As we went, something strange happened. Maybe it was some instinct or maybe a movement caught my eye but I realised that we were being watched. I turned round and looked at the house we had just left. Someone had been standing in the window of Jeremy Godwin’s room, staring down at us, but before I could see who it was, they had backed away.
Nine
Star Power
As we walked back to the tube station together, Hawthorne received a call on his mobile phone. He answered it but didn’t give his name. He just listened for about half a minute and then rang off.
‘We’re going to Brick Lane,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘The prodigal son has returned. Damian Cowper is back in London. It must have been difficult for him, fitting it into his busy diary. His mum’s been dead for over a week.’
I thought about what he had just said. ‘Who was that?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘On the phone.’
‘What does it matter?’
‘I’d just be interested to know where you’re getting your information.’ Hawthorne didn’t answer, so I went on. ‘You knew that Judith Godwin was at South Kensington station. Someone gave you access to the CCTV footage. You also knew about Andrea Kluvánek’s criminal record. For an ex-policeman, you seem to be remarkably well informed.’
He gave me the look that he did so well, as if I’d surprised and offended him at the same time. ‘It’s not important,’ he said.
‘It is important. If I’m writing this book about you, I can’t just have information being pulled out of thin air. Tell me you meet someone in a garage and we’ll call him Deep Throat if you like. No. Forget that. I need the truth. You’ve obviously got someone helping you. Who is it?’
We were walking through the village and passed a group of Harrow schoolboys wearing their uniform: blue jackets, ties, straw boaters. ‘I wonder if they realise they look like complete wankers,’ Hawthorne said.
‘They look fine. And don’t change the subject.’
‘All right.’ He frowned. ‘It was my old DCI. I’m not going to give you his name. He wasn’t too happy about what happened; the way I got blamed for what wasn’t my fault. In fact, he knew it was a load of bollocks and anyway he needed me. I mean, you’ve met Meadows. If you added up the IQ of half the officers in the murder squad, you still wouldn’t reach three figures. He brought me in as a consultant and he’s been using me ever since.’
‘How many of you are there, working for the police?’
‘There’s only me,’ Hawthorne said. ‘There are other consultants but they don’t get results. A total waste of time.’ He spoke without malice.
‘Brick Lane …’ I said.
‘Damian Cowper flew in yesterday, business class from LA. His girlfriend is with him. Her name’s Grace Lovell. They’ve got a kid.’
‘You didn’t mention he had a child.’
‘I mentioned he had a cocaine habit. From what I’m told, that matters to him more. He’s also got a flat in Brick Lane, which is where we’re heading now.’
We had passed Harrow School and headed back down the hill towards the station. I was beginning to worry about my role in all this. I was simply following Hawthorne around London, which reminded me that I wasn’t feeling comfortable with the shape of the book. From Britannia Road to the funeral parlour, then South Acton, Marble Arch, Harrow-on-the-Hill and, next up, Brick Lane … it felt more like an A to Z of London than a murder mystery.
I was annoyed that we seemed to have drawn a complete blank with Jeremy Godwin. Diana Cowper had texted that she had seen him but there was no way he could have crossed the city on his own, certainly not to commit a violent and well-planned murder. But if he hadn’t strangled her, who had? If I were in control of events I would have introduced the killer by now but I wasn’t at all certain that we had met anyone yet who fitted the bill.
There was something else preying on my mind. I hadn’t mentioned any of this to my literary agent, who was confidently expecting me to turn up with an idea for the next book after The House of Silk. I knew I was going to have to confront her sooner or later and I had a feeling she wouldn’t be pleased.
We took the tube to Brick Lane. We had to cross London all the way from west to east and it would have taken for ever in a taxi. The carriage was almost empty as we sat down facing each other, and just as the doors slid shut, Hawthorne leaned forward and asked: ‘Have you got a title yet?’
‘A title?’
‘For the book!’ So he’d been thinking about it too.
‘It’s much too early,’ I told him. ‘First of all, you’ve got to solve the crime. Then I’ll have a better idea what I’m writing about.’
‘Don’t you think of the title first?’
‘Not really. No.’
I’ve never found it easy coming up with titles. Almost two hundred thousand books are published in the UK every year and although some of them will have the advantage of a well-known author attached, the vast majority have just two or three words on a surface measuring no more than six by nine inches to sell themselves. Titles have to be short, smart and meaningful, easy to read, easy to remember and original. That’s asking a lot.
Many of the best titles are simply borrowed from elsewhere. Brave New World, The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Vanity Fair … all of these were drawn from other works. Agatha Christie used the Bible, Shakespeare, Tennyson and even The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam for many of her eighty-two titles. For my money, nobody has beaten Ian Fleming: From Russia, with Love, You Only Live Twice, Live and Let Die. His titles have passed into the English language although even he didn’t find it easy. Live and Let Die was almost published as ‘The Undertaker’s Wind’. Moonraker was ‘The Moonraker Secret’, ‘The Moonraker Plot’, ‘The Moonraker Plan’ and even, for a short time, ‘Mondays Are Hell’, while Goldfinger began life as ‘The Richest Man in the World’.
I didn’t have a title for my new book. I wasn’t even sure I had a book.
Hawthorne and I didn’t speak for a long while. I let my thoughts wander as I watched the various stations rush past: Wembley Park, South Hampstead and then Baker Street, its tiled walls picking out the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. Now there was another master of the title, although Conan Doyle often had second thoughts too. Would A Study in Scarlet have struck such a chord if it had remained as ‘A Tangled Skein’?
‘I was thinking of “Hawthorne Investigates”,’ Hawthorne said, suddenly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘For the book.’ The carriage had got more crowded. He crossed over and sat next to me. ‘The first one anyway. I think all of them should have my name on the cover.’
It had never occurred to me that he was thinking of a series. I have to say, my blood ran cold.
‘I don’t like it,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
I searched for a reason. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned.’
‘Is it?’
‘Parker Pyne Investigates. That’s Agatha Christie. Hetty Wainthropp Investigates. It’s been done before.’
‘Yeah. Well.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll come up with something.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I said. ‘It’s my book. I’ll think of the title.’
‘It’s got to be a good one,’ he said. ‘To be honest with you, I don’t much like The House of Silk.’
I’d forgotten I’d even mentioned it to him. ‘The House of Silk is a great title,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s a perfect title. It sounds like a Sherlock Holmes story and it’s what the whole plot is about. The publisher likes it so much, he’s even going to put a white ribbon in the book.’ I’d been shouting above the roar of the train but I suddenly realised we’d stopped. We were sitting in Euston Square. The other passengers were looking at me.