The Word Is Murder(67)

Hawthorne had arranged to meet him at eleven o’clock and Weston was waiting for us at the door as I paid the taxi. He looked more like a musician than a retired barrister, a conductor perhaps: slender and fragile with long fingers, silver hair, inquisitive eyes. He was in his seventies, shrinking with age, disappearing into the heavy-knit cardigan and corduroys that he was wearing. He had slippers not shoes. His eyes were sunken, gazing out at us intently over rigid cheekbones like two clerks behind a bench.

‘Do come in. I hope you had a good journey. Trains not playing up?’

I wondered why he was so genial. I assumed that Hawthorne hadn’t told him why we were here.

We followed him into a hallway with thick carpets, antique furniture, expensive art. I recognised an Eric Gill drawing and a watercolour by Eric Ravilious – both originals. He showed us into a small living room with views over the green. There was a fire burning – it was real too. Coffee and biscuits had already been laid out on a table.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Hawthorne,’ he began, after we had sat down. ‘You have quite a reputation. That business with the Russian ambassador. The Bezrukov case. Excellent police work.’

‘He was found not guilty,’ Hawthorne reminded him.

‘He had a brilliant defence and the jury, in my view, was misdirected. There was no question that he was guilty of the crimes. Will you have some coffee?’

I hadn’t expected Hawthorne to be known to the judge, and wondered if the Bezrukov case had happened before or after he had left the force. The very name sounded unlikely. Would the Met have ever had dealings with the Russian embassy?

The judge poured for all three of us. I examined the room, which was dominated by a miniature grand piano, a Blüthner, with half a dozen photographs in expensive frames arranged on the lid. Four of these showed Weston with another man. In one of them, they were dressed in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, arm in arm. I had no doubt that Hawthorne would have already noticed them too.

‘So what brings you to Canterbury?’ Weston asked.

‘I’m investigating a double murder,’ Hawthorne explained. ‘Diana Cowper and her son.’

‘Yes. I read about that. A horrible business. You’re advising the Metropolitan police.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very wise of them not to let you go! You believe that the traffic accident in Deal and the very unfortunate death of the young child connect in some way with the murders?’

‘I’m ruling nothing out, sir.’

‘Indeed. Well, emotions do run very high in these sorts of cases and I note that we are approaching the tenth anniversary of the actual event, so I would imagine it is a distinct possibility. That said, I’m sure you’ll have had full access to the court reports, so I don’t see quite how I can help you.’

He still spoke like a judge. No word left his lips before it had been carefully evaluated.

‘It’s always useful to speak to the actual people involved.’

‘I agree. It’s the difference between testimony and written evidence. Have you seen the family? The Godwins?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I feel very sorry for them. I felt sorry for them at the time and said so. They felt that justice had not been done but – I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, Mr Hawthorne – the views of the victim’s family, particularly in a case such as this, cannot be taken into consideration.’

‘I understand.’

Just then the door opened and a second man looked in. I recognised him from the photographs. He was short, quite stocky and about ten years younger than Weston, holding a supermarket bag-for-life.

‘I’m just going out,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you want?’

‘I left the list in the kitchen.’

‘I’ve got it. I just wondered if there was anything you forgot.’

‘We need some more dishwasher tablets.’

‘They’re on the list.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything else.’

‘I’ll see you.’ The man disappeared again.

‘That’s Colin,’ Weston said.

It was a great pity that Colin had chosen this moment to introduce himself. I glanced at Hawthorne. Nothing in his manner had changed but I was aware of a certain frisson in the room that had not been there before and I’m sure that the interruption influenced the interview and the direction it now took.

‘The newspapers weren’t too happy with your verdict,’ Hawthorne said – and I saw a hint of malevolence dancing in his eyes.

Weston gave him a thin smile. ‘It was never my habit to look at the newspapers,’ he said. ‘What made them happy or unhappy had nothing to do with the facts.’

‘The facts were that she killed an eight-year-old child, crippled his brother and walked away with a slap on the wrist.’

The smile became even thinner. ‘It was the task of the prosecution to prove death by dangerous driving under Section 2a of the Road Traffic Act of 1988,’ Weston said. ‘This, they failed to do – and with good reason. Mrs Cowper did not ignore the rules of the road and did nothing that created a significant risk. There were no drugs or alcohol involved. Do I need to continue? She had no intention to kill anyone.’

‘She wasn’t wearing her glasses.’ Hawthorne glanced at me, warning me not to interrupt.