The Word Is Murder(49)

‘Well, yes. I’m sure that will become public knowledge soon enough. It’s quite simple. She left everything to Damian.’

‘From what I understand, that’s quite a bit.’

‘It’s not for me to go into details. It’s been very nice meeting you, Mr Hawthorne.’ Charles Kenworthy put down his glass. He fished in his pocket and handed a car key to his wife. ‘Off we go then, dear. You’d better drive.’

‘Righty-ho.’

‘The keys …’ Hawthorne was speaking to himself. His eyes were fixed on Charles and Frieda Kenworthy as they walked away but at the same time he was no longer interested in them. His thoughts were elsewhere. Frieda was still holding the car key. I saw it in her hand as she went through the door, and realised that it had thrown some sort of switch, reminding Hawthorne of something he had missed.

And then he worked it out. I actually saw the moment when it happened. It was almost shocking, as if he had been physically hit. I wouldn’t say that the colour drained from his face, as there had never been much colour to begin with. But it was there in his eyes: the terrible realisation that he had got something wrong. ‘We’re going,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘There’s no time. Just move.’

He was already on his way, pushing past a waiter, making for the door. We overtook the Kenworthys, who were saying goodbye to someone they knew, and burst out onto the street. We arrived at a corner and Hawthorne came to a halt, seething with fury.

‘Why are there no bloody taxis?’

He was right. Despite the heavy traffic, there wasn’t a taxi in sight – but as we stood there, I saw one pull in on the other side of the road. It had been hailed by a woman carrying shopping bags. Hawthorne shouted – a single exclamation. At the same time, he ran across the road, blind to the traffic. Taking a little more care – I was remembering that the cemetery was just around the corner – I followed. There was the screech of tyres, the blast of a horn, but somehow I made it to the other side. Hawthorne had already interposed himself between the woman and the driver – who had clicked on the meter, turning off his yellow light.

‘Excuse me …’ I heard the woman say, her voice rising with indignation.

‘Police,’ Hawthorne snapped. ‘It’s an emergency.’

She didn’t ask him for ID. Hawthorne had been in the police force long enough to have assumed its authority. Or maybe it was just that he looked too dangerous, somebody you wouldn’t want to argue with.

‘Where do you want to go?’ the driver asked as we both bundled in.

‘Brick Lane,’ Hawthorne said.

Damian Cowper’s home.

I will never forget that taxi journey. It was a few minutes past midday and there wasn’t actually that much traffic but every snarl-up, every red traffic light, was torture for Hawthorne, who sat hunched up next to me, almost writhing. There were all sorts of questions I wanted to ask him. What was it about a set of car keys that had alerted him? Why had they put him in mind of Damian Cowper? Was Damian in some sort of danger? But I was sensible enough to keep silent. I didn’t want Hawthorne’s anger to be turned on me and – I don’t know why – but somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was whispering that whatever was happening, it might somehow be my fault.

It’s a long way from Fulham to Brick Lane. We had to cross the whole of London, west to east, and it might have been faster to take the tube. We actually went past several stations – South Kensington, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner – and each time I saw Hawthorne making the calculation, trying to work out the amount of traffic ahead. As we headed down towards Piccadilly, he took out some of his frustration on the driver.

‘Why are you going this way? You should have gone past the bloody palace.’

The driver ignored him. It was true that the traffic crawled as we came down towards Piccadilly Circus but when you’re in a hurry in London, every route will be the wrong one. I looked at my watch. It had so far taken us twenty-five minutes to get here. It felt a lot longer. Next to me, Hawthorne was muttering under his breath. I sat back and closed my eyes. He still hadn’t told me what was actually going on.

Eventually, we reached Damian Cowper’s flat. Hawthorne leapt out, leaving me to pay. I handed the driver ￡50 and, without waiting for change, followed Hawthorne through the narrow doorway and staircase that led up between two shops. We reached the entrance on the first floor. Ominously, the door was ajar.

We went in.

It was the smell of blood that hit me first. I’d written about dozens of murders for books and television but I had never imagined anything like this.

Damian Cowper had been mutilated. He was lying on his side in a puddle of dark brown blood that had spread all around him, seeping into the floorboards. One of his hands was stretched out and the first thing I noticed was that two of his fingers had been half severed as he had flailed out, trying to protect himself from the knife that had cut him half a dozen times and which had finally been left sticking out of his chest. One of the blows had slashed him across the face and this injury was more horrible than any of the others because when we meet someone it’s the first thing we look at. Lose an arm or a leg and you are still you. Lose your face and almost everything we know about you is taken away.

Damian had a deep cut that had taken out one eye and folded back a great flap of skin all the way down to his mouth. His clothes might hide the worst of his other injuries but here there was no disguising the madness of what had been done to him. One of his cheeks was pressed against the floor and his whole head had taken on the melting quality of a punctured football. He no longer looked anything like himself. I had really only recognised him by his clothes and the tangled black hair.