The Word Is Murder(72)

‘I went out through that door and almost bumped into the customer, who was standing on the pavement,’ Traverton continued. ‘I went straight up to him. “What happened?” I asked. He didn’t tell me. He didn’t say anything.

‘I tell you, I can still see all of it. Every day when I go home, it’s like a photograph engraved on my mind. The two children were in the road, both of them dressed in blue shorts and short-sleeve shirts. I knew that one of them had to be dead just from the way he was lying there with his arms and legs all wrong. His eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving. The nanny – her name was Mary O’Brien – was kneeling beside the other little boy. She was obviously shocked – she was like a ghost. As I stood there, she looked up at me and for a minute she was staring right into my eyes. It was like she was pleading with me to help her but what could I do? I called the police. I think a lot of people must have done the same.

‘There was a car, a blue Volkswagen, parked just a short way up the road. I noticed someone sitting in it and then, seconds later, it pulled out from the kerb and accelerated away. I swear it had smoke coming out of the exhaust and I heard the sound of the rubber tyres screaming against the tarmac. Of course, at the time I didn’t know it belonged to the woman who was responsible for the accident but I took down her number and reported it to the police. That was when I noticed the man that I’d been serving. He suddenly turned round and walked away. He went round the corner into King Street and then he disappeared.’

‘Did that strike you as strange?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It most certainly did. He was behaving in a very peculiar way. I mean, what do you do when you see an accident like that? You either stay and you watch – that’s human nature. Or you decide it’s got nothing to do with you and you leave. But he hurried away like he didn’t want to be seen. And here’s the point. He’d seen it. He must have. It had happened right in front of him. But when the police asked for witness statements, he never came forward.’

‘What else can you tell us about him?’

‘Not a lot – because that’s the other thing. He was wearing sunglasses. Now why would he do that? It was half past four in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. In fact, it was getting a little cloudy. He didn’t need them – unless he was someone famous and didn’t want to be recognised. I can’t remember much else about him, to be honest. He was also wearing a cap. But I can tell you what he bought.’

‘And what was that?’

‘A jar of honey and a packet of ginger tea. It was local honey from a place in Finglesham. I recommended it.’

‘So what happened next?’

Traverton sighed. ‘There’s not very much more to tell you. The nanny was kneeling there. At least one of the children was alive. I saw him open his eyes. He called out for his father. “Daddy!” It was pitiful, really it was. Then the police and the ambulance arrived. It hadn’t taken them very long to get there. I went back into the shop. Actually, I went upstairs and had a cup of tea. I wasn’t feeling at all well and I don’t feel that good now, remembering it all. I understand the woman in the car has been killed. Is that why you’re here? That’s a terrible thing, but I won’t say she deserved it. But driving away like that? All the harm she caused! I think the judge let her off far too lightly and I’m not at all surprised that someone else agreed.’

From the pharmacy, we walked the short distance to the Royal Hotel. Hawthorne said nothing. He had a son himself, of course, an eleven-year-old. He was just three years older than Timothy Godwin had been when he died, and it was possible that the story we had just heard had made an impression on Hawthorne. But I have to say that he didn’t look particularly sad. If anything, he seemed to be in a hurry to be on his way.

We entered the sort of lounge you can only get in an English seaside hotel: low ceilings, wooden floors with scattered rugs and cosy leather furniture. It was surprisingly crowded, mainly with elderly couples tucking into sandwiches and beer. The room was almost unbearably warm, with radiators on full blast and a gas-effect fire to one side. We made our way through to the reception area. The friendly local girl who was working there said that she couldn’t help us but telephoned the manager, who came up from the downstairs bar.

Her name was Mrs Rendell (‘like the crime writer,’ she said). She had been at the Royal Hotel for twelve years but hadn’t been working on the day of the accident. She had, however, met Mary O’Brien and the two children.

‘They were dear little things, very well behaved. They had the family room on the second floor. It has a king-sized bed and bunks. Would you like to see it?’

‘Not really,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Oh.’ He had offended her but she continued anyway. ‘They came down on a Wednesday and the accident happened the next day. As a matter of fact, Miss O’Brien wasn’t happy with the room. It doesn’t have sea views. She’d requested a twin and a double with an adjoining door but we don’t have such a thing in this hotel and we couldn’t allow two small children to sleep on their own.’ Mrs Rendell was a small, thin woman. She had the sort of face that finds it easy to express indignation. ‘I can’t say I terribly liked her,’ she remarked. ‘I didn’t trust her and although I hate to have to say it, I was right. She should have been holding on to the two boys. Instead, she allowed them to run across the road and that was what killed them. I really don’t think Mrs Cowper was to blame for the accident.’