The Word Is Murder(62)

‘I was angry. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘When did you send it?’

‘I didn’t. I hand-delivered it.’

‘When?’

‘It was about a week after I’d seen her. A Friday. I suppose it must have been the sixth or the seventh.’

‘The weekend before she died!’

‘I didn’t go into the house. I just put it through the door.’

‘Did she reply?’

‘No. I never heard a word from her.’

Hawthorne glanced at the letter again. ‘What do you mean – the things that are dear to you?’

‘I didn’t mean anything!’ Godwin pounded his fist on the desk. ‘It was just words. You put yourself in my position! It was stupid going to see her. It was stupid writing the letter. But when people are pushed into a corner, sometimes they do stupid things.’

‘Mrs Cowper had a cat,’ Hawthorne said. ‘A Persian grey. I don’t suppose you saw it.’

‘No. I didn’t see any fucking cat – and actually I’ve got nothing else to say to you. You haven’t shown me any ID. I don’t know who you are. I want you to leave.’

A telephone rang in the office next door. It was the only sound we’d heard since we’d entered the building. ‘How much longer before you move out of here?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’ve got the lease for another three months.’

‘Then we’ll know where to find you.’

We walked through the almost empty office and back out into the rain. Hawthorne immediately lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to Canterbury tomorrow,’ he suddenly announced. ‘You up for that?’

‘Why Canterbury?’ I asked.

‘I’ve tracked down Nigel Weston.’ I’d forgotten who this was. ‘Nigel Weston QC,’ Hawthorne reminded me. ‘The judge who let Diana Cowper go free. And after that, I thought I’d wander over to Deal. You might like that, Tony. Get a bit of sea air.’

‘All right,’ I said, although I didn’t really want to leave London. I was being dragged into unfamiliar territory in every sense and I didn’t feel comfortable having Hawthorne as my guide.

‘I’ll see you then.’

We went our separate ways and it was only when I got to the end of the street that I remembered the one question I had been meaning to ask. Alan Godwin had said that he was glad she had been killed; in his own words, he was delighted. But when I had seen him at the funeral, he had been crying. His handkerchief had been constantly at his eyes. Why?

And there was something else.

‘She wasn’t wearing her glasses and she destroyed my life.’

That was what he had said just now, his voice half-strangled by anger. But there had been another witness, Raymond Clunes, talking about Diana Cowper, and he had said something quite different.

As soon as I got home, I looked through my notes and found what I was looking for. It was something that Hawthorne had missed – but it had been there all along, in front of our eyes, the reason why both the mother and the son had to die, and it told me precisely who had killed them. In fact it was obvious.

Suddenly I was looking forward to our train journey to Canterbury. For once, I had the upper hand.





Sixteen


Detective Inspector Meadows




With the end of the book in sight, I realised I needed more background. It was time to get in touch with Detective Inspector Charles Meadows.

In fact that turned out to be quite easy. I called the Metropolitan Police, gave his name and was immediately patched through – to his mobile, I think. I could hear a pneumatic drill in the background as we talked. At first, when I told him who I was and why I wanted to see him, he was suspicious. He started making excuses and would have hung up if I hadn’t, frankly, bribed him. That is, I offered him ￡50 for an hour of his time and suggested we meet at a pub where I could buy him a drink. Warily, he agreed, although I had a feeling he didn’t need much persuading. He didn’t like Hawthorne and would surely take any opportunity to do him down.

We met that evening at the Groucho Club in Soho. He’d asked for a central London location and I thought he’d be impressed by a private club known for its celebrity clientele. I also knew we could get a seat. He arrived ten minutes late, by which time I’d bagged a quiet corner upstairs. He ordered a vodka martini, which surprised me. The triangular glass looked ridiculous in his oversized hands and he took just three gulps before he needed – and asked for – another.

I had a lot of questions for him but first he wanted to know about me. How had I come across Hawthorne? Why was I writing a book about him? How much had he paid me? I told him how we had met and why I had agreed to do the job (without being paid) and made it clear that I had misgivings about Hawthorne too, that he wasn’t my friend.

Meadows smiled at this. ‘A man like Hawthorne doesn’t have that many friends,’ he said. ‘I’ve nicked thieves and rapists who are more popular than him.’

So I told him about Injustice, how we had worked together and how he had approached me effectively to write about his most recent case. I didn’t mention the encounter at Hay-on-Wye that had changed my mind. ‘It just sounded interesting,’ I said. ‘I write a lot about murder but I’ve never met anyone quite like Hawthorne.’