The Word Is Murder(34)
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.
Damian Cowper was waiting for us when we arrived, perched on a bar stool beside the kitchen counter. There was something that wasn’t quite real about him too: the languid pose, the shirt with its wide collar open at the neck, the gold chain resting against the chest hair, the tan. He could have been posing for the front cover of a fashion magazine. He was remarkably handsome – and probably knew it – with jet-black hair swept back, intense blue eyes and exactly the right amount of designer stubble. He looked tired, which might have been jet-lag, but I was aware he had spent much of the day being interviewed by the police. There was also a funeral to arrange – or, at least, to attend. The arrangements, of course, had all been made for him.
He had opened the door for us using an intercom and he was talking on his mobile as he waved us in. ‘Yeah, yeah. Look. I’ll get back to you. I have people here. Look after yourself, babe. I’ll see you.’
He rang off.
‘Hi. I’m sorry about that. I only got back yesterday and, as you can imagine, it’s a bit crazy around here.’ He had just enough of a transatlantic accent to be annoying. I remembered what Hawthorne had told me about money problems, girlfriends, drugs, and I decided at once that I believed him. Everything about Damian Cowper made my hackles rise.
We shook hands.
‘You want a coffee?’ Damian asked. He pointed at the sofa, inviting us to sit down.
‘Thank you.’
He had one of those machines that take capsules and spin the milk round in a metal cylinder to froth it up. ‘I can’t tell you what a nightmare this whole thing has been. My poor mum! I spoke to the police for a long time yesterday afternoon – and again this morning. When they told me the news, I couldn’t believe it … not at first.’ He stopped himself. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything I can do to help you catch the bastard who did this …’
‘When did you last see your mother?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘It was the last time I was over, in December.’ Damian opened the fridge and took out some milk. ‘She wanted to spend time with the baby – she has a granddaughter – and it’s easier for us to come here. I had some stuff to do anyway so we spent Christmas together. She and Grace get on really well. I’m glad they were able to get to know each other a bit better.’
‘You and your mum were close.’ Even as Hawthorne spoke there was a glint of something in his eye that suggested he thought otherwise.
‘Yeah. Of course we were. I mean, it wasn’t easy for her when I moved to America but she was a hundred per cent behind my work. She was proud of what I was doing and, you know, with dad dying a long time ago and her never remarrying, I think my success meant a lot to her.’ He had made two coffees, drawing a pattern across the foam even as he reminisced about his dead father. He glanced down at his work, then handed the cups over, adding: ‘I can’t tell you how gutted I was when I heard about it.’
‘She died over a week ago,’ Hawthorne remarked, without any particular rancour.
‘I had things to deal with. We’re rehearsing a new show. I had to shut down the house and get the dog looked after.’
‘You’ve got a dog. That’s nice.’
‘It’s a labradoodle.’
It was that last remark that made me wonder if the concerned, caring, recently bereaved Damian Cowper might not be quite as sincere as he seemed. It wasn’t just that his new show had come first in his list of priorities. He wanted us to know the breed of his dog – as if it might somehow help the investigation into his mother’s brutal murder.
‘How often did the two of you speak?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Once a week.’ He paused. ‘Well, once a fortnight, anyway. She used to come in here and check the place out for me, water the plants on the terrace and all the rest of it. She forwarded my mail.’ He shrugged. ‘We didn’t always speak. She was busy and the time difference didn’t help. We did lots of texts and emails.’
‘She texted you the day she died,’ I said.
‘Yes. I told the police about that. She said she was afraid.’
‘Do you know what she meant by that?’
‘She was referring to that kid, the one who got hurt in Deal—’
‘He was more than hurt,’ Hawthorne cut in. He had taken the corner of the sofa and was sitting there quite languidly with his legs crossed … more like a doctor than a detective. ‘He’s got serious brain damage. He needs twenty-four-hour care.’