The Word Is Murder(32)

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.’ Hawthorne 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?’