‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Damian announced. From the look of him, he was in total shock. It was the first real emotion he had shown since the funeral began.
‘Damian …’ Grace reached out to take his arm.
He shook her off. ‘I’m going home. You go to the pub. I’ll see you at the flat.’
I was aware of the photographers snapping with their cameras, their long-distance lenses protruding obscenely over the gravestones. The personal-trainer-cum-bodyguard was doing his best to stand in their way but the lenses swivelled to follow Damian as he stormed off.
The vicar turned to Irene, helpless. ‘What should we do?’ she asked.
‘Let’s take the coffin back to the chapel.’ Irene was trying not to lose her composure. ‘Quickly,’ she snapped in an undertone.
The pall-bearers picked Diana Cowper up and carried her back across the grass, away from the grave, moving as quickly as they could without actually running, still trying to display some measure of decorum. They weren’t succeeding. They looked ridiculous, I thought, moving out of sync, bumping into each other and almost tripping over in their haste to get away. The tinkling music faded into the distance.
Hawthorne watched them disappear. I could almost see the different thoughts turning over in his head.
‘Beep, beep, beep,’ he muttered tunelessly, then set off at a brisk pace, following the coffin back towards the chapel.
Twelve
The Smell of Blood
We had left the other mourners standing in a confused circle around the empty grave as we set off after the coffin, which now reminded me of a tiny ship being tossed around in a stormy sea.
I had a suspicion that Hawthorne was amused by what had happened. It might be that the bleak, vindictive joke – if that’s what it was – had appealed to the darker side of his nature. More likely, it was the knowledge that the theory Meadows had put forward had been completely blown apart. Just a few minutes ago, he had been talking about a burglary that had gone wrong. There was no question of that now. Everything that had happened had pushed the crime far outside normal police experience and gave Hawthorne all the more opportunity to call the investigation his own.
I looked back and saw Meadows lumbering after us but for the time being Hawthorne and I were alone as we headed towards the chapel, which lay a short way ahead.
‘What do you think that was all about?’ I asked.
‘It was a message,’ Hawthorne said.
‘A message … who for?’
‘Well, Damian Cowper, for one. You saw his face.’
‘He was upset.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. He was white as a bloody sheet. I thought he was going to pass out!’
‘This has got to be about Jeremy Godwin,’ I said.
‘He wasn’t run over by a bus.’
‘No. But maybe he was carrying a toy bus when he was hit. Maybe he liked travelling on buses …’
‘You’re right about one thing, mate. It was a kiddy’s nursery rhyme so it’s likely to have something to do with a dead kiddy.’ Hawthorne stepped delicately over a grave. ‘Damian’s gone home,’ he went on. ‘But we’ll catch up with him soon enough. I wonder what he’s got to say.’
‘It’s been ten years since the accident in Deal.’ I was thinking out loud. ‘First Diana Cowper is killed. Then this. Someone’s certainly trying to make a point.’
We had reached the chapel. The coffin had already gone in. We waited until Meadows caught up with us.
‘I always knew things would go pear-shaped once you were involved,’ he grunted. He was terribly out of shape. Even the short walk had left him breathless. If he didn’t watch his diet, quit smoking and take exercise, he would soon be back in the cemetery for a more permanent visit.
‘I’ll be interested to hear how your burglar pulled this one off,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I can’t say I noticed anyone dressed up as a dispatch rider.’
‘What happened here may have nothing to do with the murder and you know it,’ Meadows replied. ‘There’s a Hollywood celebrity involved. It was a practical joke … someone with a twisted mind. That’s all.’
‘You might be right.’ Hawthorne’s tone of voice made it clear he didn’t believe a word of it.
We went into the chapel. By now the coffin was back on the trestles and Irene Laws was busily undoing the straps, watched by the vicar – wide-eyed with shock – and the four men from Cornwallis and Sons. She looked up as we came in.
‘I’ve been in this business for twenty-seven years,’ she said. ‘And nothing like this – nothing – has ever happened before.’
At least the nursery-rhyme music had stopped. I heard only the creak of willow as Irene finished her work and lifted the lid. I flinched. I had no desire to see Diana Cowper a week after she had died. Fortunately, she was covered by a muslin shroud and although I could make out the shape of her body, I was spared the sight of the staring eyes or the sewn-together lips. Irene leaned in and removed what looked like a bright orange cricket ball which had been placed between Diana Cowper’s hands. She handed it to Meadows.
He examined it with distaste. ‘I don’t know what this is,’ he said.
‘It’s an alarm clock.’ Hawthorne reached out and Meadows handed it to him, glad to be rid of it.
I saw that it was indeed a digital alarm clock, with the correct time displayed in a circular panel on one side. It had a number of perforations, like an old-fashioned radio, and two switches. Hawthorne flicked one of them up and it began again.
‘Turn it off!’ Irene Laws shuddered.
He did as she asked. ‘It’s an MP3 recording alarm clock,’ he explained. ‘There are plenty of them on the internet. The idea is, you can download your kids’ favourite songs so it wakes them up in the morning. I got one for my boy except I put my own voice on it. “Wake up, you little bastard, and get a move on.” He thinks it’s hilarious.’
‘How was it activated?’ I asked.
Hawthorne turned it over in his hands. ‘It was set for eleven thirty. Whoever put it there timed it to go off in the middle of the funeral. They couldn’t have done a better job.’ He rounded on Irene Laws. ‘Have you got an explanation for how it got there?’ he asked.
‘No!’ She was taken aback, as if he was accusing her.
‘Was the coffin left on its own at any time?’
‘You’d really have to ask Mr Cornwallis.’
Hawthorne paused. ‘Where is Cornwallis?’
‘He had to leave early. It’s his son’s school play this afternoon.’ She was staring at the orange ball. ‘Nobody in our company would have done something like this.’
‘Then it must have been someone from outside, hence my question: was the coffin left on its own?’
‘Yes.’ Irene squirmed, hating to admit it. ‘The deceased was laid out at our facility on the Fulham Palace Road. She was brought from there today. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough space at our South Kensington office. We have a chapel close to Hammersmith roundabout, a place of bereavement. Members of the family and close friends would have been able to visit Mrs Cowper if they so wished.’
‘And how many of them so wished?’
‘I can’t tell you now. But we have a visitors’ book and nobody would have been allowed in without some form of identification.’
‘How about here at the cemetery?’ Hawthorne asked. Irene said nothing, so he went on: ‘When we arrived, the coffin was inside the hearse, which was parked around the back. Was there someone there the whole time?’