The Word Is Murder(85)

He greeted me by name and as I came in and sat down he seemed warmer and more relaxed than the last two occasions I had seen him. He was wearing a suit but had taken off the tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt.

‘I had no idea who you were,’ he said, passing me one of the cups of coffee. I’d given him my name over the phone. ‘You’re a writer! I have to say, I’m quite surprised. When you came to my office – and my house – I had assumed you were working with the police.’

‘I am, in a way,’ I replied.

‘No. I mean, I thought you were a detective. Where is Mr Hawthorne?’

I drank some of the coffee. He had added sugar without asking me. ‘He’s out of London at the moment.’

‘And he sent you?’

‘No. To be honest, he doesn’t know I’m seeing you.’

Cornwallis considered this. He looked puzzled. ‘On the telephone, you said you were working on a book.’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t that a little unorthodox? I thought a police inquiry, a murder inquiry, would be conducted in private. Will I be appearing in this book of yours?’

‘I think you might,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure that I want to. This whole business with Diana Cowper and her son has been extremely upsetting and I really don’t want the company dragged into it. As a matter of fact, I’m sure you’ll find quite a few of the parties involved may have objections.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to get their permission. And if anyone really does object, I can always change their name.’ I might have added that there was nothing to stop me writing about real people if they were in the public domain, but I didn’t want to antagonise him. ‘Would you prefer it if I changed yours?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid I’d insist on it.’

‘I could call you Dan Roberts.’

He looked at me curiously. A smile spread across his face. ‘That’s a name I haven’t used for years.’

‘I know.’

He took out a packet of cigarettes. I didn’t know that he smoked although now I thought about it there had been an ashtray of some sort in his office. He lit a cigarette and shook out the match with an angry wave of the hand. ‘You mentioned on the telephone that you were calling from RADA.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I was there this afternoon. I was seeing …’ I told him the name of the associate director. He didn’t seem to recognise it. ‘You never told me that you went to RADA,’ I added. I’d drunk half of the coffee. I set the mug down.

‘I’m sure I did.’

‘No. I was there on both occasions when Hawthorne spoke to you. Not only were you at RADA but you were there at the same time as Damian Cowper. You acted with him.’

I was sure he would deny it but he didn’t blink. ‘I never talk about RADA any more. It’s not a part of my life that I remember with any great fondness and from what you yourself told me, I didn’t think it was relevant. When you came to see me in my South Kensington office you made it quite clear that your investigation – or, I should say, Mr Hawthorne’s investigation – was directed towards the car accident that had taken place in Deal.’

‘There may still be a connection,’ I said. ‘Were you there when Damian talked about it? Apparently he used it as the basis of one of his acting classes.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was. It was a long time ago, of course, and I’d forgotten all about it until you brought it up.’ He came round the side of the desk and perched on the edge, hovering over me. There was a harsh neon light in the room and it reflected in his glasses. ‘He brought in a little red bus and he played the music. He talked about what had happened and the impression it had made on him.’ Robert Cornwallis reflected for a moment. ‘Do you know, he was actually quite proud of the fact that immediately after she had run over two children, killing one of them as it turned out, his mother’s thoughts were entirely focused on him and his career. The two of them were really quite remarkable, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘You acted with him,’ I said. ‘You were in Hamlet.’

‘The Noh production. Based on Japanese classical theatre. All masks and fans and shared experience. Ridiculous, really. We were just children with big ideas about ourselves but at the time it mattered more than you can possibly imagine.’

‘Everyone says you were brilliant,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘There was a time when I wanted to be an actor.’

‘But you became an undertaker.’

‘We discussed this when you were at my house. It was the family business. My father, my grandfather … remember?’ He seemed to have an idea. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you. You may find it interesting.’

‘What is it?’

‘Not here. Next door …’

He stood up, expecting me to follow. And that was what I meant to do. But when I tried to get to my feet, I discovered that I couldn’t.

Actually that’s not even the half of it. What I’m describing was without question the single most terrifying moment of my life. I couldn’t move. My brain was sending a signal to my legs – ‘get up’ – but my legs weren’t listening. My arms had become foreign objects, attached to me but not connected. I was aware of my head, perched like a football, on a body that had turned into a useless pile of muscle and bone and somewhere inside my heart was hammering away in panic as if it could somehow break free. I will never fully be able to describe the bowel-emptying fear I felt at that moment. I knew that I had been drugged and that I was in terrible danger.