The Word Is Murder(52)

‘The only trouble is, you can’t be certain he’s going to be alone. Maybe Grace will come along after all. Maybe he’ll bring the vicar. So you have to wait somewhere you can see him and if the opportunity doesn’t present itself, you can piss off again.’ He jerked a thumb. ‘There’s a staircase down to ground level.’

‘Perhaps he came up that way?’

‘He can’t have. The door into the living room is locked and bolted on the inside.’ Hawthorne shook his head. ‘He had the key. He let himself in the front door. He looked for somewhere to hide and came out here. It was perfect. He could look in through the window and see if Damian had someone with him. But as things turned out, Damian was alone, which was what he wanted. The killer went back into the living room and …’ He left the rest of the sentence hanging.

‘You said he left this way too,’ I reminded him.

‘There’s a footprint.’ Hawthorne pointed and I saw a red quarter moon next to the fire escape, made by the sole of someone’s shoe after they’d stepped in Damian’s blood. It reminded me of the footprint we’d found at Diana Cowper’s house, presumably left behind by the same foot.

‘Anyway, he couldn’t use the front door,’ Hawthorne went on. ‘You’ve seen the stab wounds. There’d have been a lot of blood. He’d have been covered in it. You think he could stroll down Brick Lane without being noticed? My guess is he put on a coat or something, climbed down here and disappeared down the alleyway.’

‘Do you know how the alarm clock got into the coffin?’

‘Not yet. We’re going to have to talk to Cornwallis.’ He rolled the cigarette between his fingers. ‘But we’re not going to be able to leave here for a while. You may have to give a statement to Meadows when he finally turns up. Don’t say too much. Just play dumb.’ He glanced at me. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

Over the next couple of hours, Damian Cowper’s flat became more and more crowded while the two of us sat there with nothing to do. The police constables who had first arrived on the scene had summoned their detective inspector, who had in turn called in the Murder Investigation Team. There were about half a dozen of them, wearing those plasticised paper suits with hoods, masks and gloves that made them almost indistinguishable from each other. Every few seconds, the room seemed to freeze as a police photographer captured some section of it with a dazzling flash. A man and a woman, both part of the forensic team, were crouching over Damian’s body, delicately swabbing his hands and neck with cotton buds. I knew what they were looking for. If there had been any bodily contact between Damian and his attacker during the knife attack, they might be able to pick up DNA. Both of his hands had been bagged, the opaque plastic securely taped. It was extraordinary how quickly he had been dehumanised – and worse was to come. When they were finally ready to remove him, two men knelt down and wrapped him in polythene which they sealed with gaffer tape. The process turned him into something that reminded me of both ancient Egypt and Federal Express.

They’d used blue and white tape to create a cordon which began at the front door and blocked off the stairs. I wasn’t sure how they would deal with the neighbours on the upper and lower floors. As for me, although I hadn’t been questioned, a woman in a plastic suit had asked me to remove my shoes and taken them away. That puzzled me. ‘What do they need them for?’ I asked Hawthorne.

‘Latent footprints,’ he replied. ‘They need to eliminate you from the enquiry.’

‘I know. But they haven’t taken yours.’

‘I’ve been more careful, mate.’

He glanced at his feet. He was still in his socks. He must have slipped his shoes off the moment he saw Damian’s body.

‘When will I get them back?’ I asked.

Hawthorne shrugged.

‘How long are we going to be here for?’

Again, he didn’t answer. He wanted another cigarette but he wasn’t allowed to smoke inside and it was making him irritable.

After a while, Meadows arrived, signing himself in with the log officer at the door. He had taken charge – the murder of Damian Cowper was being folded into his current investigation – and this time I saw a different side of him. He was cool and authoritative, checking with the crime scene manager, talking to the forensic team, taking notes. When he finally came over to us, he got straight to the point.

‘What were you doing here?’

‘We came over to offer our condolences.’

‘Piss off, Hawthorne. This is serious. Did he call you? Did you know he might be in danger?’

Meadows wasn’t as stupid as Hawthorne had suggested. He was right. Hawthorne had known. But would he admit it?

‘No,’ he said. ‘He didn’t call me.’

‘So why did you come here?’

‘Why do you think? That business at the funeral – there’s obviously something sick going on and if you hadn’t been so busy chasing your non-existent burglar, you’d have seen it too. I wanted to ask him about what had happened. I just got here too late.’

No mention of the keys. Hawthorne would never admit he’d made a mistake. He’d forgotten that one day Meadows would read it in my book.

‘He was already dead when you got here.’