The Word Is Murder(43)

I had been recording everything he said on my iPhone but I stopped listening at this point. Damian Cowper’s funeral address had confirmed my feelings about him. He talked for a few more minutes and then the sound system came back on with ‘Eleanor Rigby’, the doors were opened and we all trooped out into the cemetery. The man with the straggly hair was right in front of us. He dabbed at his eyes a second time.

We traipsed off to the western side of the cemetery, behind the colonnades. A grave had been dug in a long stretch of unkempt grass next to a low wall. There was a railway line on the other side. I couldn’t see it but as we walked forward I heard a train go past. We came to a gravestone with the inscription Lawrence Cowper, 3 April 1950 – 22 October 1999. After a long illness, borne with fortitude. I remembered that he had lived and presumably died in Kent, and wondered how he had come to be buried here. The sun was shining but a couple of plane trees provided shade. It was a pleasant, warm afternoon. Damian Cowper, Grace Lovell and the vicar had stayed behind to accompany the body on its last journey and as we waited for them Detective Inspector Meadows lumbered over to us. He was wearing a suit that could have come out of a charity shop – or should have been on the way to one.

‘So how’s it going, Hawthorne?’ he asked.

‘Not too bad, Jack.’

‘You getting anywhere with this?’ Meadows sniffed. ‘You don’t want to solve it too soon, I’d have thought. Not if you’re being paid by the day.’

‘I’ll wait for you to come up with an answer,’ Hawthorne said. ‘That way, I’ll make a fortune.’

‘Actually, I may have to disappoint you there. Looks like we’re closing in …’

‘Really?’ I asked. If Meadows actually solved the case before Hawthorne, it would be catastrophic for the book.

‘Yes. You’ll read about it in the newspapers soon enough so I might as well tell you now. There have been three burglaries in the area around Britannia Road recently with an identical MO. The intruder dressed up as a dispatch rider, delivering a package. A motorbike helmet covered his face. He targeted single women living on their own.’

‘And he murdered them all, did he?’

‘No. He beat up the first two and locked them in a cupboard while he ransacked their houses. The third one was smart. She didn’t let him in. She dialled 999 and he hiked it. But we know who we’re looking for. We’re looking at CCTV footage now. We should be able to track down the bike without too much trouble and that’ll lead us to him.’

‘And what’s your theory for how Diana Cowper got herself strangled? Why didn’t he just beat her up like the rest of them?’

Meadows shrugged his rugby player’s shoulders. ‘It just went wrong.’

There was a movement on the other side of the trees. Diana Cowper was being brought to her final resting place in a procession which included the four men from the funeral parlour – they were carrying the basket – along with the vicar, Damian Cowper and Grace Lovell. Finally, Irene Laws followed behind at a discreet distance, her hands clasped behind her back, making sure that everything was being done correctly. There was no sign of Robert Cornwallis.

‘You know what? I think your theory is a lot of shit,’ Hawthorne said. His language jarred with the setting – the sunlight, the cemetery and the approaching coffin with its garland of flowers. ‘You always were complete crap at the job, mate. And when you finally track down your masked dispatch rider, you can give him best wishes from me because I bet you any money you like he never went anywhere near Britannia Road.’

‘And you always were an insufferable bastard when you were in the Met,’ Meadows growled. ‘You don’t know how glad we were to see you go.’

‘It’s just a shame what happened to your targets,’ Hawthorne responded, his eyes glittering. ‘I hear they nosedived after I went. And while we’re on the subject, it’s too bad about your divorce.’

‘Who told you about that?’ Meadows jerked back.

‘It’s written all over you, mate.’

It was true. Meadows looked neglected. His crumpled suit, the shirt that hadn’t been ironed and was missing a button and his scuffed shoes all told one half of the story. He was still wearing a wedding ring though, so either his wife had died or she had left him. Either way, the comments had hit home. In fact I was almost expecting the two of them to come to blows – like Hamlet and Laertes on the side of the grave – but just then the coffin arrived and I watched as it was set down on the grass, the willow creaking. Two ropes ran underneath it and the four pall-bearers took a moment to run the ends through the handles, securing it, while Irene Laws looked on approvingly.

I glanced at Damian Cowper. He was staring into the mid-distance, unaware of anyone around him. Grace was standing beside him but there was no contact between them. She wasn’t holding his arm. The photographers I had noticed earlier were some distance away but their cameras had zoom lenses and I imagined they could get everything they needed.

‘It’s time to lower the coffin,’ the vicar intoned. ‘Let us all stand together and maybe you’d like to hold hands while we take these last few moments to think about the very special life that has now ended.’

The coffin was lifted and manoeuvred over the grave that waited to receive it. The small crowd stood around, watching as it was lowered. The man with the handkerchief touched his eyes. Raymond Clunes had found himself standing next to Bruno Wang and I noticed them exchange a few quiet words. The four pall-bearers began to lower the coffin into the dark slit that was waiting to receive it.