The Word Is Murder(84)
‘Streatham.’
‘That’s right. Anyway, she went out and she was never seen again. Maybe there would have been more fuss about it if she’d been more famous or if anyone had made the connection between her and Damian Cowper. He was already making quite a name for himself. But I suppose lots of people go missing in London and she was just another of them.’
‘You said you had a picture.’
‘Yes. You’re lucky because there are far fewer photographs from that time. These days, of course, everyone has phones. But we kept this because of the Hamlet.’ She had brought a large canvas bag with her and lifted it onto the table. ‘I found it in the office.’
She took out a framed black and white photograph which she laid between the coffee cups and I found myself looking through a window into 1999. There were five young actors, posing with almost exaggerated seriousness for the camera on a bare stage. I recognised Damian Cowper immediately. He hadn’t changed very much in twelve years. Back then he had been slimmer and prettier … cocky was exactly the word that sprang to mind. He was looking straight into the lens, his eyes challenging you to ignore him. He was dressed in black jeans and a black open-necked shirt, holding a white Japanese mask. Grace Lovell, who had played Ophelia, and the boy who had played Laertes were standing on either side of them. They both had fans, spread out over their heads.
‘That’s Amanda.’ Penny pointed to a girl with long hair, tied back, standing just behind them. She was playing a male part and was wearing the same clothes as Damian. I have to say that her photograph disappointed me. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting but she looked quite ordinary … pretty, freckled, hair tied back in a ponytail. She was standing on the very edge of the group, her head turned towards a man who was approaching from the side.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked.
The man had barely entered the frame and I couldn’t make out his face. He was black, wearing glasses, holding a bunch of flowers, noticeably older than the others.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Liz said. ‘He’s probably one of the parents. The photograph was taken after the first performance and the GBS was packed.’
‘Did you ever …?’
I was about to ask her something about Amanda’s relationship with Damian but it was just then that I saw something and stopped, mid-sentence. I was looking at one of the people in the photograph and quite suddenly I knew who it was. There could be no doubt of it and with a rush of excitement I realised that I had discovered something that might be important and that, just for once, I was one step ahead of Hawthorne. I knew something he didn’t! He had deliberately taunted me when we left Grace Lovell’s home and all along he had treated me with an indifference that sometimes edged close to contempt. Well, how amusing it would be if I was able to tell him what he’d missed when he got back from Canterbury. I couldn’t help smiling. It would be a delicious payback for all those hours following him around London, watching silently from the sidelines.
‘Liz, you’ve been brilliant,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose I can borrow this?’ I was referring to the photograph.
‘I’m sorry. It can’t leave the building. But you can take a picture of it if you like.’
‘That’s great.’ My iPhone had been on the table, recording our conversation. I picked it up and took a shot of the image. I stood up. ‘Thanks a lot.’
Outside RADA, I made three telephone calls. First, I arranged a meeting. Then I called my assistant, who was waiting for me at my office. I told her I wouldn’t be coming back this afternoon. Finally, I left a message for my wife, saying I might be a bit late for dinner.
In fact, I wouldn’t have dinner at all.
Twenty-two
Behind the Mask
From Gower Street, I took the tube back out to west London and walked down to a square, red-brick building on the Fulham Palace Road just five minutes from Hammersmith roundabout. It’s no longer there, by the way. It was knocked down when they constructed a brand-new office block – Elsinore House. By a weird coincidence, HarperCollins are based there. They publish the American editions of my books.
The building that I visited that day was deliberately discreet, with frosted-glass windows and no signage at all. When I rang the front doorbell, I was greeted by an angry buzz and a click as the lock was electronically released from somewhere inside. A CCTV camera watched as I entered an empty reception area with bare walls and a tiled floor. It reminded me of a clinic or some obscure department of a hospital, though perhaps one that had recently closed down. At first I thought I was alone but then a voice called out to me and I went into an office just round the corner where the funeral director, Robert Cornwallis, was making two cups of coffee. The office was as unremarkable as the rest of the building, with a desk and a collection of very utilitarian chairs – padded without being remotely comfortable. A coffee machine stood on a trestle table to one side. There was a calendar on the wall.
This was the facility that Cornwallis had mentioned when we first met. His clients came to South Kensington for consultations but the actual bodies were brought here. Somewhere close by there was a chapel, ‘a place of bereavement’ Irene Laws had called it. Certainly, this wasn’t it – for the room I had entered offered no solace at all. I listened out for other people. It had never occurred to me that we might be alone but it was late afternoon by now and perhaps everyone had gone home. I had actually telephoned Cornwallis in his office but he had insisted on meeting me here.