The Word Is Murder(26)

9.30 a.m. Harrow-on-the-Hill.

I was still holding my phone and I realised that there was only one way forward – although it would mean fundamentally changing the way I approached the book and, for that matter, my role in it. I didn’t have to lie about Hawthorne. Nor did I need to protect him. He could look after himself. But I would challenge some of his attitudes … in fact it was my duty to do so. Otherwise, I’d be open to exactly the sort of criticism I feared.

I had just learned that he had a problem with gay men. Well, without in any way condoning it, I would explore why he felt that way and if as a result I came to understand him a little better, then surely nobody would complain. The book would be worthwhile.

It might be that he was gay himself. After all, when high-ranking politicians or clergymen have publicly spoken out against homosexuality, they’ve often turned out to be deep inside their own closets. I didn’t want to expose him. Despite everything, I had no desire at all to hurt him. But suddenly I saw that I might have a purpose after all.

I would investigate the investigator.

I picked up my telephone and thumbed in three words:

See you there.

Then I went to bed.



The Unico café was just down the road from Harrow-on-the-Hill station, at the end of a dilapidated shopping parade, near the railway line. Hawthorne had already ordered breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast and tea. It struck me that this was the first time I’d ever seen him sitting down with a proper meal. He ate warily, as if he was suspicious of what was in front of him, cutting with a fast motion and then forking the food into his mouth as quickly as possible to get rid of it. He didn’t seem to take any pleasure in what he ate. I thought he might apologise for the way our last meeting had ended but he just smiled at me. He wasn’t at all surprised that I’d turned up. I don’t suppose it had occurred to him that I wouldn’t.

I slid behind the table opposite him and ordered a bacon sandwich.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m all right.’

If I sounded distant, he didn’t notice. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of work on the Godwin family,’ he said. He talked while he ate but somehow the food didn’t get in the way of the words. There was a notepad on the table next to him. ‘The father is Alan Godwin,’ he went on. ‘He’s got his own business. He’s an events organiser. His wife is Judith Godwin. Works part-time for a kids’ charity. They’ve only got the one son. Jeremy Godwin is eighteen now. Brain damage. According to the doctors, he needs full-time care – but that could mean anything.’

‘Can’t you even feel slightly sorry for them?’ I asked.

He looked up from his plate, puzzled. ‘What makes you think I don’t?’

‘Just the way you’re rattling off the facts. “They’ve only got the one son.” Of course they have! The other one was killed. And as for the one who’s still alive, you’re already suggesting that he might be faking it or something.’

‘I can see you got out of bed the wrong side.’ He drank some tea. ‘I don’t know anything about Jeremy Godwin apart from what I’ve been told. But unless Diana Cowper made a mistake, it seems he may well have got out of his bed or out of his wheelchair and hiked down to Britannia Road on the night she died. And let’s not forget that only yesterday, you were the one who was in a hurry to get up here. You’d got them all bang to rights: Alan Godwin, Judith Godwin and – if he was up to it – Jeremy Godwin. Correct me if I’m wrong.’

My bacon sandwich arrived. I didn’t really feel like eating it. ‘I’m just saying you could be a bit more sensitive about people.’

‘Is that why you’re here? Because you want to put your arms around the suspects and hold them close?’

‘No. But …’

‘You’re here for the same reason as me. You want to know who killed Diana Cowper. If it was one of them, they’ll be arrested. If it wasn’t, we’ll walk away and we’ll never see them again. Either way, what we think about them, what we feel about them, doesn’t make a sod of difference.’

He flicked over one of the pages. He had made the notes in handwriting that was very neat and precise, so small that I couldn’t read it without my glasses. ‘I’ve made a summary of the accident. If it won’t upset you too much … an eight-year-old kid getting killed!’

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘It’s pretty much like Raymond Clunes told us. They were staying at the Royal Hotel in Deal … just the two brothers and a nanny, Mary O’Brien. They’d been on the beach all day and they were on their way back when the kids ran across the road to get ice-creams. The nanny got a bit of stick for that in court but she swore the road was clear. She was wrong. They were halfway across when a car came round the corner and slammed into them. It missed the nanny by inches, killed one kid, hurt the other, then drove off. There was quite a crowd, plenty of witnesses. If Diana Cowper hadn’t turned herself in a couple of hours later, she’d have been in serious shit.’

‘Do you think it was right she was acquitted?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask a brief.’

‘She knew the judge.’

‘She knew someone who knew the judge. Not the same thing.’ He seemed to have forgotten that he had been suggesting a gay conspiracy only the day before. ‘Judges know lots of people,’ he added. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean there was something nasty going on.’