The Word Is Murder(39)

‘You’ve chosen the wrong book,’ he said.

It was impossible. Peter and I had discussed which books we were going to adapt when we were in Wellington. I had spent three months on this draft. It was the last thing I had expected him to say.

‘I’m sorry?’ I’m not sure those were the exact words I used.

‘The Seven Crystal Balls. Prisoners of the Sun. Those are the wrong books …’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want to do them.’

I turned to Peter. He nodded. ‘OK.’

And that, actually, was it. It didn’t matter that Peter Jackson was directing and Spielberg was producing. They both had copies of my script but we weren’t going to discuss it at all: not the plot, the characters, the action, the jokes. There was nothing to talk about.

‘We can do Prisoners of the Sun as the third film,’ Peter said, brushing it aside with a casual wave of his hand. ‘Which book do you think Anthony should start working on for number two?’

Anthony! That was me. I wasn’t going to be fired.

But before Spielberg could answer, the door opened again and, to my shock and utter dismay, Hawthorne walked in. As always he was in his suit and white shirt but this time he’d also put on a black tie.

For the funeral.

He didn’t seem to have any idea what sort of meeting he’d just interrupted – or how important it was to me. He wandered in as if he had been invited and when he saw me, he smiled as if he hadn’t expected me to be there. ‘Tony,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘I’m busy,’ I said, feeling the blood rush to my face.

‘I know. I can see that, mate. But you must have forgotten. The funeral!’

‘I told you. I can’t come to the funeral.’

‘Who’s died?’ Peter Jackson asked.

I glanced at him. He looked genuinely concerned. On the other side of the table, Spielberg was sitting very straight, a little annoyed. I could imagine that he belonged to a world where nobody would walk in unless they were expected and only if they were being escorted by an assistant. Apart from anything else, there was his security to consider.

‘It’s nobody,’ I said. I still couldn’t quite believe Hawthorne had come here. Was he deliberately trying to embarrass me? ‘I told you,’ I said quietly. ‘I really can’t come.’

‘But you have to. It’s important.’

‘Who are you?’ Spielberg asked.

Hawthorne pretended to notice him for the first time. ‘I’m Hawthorne,’ he said. ‘I’m with the police.’

‘You’re a police officer?’

‘No. He’s a consultant,’ I cut in. ‘He’s helping the police with an investigation.’

‘A murder,’ Hawthorne explained, helpfully, once again sitting on that first vowel to make the word somehow more violent than it already was. He was looking at Spielberg, only now recognising him. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

‘I’m Steven Spielberg.’

‘Are you in films?’

I wanted to weep.

‘That’s right. I make films …’

‘This is Steven Spielberg and this is Peter Jackson.’ I don’t know why I said that. Part of me was trying to take back control. Perhaps I was hoping I could overawe Hawthorne and get him out of the room.

‘Peter Jackson!’ Hawthorne’s face brightened. ‘You did those three films … The Lord of the Rings!’

‘That’s right.’ Jackson was relaxed. ‘Did you see them?’

‘I watched them on DVD with my son. He thought they were great.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The first one, anyway. He wasn’t too sure about the second. What was it called …?’

‘The Two Towers.’ Peter was still smiling, even if it was a smile that had slightly frozen in place.

‘We didn’t much like those trees. The talking trees. We thought they were stupid.’

‘You mean … the Ents.’

‘Whatever. And Gandalf. I thought he was dead and I was a bit surprised when he turned up again.’ Hawthorne thought for a moment and I waited with a sense of mounting dread for what was going to come next. ‘The actor who played him, Ian McEwan, he was a bit over the top.’

‘Sir Ian McKellen. He was nominated for an Oscar.’

‘That may be the case. But did he win it?’

‘Mr Hawthorne is a special consultant for Scotland Yard,’ I cut in. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write a book about his latest case …’

‘It’s called “Hawthorne Investigates”,’ Hawthorne said.

Spielberg considered. ‘I like that title,’ he said.

‘It’s good,’ Jackson agreed.

Hawthorne glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got the funeral at eleven o’clock,’ he explained.

‘And I’ve already said, I can’t be there.’

‘You have to be there, Tony. I mean, everyone who ever knew Diana Cowper is going to attend. It’s an opportunity to see them all interacting. You could say it’s a bit like having a read-through before a film. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you!’