The Word Is Murder(94)

He went on. ‘After she’d sent the text, she went back into the living room, taking the water with her. She was probably going to ask Cornwallis to get out of her house. I can imagine she was a bit braver, now that Damian knew what was going on. But Cornwallis was too quick. The moment she put the water down, he slipped the cord over her neck and strangled her. Then he went round the house, taking a few things, making it look like a burglary. Then he left.’

Hospitals are strange places. When I had first arrived at Charing Cross, the entire place had been bright, busy, chaotic. But quite suddenly, after visiting hours, everything seemed to have stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. The lighting had dimmed. The corridors were silent. There was a stillness that was almost uncomfortable. I was tired. My stitches were hurting and although I could at least move my limbs, I didn’t want to. It was possible I was still in shock.

Hawthorne could see it was time to leave.

‘How long are they keeping you here?’ he asked.

‘I’ll go home tomorrow.’

He nodded. ‘You’re lucky I got there in time.’

‘How did you know to get to the mortuary?’

‘I rang your assistant to check in with you. She told me where you’d gone. I couldn’t believe it when I heard that. I was worried about you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Well, who’s going to write the book if it isn’t you?’ He suddenly looked sheepish. It was something I’d not seen before and it gave me a glimpse of the child he had been, the one that was still lurking inside the man he had become. ‘Look, mate, I’ve been meaning to say … I lied to you.’

‘When?’

‘In Canterbury. You were having a go at me and I was pissed off with you – but I didn’t speak to any other writers about this book. You were the only one I approached.’

There was a long silence. I didn’t know what to say.

‘Thank you,’ I muttered, in the end.

He stood up. ‘I heard from that agent of yours,’ he continued, briskly. ‘I liked her. It looks like we’re going to have to wait a bit to get published but she says she can get us a good advance.’ He smiled. ‘At least, the way it worked out, you’ve got something to write about. I think it’s going to be good.’

He left and I lay there thinking about what he had just said. ‘It’s going to be good.’ He was right. For perhaps the very first time, there was a chance it might be.





Twenty-four


River Court




I went back home. I started work.

I could see that my working method was going to be very different from what I was used to. Normally, when I have an idea for a book, it will sit in my head for at least a year before I start writing. If it’s a murder mystery, the starting point will be the murder itself. Someone kills somebody else for a reason. That’s the core of the matter. I will create those characters and then gradually build the world around them, drawing links between the various suspects, giving them a history, working out their relationships. I’ll think about them when I’m out walking, lying in bed, sitting in the bath – and I won’t begin writing until the story has a recognisable shape. I’m often asked if I start writing a book without knowing the end. For me, it would be like building a bridge without knowing what it’s got to reach.

This time everything had been given to me and it was more a question of configuration than actual creation and I wasn’t entirely happy with some of the material. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have chosen to write about a spoiled Hollywood actor because I’ve known too many of them and occasionally I’ve even worked with them. But unfortunately it was Damian Cowper who had been killed and I was stuck with him, along with his mother, his partner and the various associates who had turned up at the funeral. It was also worrying that I’d met them all so briefly. Raymond Clunes, Bruno Wang, Dr Buttimore and the others had played only a very peripheral part in the story and since Hawthorne had done all the talking I’d been unable to find out very much about them. Should I add more characters of my own? As things had turned out, everything that had happened in Deal had been, at least to an extent, irrelevant. I wondered if it was fair to leave it in.

The question I had to ask myself was – how closely should I stick to the facts? I knew I was going to have to change some names so why couldn’t I do the same with events? Although I hate using card systems, I scribbled down a heading for every interview and every incident and laid them out on my desk, starting with Diana Cowper’s arrival at the funeral parlour and continuing with my involvement, my visit to her house and so on. I had more than enough for ninety thousand words. In fact, there were scenes – hours of my life – that I could drop altogether. Andrea Kluvánek droning on about her childhood and a particularly dull afternoon spent with Raymond Clunes’s accountant were two examples.

Looking through my notes and iPhone recordings, I was relieved to see that I hadn’t been completely obtuse. When I first met Robert Cornwallis I had jotted down that ‘he could have been playing a part’ – which was exactly what he had been doing. I had also questioned whether he enjoyed being an undertaker, which turned out to be the heart of the whole matter. All in all, I hadn’t done too badly. I’d noticed the motorbike parked outside his house, the motorbike helmet in the hall, the fridge magnets, the glass of water, the key holder … in fact, I would have said that at least seventy-five per cent of the most important clues were written down in my notebook. It was just that I hadn’t quite realised their significance.