Mrs Cowper was disqualified from driving for a year, had nine penalty points added to her licence and was ordered to pay £900 costs. The judge also suggested three months of restorative justice but the family of the two boys have refused to meet her.
Speaking outside the court, Judith Godwin said: ‘Nobody should be allowed to get behind the wheel of a car if they can’t see. If that’s not against the law then the law should be changed. My son is dead. My other son has been crippled. And she just gets a slap on the wrist. That can’t be right.’
A spokesperson for Brake, the road safety charity, said: ‘Nobody should drive if they are not fully in control of their car.’
I looked at the dates above the three articles and made the connection. ‘This all happened exactly ten years ago,’ I exclaimed.
‘Nine years and eleven months,’ Hawthorne corrected me. ‘The accident was at the start of June.’
‘It’s still pretty much the anniversary.’ I handed back the third article. ‘And the boy who survived … he had brain lacerations.’ I picked up Diana Cowper’s text. ‘… the boy who was lacerated’.
‘You think there’s a connection?’
I assumed he was being sarcastic but I didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Do you know where she lives?’ I asked. ‘Judith Godwin?’
Hawthorne searched through the other pages. ‘There’s an address in Harrow-on-the-Hill.’
‘Not Kent?’
‘They might have been on holiday. The first week in June … that’s summer half-term.’
So perhaps Hawthorne had children after all. How else would he have known? But I didn’t dare raise that subject again. Instead, I asked: ‘Are we going to see her?’
‘No need to hurry. And we’ve got a meeting with Mr Cornwallis just down the road.’ My mind had gone blank for a moment. I had no idea who he was referring to. ‘The undertaker,’ he reminded me. He began to gather up the documents, drawing them towards him like a croupier with a pack of cards. It was interesting that as much as Detective Inspector Meadows had disliked him, someone higher up in the Met was taking him seriously. The crime scene had been left untouched for his examination. He was being kept fully in the loop.
Hawthorne stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Once again, I noticed, I’d paid for the coffees.
We took the number 14 back down the Fulham Road, the same bus used by Diana Cowper on the day she died. We exited, as Hawthorne would have put it, at twelve twenty-six and retraced our steps to the funeral parlour.
I hadn’t been to a funeral parlour since my father died – and that was a long time ago. I had been twenty-one years old. Although he had suffered a protracted illness, the end had come very suddenly and the whole family was poleaxed. For reasons that still aren’t clear to me, an uncle stepped in and took control of the burial arrangements … after years of agnosticism, my father had expressed a desire to have an orthodox funeral. I’m sure my uncle thought he was doing us a favour but unfortunately, he was a loud, opinionated man and I can’t say I’d ever been very fond of him. Even so, I found myself accompanying him to a funeral parlour in north London. In Jewish families, the burial happens very quickly and I hadn’t yet had time to accept what was happening; I was still in shock. I have vague memories of a large room that was more like a lost property office in a railway station than an undertaker’s. Everything was very dark, in different shades of brown. There was a short, bearded man standing behind a counter, wearing an ill-fitting suit and a yarmulke: the funeral director or perhaps one of his assistants. As if in a nightmare, I see a crowd of people surrounding me. Were they other customers or staff? I seem to remember that there was no privacy.
My uncle was negotiating the price of the funeral, which was to take place the following day. He didn’t ask me what I thought. He was discussing the various coffins and different options with the counter man and, as I stood there listening to them, their voices became more and more heated until I realised that the two of them were actually engaged in a full-blooded argument. My uncle accused the funeral director of cheating us and that was what finally did it. The other man exploded in rage. He had gone quite red in the face and now he was jabbing a finger at us, shouting, with saliva flecking at his lips.
‘You want mahogany, you pay for mahogany!’
I have no idea whether my father was buried in mahogany or plywood and frankly I don’t care. The fury of the undertaker and the words he spoke have echoed in my memory for almost forty years. They have made me determined that my own funeral will be short, cheap and non-denominational. And they were still with me as I followed Hawthorne into Cornwallis and Sons, closing the door (silently) behind me.
The funeral parlour was very much as I have described it, smaller and less threatening than the office I remembered from my past – but this time, of course, there was no personal connection for me. Hawthorne introduced himself to Irene Laws, who took us directly to Robert Cornwallis’s office at the end of the corridor, the same room where Diana Cowper had made the arrangements that she would now be requiring. This time, Irene stayed, planting herself firmly in a chair as if Diana Cowper’s untimely death had been her fault and she expected to be interrogated along with her cousin. Again, I found myself wondering what it must be like to work there, sitting in a room with those miniature urns, a constant reminder that everything you were and everything you’d achieved would one day fit inside. Hawthorne hadn’t introduced me, by the way. He never did. They must have assumed I was his assistant.
‘I have already spoken to the police,’ Cornwallis began.
