The Word Is Murder(24)

‘What did he want?’

‘He was asking her for money. I told her not to get involved. It had all happened a long time ago and it had nothing to do with her any more.’

‘Did she mention that he’d written to her?’ I asked.

‘Had he?’ Clunes looked into the mid-distance. ‘No. I don’t think so. She just said he’d been to see her and she didn’t know what to do.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Hawthorne cut in. ‘You say you spoke to the judge. How did that happen?’

‘Oh – I know him. Nigel Weston is a friend of mine. He’s also an investor. He put money into the musical version of La Cage aux Folles. He did very well out of it.’

‘So what you’re saying to me, Mr Clunes, is that Diana Cowper ran over and killed a child. She was an investor in your shows. And she was acquitted by a judge who was also an investor. Out of interest, had the two of them met?’

‘I don’t know.’ Clunes seemed defensive. ‘I don’t think so. I hope you’re not suggesting there was some sort of impropriety, Detective Inspector.’

‘Well, if there was, we’ll find out. Is Mr Weston married?’

‘I have no idea. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason.’

But Hawthorne was bristling as we went back down the stairs and this time he didn’t try to hide his disgust as we passed the Mapplethorpe. We left the house, walked around the corner and he lit a cigarette. I watched him as he smoked furiously, refusing to look me in the eye.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, eventually.

He didn’t answer.

‘Hawthorne …?’

He turned on me, his eyes vengeful. ‘You think it’s all right, do you? That bloody queer, sitting there, surrounded by all that porn.’

‘What?’ I was genuinely shocked – not by what he thought. I’d already guessed that. But by the way he’d expressed it. He pronounced queer ‘quee-ah’, making it sound like something alien as well as unpleasant.

‘First of all, that wasn’t porn,’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea how much some of that stuff is worth? And secondly, you can’t call him that.’

‘What?’

‘That word you used.’

‘Queer?’ He sneered at me. ‘You don’t think he was straight, do you?’

‘I don’t think his sexuality is relevant,’ I said.

‘Well, it might be, Tony. If him and his judge friend colluded to get Diana Cowper off the hook.’

‘Is that why you asked if Weston was married? You think he’s gay too?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. That sort look after their own.’

I was having to measure my words carefully. I was aware that suddenly, without warning, everything had changed. ‘What are you talking about? What do you mean by “that sort”? You can’t talk like that. Nobody talks like that any more.’

‘Well, maybe I do.’ He glared at me. ‘I’m sure you’ve got lots of homosexual friends, you being a writer and working in TV. But speaking for myself, I don’t like them. I think they’re a load of pervs and if I walk into someone’s house and I see a great big cock on the wall and find out they’ve got a pervy friend who put money into a pervy musical and who may have been persuaded to pervert the course of justice, then I’m going to speak my mind. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Yes. I do have a problem with that, actually. A very big problem.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. When I had first met him, Hawthorne had made one or two snide comments about the actors who would be performing in Injustice but for some reason it had never crossed my mind that he might be homophobic. And if that was what he was, there was no way I was going to write about him. He had said one thing that was true. I do have many close friends who are gay and if I made a hero out of Hawthorne, if I gave any space to his opinions, they probably wouldn’t stay friends for long. I realised that I could be in terrible trouble. What about the critics? They would tear the book apart. Suddenly I saw my entire career disappearing down the plughole.

I walked away.

‘Tony? Where are you going?’ he called after me. He sounded genuinely surprised.

‘I’m getting the tube home,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

When I got to the end of the street, I glanced round. He was still standing there, watching me. He looked like an abandoned child.





Seven


Harrow-on-the-Hill




That night, I went to the National Theatre with my wife. I’d managed to get tickets for Danny Boyle’s production of Frankenstein but I’m afraid I couldn’t enjoy it. I wondered what Hawthorne would make of the actor, Jonny Lee Miller, who spent the first twenty minutes running around the stage, completely naked. We got home at about eleven thirty and my wife went straight to bed but I sat up late into the night, worrying about the book. I hadn’t talked to her about it. I knew what she would say.

If I had sat down to write an original murder mystery story, I wouldn’t have chosen anyone like Hawthorne as its main protagonist. I think the world has had quite enough of white, middle-aged, grumpy detectives and I’d have tried to think up something more unusual. A blind detective, a drunk detective, an OCD detective, a psychic detective … they’d all been done but how about a detective who was all four of those things? Actually, I’d have preferred a female detective, someone like Sarah Lund in The Killing. I’d have been much happier with someone who was younger, feistier, more independent, with or without the chunky jerseys. I’d also have given her a sense of humour.