‘And he murdered them all, did he?’
‘No. He beat up the first two and locked them in a cupboard while he ransacked their houses. The third one was smart. She didn’t let him in. She dialled 999 and he hiked it. But we know who we’re looking for. We’re looking at CCTV footage now. We should be able to track down the bike without too much trouble and that’ll lead us to him.’
‘And what’s your theory for how Diana Cowper got herself strangled? Why didn’t he just beat her up like the rest of them?’
Meadows shrugged his rugby player’s shoulders. ‘It just went wrong.’
There was a movement on the other side of the trees. Diana Cowper was being brought to her final resting place in a procession which included the four men from the funeral parlour – they were carrying the basket – along with the vicar, Damian Cowper and Grace Lovell. Finally, Irene Laws followed behind at a discreet distance, her hands clasped behind her back, making sure that everything was being done correctly. There was no sign of Robert Cornwallis.
‘You know what? I think your theory is a lot of shit,’ Hawthorne said. His language jarred with the setting – the sunlight, the cemetery and the approaching coffin with its garland of flowers. ‘You always were complete crap at the job, mate. And when you finally track down your masked dispatch rider, you can give him best wishes from me because I bet you any money you like he never went anywhere near Britannia Road.’
‘And you always were an insufferable bastard when you were in the Met,’ Meadows growled. ‘You don’t know how glad we were to see you go.’
‘It’s just a shame what happened to your targets,’ Hawthorne responded, his eyes glittering. ‘I hear they nosedived after I went. And while we’re on the subject, it’s too bad about your divorce.’
‘Who told you about that?’ Meadows jerked back.
‘It’s written all over you, mate.’
It was true. Meadows looked neglected. His crumpled suit, the shirt that hadn’t been ironed and was missing a button and his scuffed shoes all told one half of the story. He was still wearing a wedding ring though, so either his wife had died or she had left him. Either way, the comments had hit home. In fact I was almost expecting the two of them to come to blows – like Hamlet and Laertes on the side of the grave – but just then the coffin arrived and I watched as it was set down on the grass, the willow creaking. Two ropes ran underneath it and the four pall-bearers took a moment to run the ends through the handles, securing it, while Irene Laws looked on approvingly.
I glanced at Damian Cowper. He was staring into the mid-distance, unaware of anyone around him. Grace was standing beside him but there was no contact between them. She wasn’t holding his arm. The photographers I had noticed earlier were some distance away but their cameras had zoom lenses and I imagined they could get everything they needed.
‘It’s time to lower the coffin,’ the vicar intoned. ‘Let us all stand together and maybe you’d like to hold hands while we take these last few moments to think about the very special life that has now ended.’
The coffin was lifted and manoeuvred over the grave that waited to receive it. The small crowd stood around, watching as it was lowered. The man with the handkerchief touched his eyes. Raymond Clunes had found himself standing next to Bruno Wang and I noticed them exchange a few quiet words. The four pall-bearers began to lower the coffin into the dark slit that was waiting to receive it.
And then, quite suddenly, music began to play. It was a song. A children’s song.
The sound quality was thin and tinkly and my immediate thought was that it was somebody’s mobile phone. The mourners were looking among themselves, wondering whose it was and who was going to be embarrassed. Irene Laws stepped forward, alarmed. Damian Cowper was standing closest to the grave. I saw him look over the edge with an expression that was somewhere between horror and fury. He pointed down and said something to Grace Lovell. That was when I understood.
The music was coming from inside the grave.
It was inside the coffin.
The second verse began.
The four pall-bearers had frozen, not knowing whether to drop the coffin the rest of the way and hope that the depth of the grave would muffle the sound or whether to pull it out again and somehow deal with it. Could they actually bury the dead woman with this hideously inappropriate song accompanying her? It was quite obvious now that the source of the music was some sort of digital recorder or radio inside the coffin. Had Diana Cowper chosen a more traditional material, mahogany for example, there’s every chance that we would have been unable to hear it. The dead woman might have been left to rest in peace … at least, once the battery ran out. But the words were leaking out of the twisted willow branches. There was no escaping them.
On the far side of the cemetery, the photographers raised their cameras and moved forward, sensing that something was wrong. At the same time, Damian Cowper lashed out at the vicar, not physically but ferociously. He needed someone to blame and she was close by. ‘What’s going on?’ he snarled. ‘Who did this?’
Irene Laws had reached the edge of the grave, moving as fast as her short, stubby legs would allow. ‘Mr Cowper …’ she began, breathlessly.
‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Damian looked ill. ‘Why are they playing that song?’
‘Raise the coffin.’ Irene had taken charge. ‘Lift it back out again.’
‘Move on back, move on back …’
‘I want you to know I’m going to sue your fucking company for every penny—’
‘I’m most dreadfully sorry!’ Irene was talking over him. ‘I just don’t understand …’
The four men pulled the coffin back out rather faster than they had lowered it. It came clear over the edge of the grave and bumped onto the grass, almost toppling onto its side. I could imagine Diana Cowper inside, being rocked to and fro. I examined the other mourners, wondering if one of them was responsible, for presumably this had been done deliberately. Was it a sick joke? Was it some sort of message?
Raymond Clunes was clutching on to his partner. Bruno Wang was staring, his hand over his mouth. Andrea Kluvánek – I could have been wrong but she seemed to be smiling. Next to her, the man with the handkerchief was gazing at the coffin with an expression I couldn’t make out at all. He brought his hand to his mouth as if he was going either to throw up or to burst into laughter, then twisted round and backed away. I watched him as he hurried out of the cemetery, heading up the path that would lead him to the Brompton Road.
It wouldn’t stop. That was the worst of it. The music was so trite, the voice full of that hideous cheerfulness that adults put on when they sing for children.