‘Yes, sir.’ It was interesting that Hawthorne called him ‘sir’. I saw at once that he was quite different when he was dealing with witnesses or suspects or anyone who might help him with his investigation. He came across as ordinary, even obsequious. The more I got to know him, the more I saw that he did this quite deliberately. People lowered their guard when they were talking to him. They had no idea what sort of man he was, that he was only waiting for the right moment to dissect them. For him, politeness was a surgical mask, something he slipped on before he took out his scalpel. ‘Because of the unusual nature of the crime, I’ve been asked to provide independent support to the investigation. I’m very sorry to take up your time …’ He gave the funeral director a crocodile smile. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Well, actually …’
It was too late. The cigarette was already between his lips, the lighter sparking. Mrs Laws frowned and slid a pewter saucer onto the desk for him to use as an ashtray. I noticed an engraving around the side: Awarded to Robert Daniel Cornwallis, Undertaker of the Year 2008.
‘Would you mind going over your meeting with Mrs Cowper once again, starting from the beginning?’
Robert Cornwallis did exactly that, speaking in the same measured tone that he must have used many times in his years spent dealing with the bereaved. Hawthorne may have criticised some of the embellishments which I added in my first chapter but what he told us corresponded more or less exactly to what I had written. Mrs Cowper had been reasonable, business-like and precise. She had arrived without an appointment and she had left once everything had been agreed.
In retrospect, I may have been a little unfair to Robert Cornwallis. I described him as crumpled and mournful but it may be that I was confusing the man with his profession, and this time I was struck by how very ordinary he was. Take away the corpses, the embalming fluids, the interments and the tears and I’m sure he’d be perfectly pleasant, someone you’d be happy to chat to if you met him at a party. It would just be better not to ask him what he did.
‘How long was Mrs Cowper with you?’ Hawthorne asked.
It was as if Irene Laws had been waiting for the question. ‘She was here for just over fifty minutes,’ she replied with the clipped exactitude of a speaking clock.
‘I was going to say an hour,’ Cornwallis agreed. ‘We went over all the arrangements very carefully. And the prices.’
‘How much was she going to pay you?’
‘Irene can provide you with a complete breakdown. She already had a plot in Brompton Cemetery, which saved a considerable amount of money. The price of a resting place in London has increased greatly over the years, in the same way as property. The final figure, including the Church of England burial fee and the gravedigger, was three thousand pounds.’
‘Three thousand, one hundred and seventy,’ Miss Laws corrected him.
‘Did she pay with a credit card?’
‘Yes. She paid in full although I assured her that there was a ten-day cooling-off period should she have second thoughts. In that respect, we’re rather similar to double-glazing salesmen.’ This was his little joke. He smiled. Irene Laws frowned.
‘What do you do with that money?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if she hadn’t died …’
‘We would have placed it in escrow. We belong to a trust known as the Golden Charter which takes care of payments and also, of course, calculates for inflation.’ Somewhere in the back of my mind it had occurred to me that the funeral parlour might have welcomed Mrs Cowper’s death because they would be the first to profit from it, providing the funeral. But if she had already paid, the very reverse was true. I was glad I hadn’t mentioned it.
Even so, Hawthorne threw an angry glance at me, letting me know that my contribution had annoyed him. ‘What sort of mood would you say she was in?’ he asked, changing the subject completely.
‘The same mood as anyone who comes here,’ Cornwallis replied. ‘She was a little uncomfortable, at least to begin with. We have a great reticence, talking about death, in this country. I always say it’s a shame we don’t adopt the practice of the Swiss, who invented what they call the Café Mortel, an opportunity to discuss one’s mortality over tea and cake.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea if you’ve got one,’ Hawthorne said.
Cornwallis glanced at Miss Laws, who got up and stomped out of the room.
‘You say she’d already worked out everything she wanted for the funeral.’
‘Yes. She’d written it down.’
‘Do you still have that document?’
‘No. She took it with her. I made a copy, which I included in the summary that I sent her.’
‘Would you say there was any urgency on her part? Did she tell you why she’d chosen that particular day to come in?’
‘She didn’t appear to consider herself to be in danger, if that’s what you mean.’ Cornwallis shook his head. ‘It’s not unusual for people to plan their funerals, Mr Hawthorne. She wasn’t ill. She wasn’t nervous or afraid. I already said this to the police. I also told them that both I and Miss Laws were shocked when we heard the news.’
‘Why did you telephone her?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I have her phone records. You telephoned her at five past two. She had just arrived for a board meeting at the Globe Theatre. You spoke to her for about a minute and a half.’
‘You’re quite right. I needed the plot number of her husband’s grave.’ Cornwallis smiled. ‘I had to contact the Royal Parks Chapel Office to register the interment. It was the one piece of information she hadn’t given me. There’s something I should perhaps mention. She was having some sort of argument when I spoke to her. I heard voices in the background. She said she’d call back but of course she never did.’
Irene Laws returned with Hawthorne’s tea. The cup rattled against the saucer as she set it down.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Hawthorne?’ Cornwallis asked.
‘I’d be interested to know … did you both speak to her?’
‘Irene showed her into this office—’
‘I spoke to her briefly in the reception area but I didn’t stay for the meeting,’ Miss Laws interrupted, as she took her place.
‘Was she ever in here on her own?’
Cornwallis frowned. ‘What a very odd question. Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m just interested.’
‘No. I was with her the whole time.’
