The Word Is Murder(47)

‘How do you know that?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Damian told me. He often talked about it.’ For some reason she felt a need to defend him. ‘He’s not someone to show his feelings but it really mattered to him, what happened all those years ago.’ She had a glass of Prosecco and drained it. ‘God, what a horrible day. I knew it was going to be horrible when I woke up this morning but I never dreamed it would be anything like this!’

Hawthorne was examining her. ‘I got the impression you didn’t much like Damian’s mother,’ he said, suddenly.

Grace blushed, the straight lines at the very top of her cheekbones darkening. ‘That’s not true! Who told you that?’

‘You said she ignored you.’

‘I said nothing of the sort. She was just more interested in Ashleigh, that’s all.’

‘Where is Ashleigh?’

‘In Hounslow, at my parents’ place. I’m picking her up when I leave here.’ She put her glass down on the bar and picked up another one from a passing waiter.

‘So you were close to her, then,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Damian and I had only been together a short while before Ashleigh arrived and she was nervous that being a father would hold him back.’ She stopped herself. ‘I know how that sounds but you have to understand that she was quite a lonely person. After Lawrence died, she only had Damian and she doted on him. His success meant the world to her.’

‘And the baby was in the way?’

‘She wasn’t planned, if that’s what you mean. But Damian loves her now. He wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘How about you, Miss Lovell? Ashleigh can’t have helped your career.’

‘You do say the most unpleasant things, Mr Hawthorne. I’m only thirty-three. I love Ashleigh to bits. And it doesn’t make any difference to me if I don’t work for a few years. I’m very happy with the way things are.’

She can’t have been that good an actress, I thought. I certainly wasn’t convinced by her now.

‘Do you enjoy Los Angeles?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It’s taken me a while to get used to it. We have a house in the Hollywood Hills and when I wake up in the morning, I can’t believe I’m there. It was always my dream when I was at drama school – to wake up and see the Hollywood sign.’

‘I imagine you’ve got lots of new friends.’

‘I don’t need new friends. I’ve got Damian.’ She looked over Hawthorne’s shoulder. ‘If you don’t mind, I have to say hello to some of these people. I’m meant to be looking after everyone and I don’t want to stay too long.’

She slipped away. Hawthorne followed her with his eyes. I could see his thoughts ticking over.

‘What now?’ I asked.

‘The doctor,’ he said.

‘Why him?’

Hawthorne glanced at me tiredly. ‘Because he knew Diana Cowper inside out. Because if she had any problems, she may have talked to him. Because he may have been the one who killed her. I don’t know!’

Shaking his head, Hawthorne approached the man in the three-piece suit whom Grace had pointed out. ‘Dr Butterworth,’ he said.

‘Buttimore.’ The doctor shook hands. He was large, bearded, with gold-framed glasses, the sort of man who would happily describe himself as ‘old school’. It had offended him, Hawthorne getting his name wrong, but he warmed up a little once Hawthorne had explained his connection to Scotland Yard. I often noticed this. People enjoy being drawn into a murder investigation. Part of them wants to help but there’s something salacious about it too.

‘So what was all that about, back in the cemetery?’ Buttimore asked. ‘I bet you’ve never seen anything like that, Mr Hawthorne. Poor Diana! God knows what she would have made of it. Do you think it was done on purpose?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have loaded an alarm clock into a coffin by accident, sir,’ Hawthorne said.

I was grateful for the final ‘sir’. Otherwise, he would have sounded too obviously contemptuous.

‘That’s absolutely true. I take it you’re going to look into it.’

‘Well, Mrs Cowper’s murder is my first priority.’

‘I thought the culprit had already been identified.’

‘A burglar,’ his wife said. She was half the size of her husband, in her fifties, severe.

‘We have to explore every avenue,’ Hawthorne explained. He turned back to the husband. ‘I understand you were a close friend of Mrs Cowper, Dr Buttimore. It would be helpful to know when you last saw her.’

‘About three weeks ago. She visited my surgery in Cavendish Square. She’d come in to see me quite a few times, as a matter of fact.’

‘Recently?’

‘Over the last few months. She was having trouble sleeping. It’s quite common, actually, among women of a certain age – although she was also having anxiety issues.’ He glanced left and right, nervous of sharing confidential information in a public place. He lowered his voice. ‘She was worried about her son.’

‘And why would that be?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’m speaking to you as her doctor as well as her friend, Mr Hawthorne. The truth is that she was worried about his lifestyle in Los Angeles. She had been opposed to his going in the first place and then she’d read all these vile things in the gossip columns – drugs and parties and all the rest of it. Of course, there wasn’t an iota of truth in it. The newspapers will print rubbish and lies about anyone who’s famous. That’s what I told her. But she was clearly in a state so I prescribed sleeping pills. Ativan to begin with and, later on, when that wasn’t strong enough, temazepam.’ I remembered the pills that we had found in the dead woman’s bathroom. ‘They seemed to do the trick,’ Buttimore went on. ‘I last saw her, as I just mentioned, at the end of April. I gave her another prescription—’