‘It was an accident.’ Suddenly Damian seemed agitated. He searched in his pockets and, guessing that he wanted a cigarette, Hawthorne offered him one of his own. Damian took it. They both lit up. ‘Are you suggesting he’s got something to do with what happened? Because I spent half the afternoon talking to the police and they didn’t mention him. They think my mum died because of a burglary that went wrong.’
‘That may be one theory, Mr Cowper. But it’s my job to look at the whole picture. I’d be interested to know what you can tell me about Deal. After all, you were there.’
‘I wasn’t in the car. Christ!’ He ran a hand through his immaculate hair. This was a man who wasn’t used to being questioned – not unless it was for a glossy magazine. For once, there wasn’t a publicist in the room, guiding the interview. ‘Look, it was ten years ago,’ he said. ‘Mum was living in Walmer, which is the village next to Deal. We’d always lived there. It’s where I was born. And after Dad died, she wanted to stay. The house meant a lot to her – the house and the garden. It was her birthday and I went down to see her for a few days. I’d just finished a run at the RSC and I was reading scripts, thinking about what to do next. The accident happened on a Thursday. She’d gone to play golf. We were meant to be going out to dinner that night but when she came in she was in a terrible state. She said she’d forgotten her glasses and she’d just hit someone in her car. She knew they were hurt but she had no idea that she’d actually killed one of them.’
‘So why didn’t she stop?’
‘I don’t mind telling you the truth, Mr Hawthorne. After all, you can’t prosecute her now. The fact of the matter is that she was worried about me. My career was taking off. I’d just had fantastic reviews for Henry V and they were even talking about taking it to Broadway. She thought that the bad publicity might hurt me and – I’m not saying she wouldn’t have turned herself in to the police. That was never in her mind. She just wanted to talk to me first.’
‘She’d killed a child.’ Suddenly Hawthorne was leaning forward, accusingly. It was another of those instant transformations I was getting used to: from witness to prosecutor, from friend to dangerous enemy.
‘I’ve already told you, she didn’t know.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, for what it’s worth, there were plenty of things about that accident that never added up.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, the nanny said that the two children ran across the road to get to an ice-cream shop. But the ice-cream shop was closed so that doesn’t make any sense. And then there was the question of the witness who disappeared.’
‘What witness was that?’
‘A man who was first on the scene. He tried to help. But when the police and the ambulance arrived, he suddenly took off and nobody ever found out who he was or what he’d seen; not at the inquest, not in court.’
‘Are you suggesting your mother wasn’t responsible?’
‘No.’ Damian drew on his cigarette. He held it like a black and white film star, in the O formed by his thumb and index finger. ‘Mum should have been wearing her glasses and she knew that. You have no idea how much it all upset her. She never drove again. And although it broke her heart, she realised she couldn’t stay living in Walmer. A few months later, she sold up and moved to London.’
Outside, in another room, we heard a telephone ring a few times before it was picked up.
‘So she never had any further communication with the family,’ Hawthorne asked.
‘The Godwins?’ Damian shrugged. ‘She did have “further communication” with them. Very much so. They never forgave her and they never accepted the court’s verdict. In fact the father, Alan Godwin, was hassling her just a couple of weeks before she died.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me. He actually came to the house in Britannia Road. Can you believe that? He was asking her for money to support his failed business. And when she told him to leave, he wrote to her. If you ask me, that’s harassment. I told her to go to the police.’
Alan Godwin had lost a child. His other child had been crippled. It was hard to think of Damian Cowper as the victim in all this. But before Hawthorne could say as much, a young, very attractive black woman came down the spiral stairs, leading a little girl by the hand and holding a mobile phone.
‘Dame, it’s Jason,’ she said. She sounded nervous. ‘He says it’s important.’
‘Sure.’ He took the phone from her and began to walk towards the terrace. ‘I’m sorry. It’s my manager. I’ve got to take this.’ He stopped at the window and frowned. ‘I thought you were putting Ashleigh down for a nap.’
‘She’s jet-lagged. She doesn’t know if it’s night or day.’
He went outside, leaving us with the woman and her child. This had to be Grace Lovell. There could be no doubt that she was – or had been – a model or an actress. She had the physique and the confidence that go with the job, a sort of look-at-me quality that demanded to be put on the screen. She was in her early thirties, quite tall, with very high cheekbones, a long neck and delicate, rounded shoulders. She was wearing the skinniest of jeans and an expensive loose-knit jersey that floated off her. The toddler couldn’t have been more than three. She was staring at us with saucer eyes. I imagined she’d had to get used to being trundled around the world.
‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘And this is Ashleigh. Are you going to say hello, Ashleigh?’ The child said nothing. ‘Has Damian offered you coffee?’
‘We’re OK, thank you.’
‘Are you here about Diana?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘He’s totally destroyed by this although you probably won’t have seen it. Damian is very good at hiding his feelings.’
I wondered why she felt the need to defend him.
‘He was devastated when he heard the news,’ she went on. ‘He adored his mum.’
‘He mentioned you were with her last Christmas.’
‘Yes. We did spend some time together although she was more interested in Ashleigh than me.’ She took a carton of juice out of the fridge, poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to the child. ‘I suppose that’s understandable. The first-grandchild thing.’
‘Are you an actor too?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Well, I was. That’s how we met. We were at RADA together. He played Hamlet. It was a fantastic production. They still talk about it years later. Everyone knew he was going to be a star. I was Ophelia.’
‘You’ve been together for a while, then.’
‘No. After RADA, he got picked up by the RSC and went off to Stratford-upon-Avon. I did a whole load of TV … Holby City, Jonathan Creek, Queer as Folk … that sort of thing. We actually met up again a few years ago. It was a first-night party at the National. We got together – and then Ashleigh came along.’
‘It must be difficult for you,’ I said. ‘Having to stay at home.’
‘Not really. It’s my choice.’
I didn’t believe her. There was a nervousness in her eyes. I’d seen it when she held out the telephone for Damian. She’d been afraid he was going to snatch it from her. In fact, she was probably afraid of Damian. I had no doubt that success had made him a very different man from the one she had met at drama school.
Damian had finished the call and came back into the room. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘They’re all going crazy out there. We start shooting next week.’
‘What did he want?’ Grace asked.
‘He wants to know when I’m coming back. Jesus! He’s such an arsehole. I’ve only just arrived.’ He looked at his watch, a great chunk of steel with several dials. ‘It’s five o’clock in the morning in LA and he’s already on his treadmill. I could hear it as he talked.’