The Word Is Murder(53)

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t see anyone leaving?’

‘There’s a bloody footprint out on the terrace, if you care to take a look. It might give you a shoe size. I’d say the killer left down the fire escape into the alley, so perhaps you’ll catch him on CCTV. But we didn’t see anything. We got here too late.’

‘All right, then. You can get lost. And take Agatha Christie here with you.’

He meant me. Agatha Christie is something of a hero of mine but I was still offended.

Hawthorne got up and I followed him to the front door, both of us padding across the wooden floor in our socks. I was about to point this out when he swept a pair of black leather shoes off the art deco sideboard and handed them to me. I hadn’t noticed when he’d put them there. ‘These are for you,’ he said.

‘Where did you get them?’

‘I nicked them out of the cupboard when I went upstairs. They belonged to him.’ He nodded in the direction of Damian Cowper. ‘They should be about your size.’

I looked uncertain, so he added: ‘He won’t be needing them.’

I slipped them on. They were Italian, expensive. They fitted perfectly.

He put on his own shoes and we walked out, past more uniformed policemen and down into Brick Lane. There were three police cars parked outside and, next to them, a vehicle with the words ‘Private Ambulance’ printed on the side. It wasn’t anything of the sort. It was just a black van brought here to transport Damian Cowper to the mortuary. More policemen were at work, erecting a screen from the front of the house to the edge of the pavement so that nobody would see the body when it was carried out. A large crowd was being held back on the other side of the road. The traffic had been blocked. Not for the first time, I found myself thinking of all the television programmes I’d been involved with. We’d never have been able to afford so many extras and all these vehicles, let alone the central London location.

A taxi had pulled in just ahead of us and I nudged Hawthorne as Grace Lovell got out. She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn to the funeral, with her handbag over her arm – but now she had Ashleigh with her, wearing a pink dress and clutching her hand. Grace stopped and looked around, shocked by all the activity. Then she saw us and hurried over.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Why are the police here?

‘I’m afraid you can’t go in there,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I’ve got some bad news.’

‘Damian …?’

‘He’s been killed.’

I thought he could have put it more gently. There was a three-year-old girl standing in front of him. What if she had heard and understood? Grace had had the same thought. She drew her daughter closer towards her, a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.

‘Someone attacked him after the funeral.’

‘He’s dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘No. That’s not possible. He was upset. He said he was going home. It was that horrible joke.’ She looked from Hawthorne to the door, then back again. She realised that the two of us had been on our way out. ‘Where are you going?’

‘There’s a DI in the flat called Meadows. He’s in charge of the investigation and he’ll want to talk to you. But if you’ll take my advice, you won’t go inside. It’s not very pleasant. Have you been with your parents?’

‘Yes. I went to pick up Ashleigh.’

‘Then get back in the taxi and go back to them. Meadows will find you soon enough.’

‘Can I do that? They won’t think …?’

‘They won’t think you had anything to do with it. You were at the pub with us.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ She made up her mind, then nodded. ‘You’re right. I can’t go inside. Not with Ashleigh.’

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Ashleigh spoke for the first time. She seemed confused and scared by the police and all the activity around her.

‘Daddy’s not here,’ Grace said. ‘We’re going back to Granny and Grandpa.’

‘Do you want someone to travel with you?’ I asked. ‘I don’t mind coming with you, if you like.’

‘No. I don’t need anyone.’

I didn’t know what to make of Grace Lovell. I’ve never been very comfortable with actors, because I can never tell if they’re being sincere or if they’re simply … well, acting. This was how it was now. Grace looked upset. There were tears in her eyes. She could have been in shock. And yet there was a part of me that said it was all just a performance, that she had been rehearsing her lines from the moment the taxi drew in.

We watched as she got back into the car and closed the door. She leaned forward and gave instructions to the driver. A moment later, it pulled away.

‘The grieving widow,’ Hawthorne muttered.

‘Do you think so?’

‘No, Tony. I’ve seen more grief at a Turkish wedding. If you ask me, I’d say there’s a lot of things she’s not telling us.’ The taxi passed through the traffic lights at the top of Brick Lane and disappeared. Hawthorne smiled. ‘She didn’t even ask how he died.’