We sat down, facing her across the table. There were pots and pans hanging on hooks, inches behind our heads. Andrea did not offer us tea or coffee. She gazed at us suspiciously across the Formica surface of her kitchen table, a small, dark woman who looked even tougher in real life than she had in the photograph I had seen. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans that had been torn in a way that wasn’t a fashion statement. Hawthorne had lit a cigarette and she had taken one off him too, so I was sitting there surrounded by smoke, wondering if I would actually manage to finish the book before I died of some secondary-smoking-related disease.
To begin with, Hawthorne was quite pleasant with her. His tone was conversational as he took her through the statement she had given to the police and which I have already described. She had come into the house, seen the dead woman, gone straight outside and called the police. She had waited until they arrived.
‘You must have got very wet,’ Hawthorne said.
‘What?’ She looked at him suspiciously.
‘It was raining that morning, when you discovered the body. If I’d been you, I’d have waited in the kitchen. Nice and warm and there’s a phone in there too. No need to use your mobile.’
‘I go outside. I already say all this. The police ask me what happen and I tell them.’ Her English wasn’t very good and it got worse, the angrier she became.
‘I know, Andrea,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I read what you told the police. But I’ve come all the way across London to talk to you face-to-face because I want you to tell me the truth.’
There was a long silence.
‘I speak the truth.’ She didn’t sound convincing.
‘No, you don’t.’ Hawthorne sighed gently, as if this wasn’t something he really wanted to do. ‘How long have you been in this country?’ he asked.
At once she was defensive. ‘Five year.’
‘Two years with Diana Cowper.’
‘Yes.’
‘How many days a week did you work for her?’
‘Two days. Wednesday and Friday.’
‘Did you ever tell her about that little trouble you had?’
‘I have no trouble.’
Hawthorne shook his head sadly. ‘You have a lot of trouble. In Huddersfield – that’s where you were living. Shoplifting. A hundred-and-fifty-quid fine plus costs.’
‘You no understand!’ Andrea glowered at him. I was wishing the room was bigger. I felt out of place and uncomfortable being so close to her. ‘I have nothing to eat. No husband. My children, four-year-old and six-year-old, have nothing to eat.’
‘So you nicked stuff from a charity shop. Well, it was Save the Children. I suppose you were taking it literally.’
‘Is not …’
‘And it was a second offence,’ Hawthorne went on before she could deny it. ‘You were already on a conditional discharge. I’d say you were lucky the judge was in a good mood.’
Andrea was still defiant. ‘I work for Mrs Cowper for two year. She look after me so I no need to steal nothing. I am honest person. I look after my family.’
‘Well, you won’t be able to look after your family when you’re in jail.’ Hawthorne allowed this to sink in. ‘You lie to me and that’s where you’ll end up. Your children will be in care – or maybe they’ll be sent back to Slovakia. I want to know how much money you took.’
‘What money?’
‘The housekeeping money that your employer kept in a Prince Caspian tin. You know who Prince Caspian is? He’s a character in Narnia. Her son, Damian Cowper, was in the film. She kept the tin in the kitchen. I looked in it and I found a couple of coins.’
‘That’s where she keep money, yes. But I don’t take it. The thief take it.’
‘No.’ Hawthorne was angry. His eyes had darkened and the hand holding his cigarette had curled into a fist. ‘A thief went through the house, it’s true. He poked around a bit here and there. It was like he wanted us to know where he’d been. But this was different. The tin was put back in its right place. The lid was screwed back on. It was wiped clean of fingerprints by someone who’d been watching too many crime shows on TV. I don’t think you get it. There had to be some fingerprints on the surface. Yours. Your boss’s. My guess is you pulled out a wodge of notes and didn’t notice the coins. How much was there?’
Andrea stared at him sullenly. I wondered how much she had understood. ‘I take money,’ she said, at last.
‘How much?’
‘Fifty pound.’
Hawthorne looked pained. ‘How much?’
‘One hundred and sixty.’
He nodded. ‘That’s better. And you didn’t wait outside either. Why would you when it was pissing down? What I want to know is, what else did you do? What else did you take?’
I saw Andrea struggling with the decision that she had to make. Did she admit to further wrongdoing and possibly get herself into more trouble? Or did she try to deceive Hawthorne and risk angering him again? In the end, she bowed to her better sense. She got up and took a folded piece of paper out of a kitchen drawer. She handed it to him. He unfolded it and read:
Mrs Cowper,
You think you can just get rid of me but I will not leave you alone. What I said is just the beginning, I promise you. I have been watching you and I know the things that are dear to you. You are going to pay. Believe me.
It was a handwritten letter, unsigned, with no date or address. Hawthorne looked from it to Andrea, enquiry in his eyes.
‘A man come to the house,’ she explained. ‘Three week ago. He go with Mrs Cowper in the living room. I was upstair in the bedroom but I hear them talking. He was very angry … shouting at her.’
‘What time was this?’
‘It was Wednesday. About one o’clock.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘I look out of the window when he leave. But it was raining and he have umbrella. I see nothing.’
‘You’re sure it was a man?’
Andrea considered. ‘I think so, yes.’
‘And what about this?’ Hawthorne held up the sheet of paper.
‘Is in her bedroom table.’ Andrea actually managed to look ashamed although I think she was just afraid of what Hawthorne might do to her. ‘I take a look in the house after she die and I find it.’ She paused. ‘I think this man kill Mr Tibbs.’
‘Who’s Mr Tibbs?’
‘Mrs Cowper have a cat. Is a big grey cat.’ She held out her hands, showing us its size. ‘She call me on Thursday. She tell me not to come in. She very upset and she say that Mr Tibbs has gone.’
‘Why did you take the letter?’ I asked.
Andrea looked at Hawthorne as if asking his permission to ignore me.
Hawthorne nodded. He folded the letter back up and slipped it into his pocket. The two of us left.
‘She took the letter because she thought she could make money out of it,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Maybe she knows the man who visited Diana Cowper, the man with the umbrella. Or maybe she thought she could find him. But she’s an opportunist. She knew there was going to be a murder investigation and this was something she thought she could use.’
We were sitting together in another taxi, on our way back into town. We had one meeting left – with Raymond Clunes, the theatre producer who’d had lunch with Diana Cowper on the day she’d died. I was even more convinced now that this was a waste of time. Surely Hawthorne had the identity of the killer in his pocket. You are going to pay. What could have been clearer than that? But he said nothing more about the interview with Andrea Kluvánek. He was deep in thought. In fact it was more than that. He was totally absorbed. This was something I would learn about Hawthorne. He was someone who was only fully alive when he was working on a case. He needed there to have been a murder or some other violent crime. It was his entire raison d’être – another posh phrase which I am sure he would have hated.