The Word Is Murder(50)

The smell of his blood filled my nostrils. It was rich, deep, like freshly dug earth. I had never known that blood smelled like that but then there was so much of it and the flat was warm, the windows closed, the walls bending …

‘Tony? Come on! For Christ’s sake!’

For some reason, I was looking at the ceiling. The back of my head was hurting. Hawthorne was leaning over me. I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped myself. I couldn’t have fainted. That was impossible. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing.

But I had.





Thirteen


Dead Man’s Shoes




‘Tony? Are you all right?’

Hawthorne was leaning over me, filling my vision. He didn’t look concerned. If anything, he was puzzled, as if it was a strange thing to do, to faint after seeing a hideously mutilated and still-bleeding corpse.

I wasn’t all right. I’d hit my head on Damian Cowper’s warehouse-style floor and I felt sick. The smell of blood was still in my nostrils and I was afraid that I might have tumbled into it. Grimacing, I felt around me. The floorboards were dry.

‘Can you help me up?’ I said.

‘Sure.’ He hesitated, then reached down and seized my arm, pulling me to my feet. Why the hesitation? Here was a moment of insight. In all the time I had known him, during this investigation and while he had helped me with my research, there had never been any physical contact between us. We had never so much as shaken hands. In fact, now that I thought about it, I had never seen him come into physical contact with anyone. Was he a germophobe? Or was he simply antisocial? It was another mystery for me to solve.

I sat down in one of the leather armchairs, away from the body and the blood.

‘Do you want some water?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m OK.’

‘You’re not going to throw up, are you? It’s just that we have to protect the crime area.’

‘I’m not going to throw up.’

He nodded. ‘It’s not very nice, seeing a dead body. And I can tell you this is about as bad as it gets.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen decapitations, people with their eyes gouged out—’

‘Thanks!’ I could feel the nausea rising. I took a breath.

‘Someone certainly didn’t like Damian Cowper,’ he said.

‘I don’t get it,’ I said. I thought of what Grace had told us after the funeral. ‘This was planned, wasn’t it? Someone put the music player in the coffin because they knew it would get to Damian. They wanted to drive him away so he’d be on his own. But why him? If this is all about the accident in Deal, he can hardly take the blame. He wasn’t even in the car.’

‘You’ve got a point.’

I tried to think it through. A woman drives a car recklessly and kills a child. Ten years later, she is punished. But why extend that to her son? Could there be some biblical reason: an eye for an eye? That made no sense. Diana Cowper was already dead. If someone had wanted to use her son to hurt her, they would have killed him first.

‘His mother didn’t go to the police at first, because she was trying to protect him,’ I mused. ‘That was the reason why she drove away. Maybe it was enough to make him responsible.’

Hawthorne thought for a moment in silence – but not about what I’d said. ‘I’ve got to leave you for a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ve already called 999. But I’ve got to check the flat.’

‘Go ahead.’

Funnily enough, it was something I remembered from our time working on Injustice. We had been talking about one of the scenes in Episode One, when the animal rights activist is found dead in a farmhouse. Hawthorne had told me then that when a body is discovered, the first priority for any policeman or detective will be their own self-preservation. Are they under threat? Is the assailant still in the building? They’ll make sure they’re safe. Then they’ll look for possible witnesses … classically, the child hiding in the wardrobe or under the bed. Hawthorne would have dialled 999 while I was lying on the floor. I suppose it was nice of him to notice me at all.

He left the room, disappearing up the spiral staircase. I sat in the armchair trying to ignore the body, trying not even to think of the dreadful injuries. It wasn’t easy. If I closed my eyes, I became more aware of the smell. If I opened them, I found myself glimpsing the blood, the sprawled-out limbs. I had to turn my head away to keep Damian Cowper out of my line of vision.

And then he groaned.

I twisted round, thinking I’d imagined it. But there it was again, a quite gruesome, rattling sound. Damian’s head was facing away from me but I was quite certain it was coming from him.

‘Hawthorne!’ I shouted. At the same time, I felt the bile rising in my throat. ‘Hawthorne!’

He came hurrying back down the stairs. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Damian. He’s alive.’

He looked at me doubtfully, then went over to the body. ‘No, he isn’t,’ he said, tersely.

‘I just heard him.’

Damian moaned again, louder this time. I hadn’t imagined it. He was trying to speak.

But Hawthorne just sniffed. ‘Stay where you are, Tony, and forget about it, all right? His muscles are stiffening and that includes the muscles around his vocal cords. And there are gases in his stomach which are trying to escape. That’s all you’re hearing. It happens all the time.’