‘Just before she left, she used the cloakroom,’ Miss Laws said.
‘You mean the toilet.’
‘That’s what I said. That was the only time she was on her own. I took her to the room, which is just along the corridor, and then came back with her while she collected her things. I’d also like to say that she was in a perfectly pleasant state of mind when she left. If anything, she was relieved – but that’s often the way when people come here. In fact, it’s part of our service.’
Hawthorne downed his tea in three large gulps. We stood up to leave. Then one thought occurred to me. ‘She didn’t say anything about someone called Timothy Godwin, did she?’ I asked.
‘Timothy Godwin?’ Cornwallis shook his head. ‘Who is he?’
‘He was a boy she accidentally killed in a car accident,’ I said. ‘He had a brother, Jeremy Godwin …’
‘What a terrible thing to happen.’ Cornwallis turned to his cousin. ‘Did she mention either of those names to you, Irene?’
‘No.’
‘I doubt they’re relevant.’ Hawthorne had cut off the discussion before it could go any further. He stretched out a hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Cornwallis.’
Outside, in the street, he turned on me.
‘Do me a favour, mate. Never ask questions when you’re with me. Never ask anything. All right?’
‘You just expect me to sit there and say nothing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m not stupid,’ I said. ‘I may be able to help.’
‘Well, you’re wrong on at least one of those counts. But the point is, you’re not here to help. You said this was a detective story. I’m the detective. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Then tell me what you’ve learned,’ I said. ‘You’ve been to the crime scene. You’ve seen the phone records. You’ve talked to the undertaker. Do you know anything yet?’
Hawthorne considered what I’d said. He had a blank look in his eyes and, for a moment, I thought he was going to dismiss me out of hand. Then he took pity on me.
‘Diana Cowper knew she was going to die,’ he said.
I waited for him to add something more but he simply turned and stormed off down the pavement. I considered my options, then followed, in every sense struggling to catch up.
Six
Witness Statements
I didn’t know very much about Diana Cowper but it was already clear to me that there couldn’t have been whole crowds of people queuing up to murder her. She was a middle-aged woman, a widow, living on her own. She was well-off without being super-rich, on the board of a theatre and the mother of a famous son. She had difficulty sleeping and she had a cat. True, she’d lost money to a theatrical producer and she’d employed a cleaner with a criminal record but what reason would either of them have had to strangle her?
The one thing that stood out was the fact that she had killed a little boy and badly injured his brother. The accident had been caused by her own carelessness – she hadn’t been wearing her spectacles – and, worse still, she had driven away without stopping. Despite all this, she had walked free. If I had been Timothy and Jeremy Godwin’s father, if I had been related to them in any way, I might have been tempted to kill her myself. And all of this had happened exactly ten years ago: well, nine years and eleven months. Close enough.
It was an obvious motive for murder. If the Godwin family was living in north London, in Harrow-on-the-Hill, I couldn’t understand why we weren’t heading there straight away and I said as much to Hawthorne.
‘One step at a time,’ he replied. ‘There are other people I want to talk to first.’
‘The cleaner?’ We were actually sitting in a taxi that was taking us around Shepherd’s Bush roundabout on our way to Acton, which was where Andrea Kluvánek lived. Hawthorne had also telephoned Raymond Clunes and we were seeing him later. ‘You don’t suspect her, do you?’
/> ‘I suspect her of lying to the police, yes.’
‘And Clunes? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘He knew Mrs Cowper. Seventy-eight per cent of female victims are killed by someone they know,’ he went on before I could interrupt.
‘Really?’
‘I thought you’d have known that, you being a TV writer.’ Ignoring the no-smoking sign, he pressed the button to lower the window of the cab and lit a cigarette. ‘Husband, stepfather, lover … speaking statistically, they’re the most likely killers.’
‘Raymond Clunes wasn’t any of those things.’
‘He could have been her lover.’
‘She saw the boy with the lacerations, Jeremy Godwin! She said she was afraid. I don’t know why you’re wasting your time.’
‘There’s no smoking!’ the driver complained over the intercom.
‘Fuck off. I’m a police officer,’ Hawthorne replied, equanimously. ‘What were those words you used? Modus operandi. This is mine.’ He blew smoke out of the window but the wind just whipped it back into the cab. ‘Start with the people who were closest to her and work outwards from there. It’s like doing a house-to-house. You start with the neighbours. You don’t start at the end of the street.’ He turned his eyes on me, once again interrogating. ‘You got a problem with that?’
‘It just seems a bit crazy to be haring around London. And at my expense,’ I added quietly.
Hawthorne said nothing more.
After what seemed like a very long drive, the taxi pulled up on the edge of the South Acton Estate, a sprawling collection of slab blocks and high-rise towers that had sprung up over the decades, starting at the end of the war. There was some landscaping – lawns, trees and pedestrian walkways – but the overall effect was dispiriting if only because there were so many homes packed together. We walked beside a skateboard park that looked as if it hadn’t been used for years and then down into an underpass, the walls covered with crude graffiti images, bleeding garishly into one another. No Banksies here.
The Word Is Murder Page 6