bloody obvious, Tony. There was a feeding bowl down in the kitchen. And the pillow. Didn’t you notice?’

‘The indentation? I thought that was her head.’

‘I doubt it, mate. Not unless she had short, silky hair and smelled of fish. She slept on the left side of the bed. That was where the book was. The cat slept with her on the other side. It was obviously heavy, quite big. I’d guess a Persian grey. It’s just the sort of pet a woman like her would have – but it’s not here.’

‘Maybe the police took it.’

‘Maybe they did.’

We went back downstairs and as we re-entered the living room, I saw that we were no longer alone. A man in a cheap suit was sitting on the sofa with his legs apart and a file spread out across his lap. His tie was crooked and two of the buttons on his shirt were undone. I had a feeling he was a smoker. Everything about him was unhealthy: the colour of his skin, his thinning hair, broken nose, stomach pressing against the waistband of his trousers. He was about the same age as Hawthorne but bigger, flabbier. He could have retired from the boxing ring but I guessed he must be a police officer. I had seen his sort often enough on television – not in dramas but on the news, standing outside courtrooms, awkwardly reading a prepared statement to the camera.

‘Hawthorne,’ he said, without any enthusiasm.

‘Detective Inspector Meadows!’ Hawthorne had used the formal title ironically, as if it somehow wasn’t deserved. ‘Hello, Jack,’ he added.

‘I couldn’t believe it when they told me they’d brought you in on this one. It seems straightforward enough to me.’ He noticed me for the first time. ‘Who are you?’

I wasn’t quite sure how to introduce myself.

‘He’s a writer,’ Hawthorne said, stepping in. ‘He’s with me.’

‘What? Writing about you?’

‘Writing about the case.’

‘I hope you’ve got that authorised.’ He paused. ‘I left everything for you, like I was told. Brought stuff back. Laid it all out just like we found it. Complete waste of time if you ask me.’

‘I don’t, Jack. No-one ever does.’

He took that on the chin. ‘You had a chance to look round, then? Have you finished?’

‘I was just leaving.’ But Hawthorne stayed where he was. ‘You say it’s straightforward. So what are your thoughts?’

‘I’m not going to share my thoughts with you, if you don’t mind.’ He got lazily to his feet. He was a bigger man than I had thought. He towered over both of us. He had gathered up the pages and, almost as an afterthought, he handed them over. ‘They told me to give you these.’

The file contained photographs, forensic reports, witness statements and records of all the telephone calls made to and from both the house and Diana Cowper’s mobile phone in the past two weeks. Hawthorne glanced at the top page. ‘She sent a text message at six thirty-one.’

‘That’s right. Just before she was strangled. My killer was Aaaaagh …’ He smiled at his own joke. ‘I’ve read the text. It doesn’t make a lot of sense so I’ll leave you to work it out.’ He went over to the glass of water that I had noticed on the sideboard, next to the credit card. ‘I’ll take this now, if you don’t mind.’