Irene deflected the question to one of the pall-bearers, who shuffled his feet and looked down. ‘We were there most of the time,’ he muttered. ‘But not all of it.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Alfred Laws. I’m a director of the company.’ He took a breath. ‘Irene is my wife.’
Hawthorne smiled mirthlessly. ‘Keep it all in the family, don’t you! So where were you?’
‘When we first arrived, we parked the vehicle and came in here.’
‘All of you?’
‘Yes.’
And was the hearse locked?’
‘No.’
‘In our experience, nobody has ever tried to remove a dead person,’ Irene remarked, icily.
‘Well, maybe that’s something you should think about in the future.’ Hawthorne closed in her, almost menacing. ‘I’ll need to talk to Mr Cornwallis. Where can I find him?’
‘I’ll give you his address.’ Irene held out a hand and her husband passed her a notebook and a pen. She scribbled a few lines on the first page, then tore it out and handed it to Hawthorne.
‘Thank you.’
‘Wait a minute!’ Meadows had been standing to one side throughout all this and it was as if he had only just realised he hadn’t said anything. At the same time – I saw it in his eyes – he knew he had nothing more to say. ‘I’ll take the alarm clock,’ he muttered, asserting his authority. ‘It shouldn’t have been handled,’ he added, forgetting that he had been the one who had taken it from Irene in the first place. ‘Forensics aren’t going to like that.’
‘I doubt forensics will find very much,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Well, if it was bought on the internet, there’s a good chance we’ll be able to find the identity of the purchaser.’
Hawthorne handed it to him. Meadows made a point of gripping it very carefully, with his thumb and second finger each side of the digital clock.
‘Good luck,’ Hawthorne said.
It was a dismissal.
The wake, if that was what it was, was being held at a gastropub on the corner of Finborough Road, a few minutes’ walk from the cemetery. This was the place that Damian had mentioned before he had stormed off. He wasn’t the only one who had gone straight home: half the mourners had decided to give it a miss too. That left Grace Lovell and about a dozen men and women hitting the Prosecco and miniature sausages, trying to console each other not just on the loss of an old friend but on the terrible farce that her funeral had become.
Hawthorne had said he wanted to talk to Damian Cowper and he had already called through to Robert Cornwallis, leaving a message on his mobile phone. But first of all he wanted to catch up with the other mourners. After all, if they hadn’t known Diana Cowper well, they wouldn’t have come to the funeral and it was his one chance to catch them while they were all together. There was a definite spring in his step as we crossed the Fulham Road and went in. Any sort of mystery energised him – and the more bizarre the better.
We saw Grace straight away. Although she was wearing black, her dress was very short and she had a velvet tuxedo jacket with extravagantly padded shoulders. Leaning against the bar, she could just as easily have come from a film premiere as a funeral. She wasn’t talking to anyone and smiled anxiously as we came over to her.
‘Mr Hawthorne!’ She was clearly glad to see him. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. I hardly know any of these people.’
‘Who are they?’ Hawthorne asked.
She looked around, then pointed. ‘That’s Raymond Clunes. He’s a theatre producer. Damian was in one of his plays.’
‘We’ve met.’
‘And that’s Diana’s GP.’ She nodded at a man, in his sixties, pigeon-shaped in a dark, three-piece suit. ‘His name’s Dr Butterworth, I think. The woman next to him is his wife. The man standing in the corner is Diana’s lawyer, Charles Kenworthy. He’s dealing with the will. But I don’t know anyone else.’
‘Damian went home.’
‘He was very upset. That song was deliberately chosen to upset him. It was a horrible joke to play.’
‘You know about the song?’
‘Well, yes!’ She hesitated, unsure if she could continue. ‘It goes back to that horrible business with those two children,’ she said. ‘It was Timothy Godwin’s favourite song. They played it when they buried him … in Harrow Weald.’
‘How do you know that?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Damian told me. He often talked about it.’ For some reason she felt a need to defend him. ‘He’s not someone to show his feelings but it really mattered to him, what happened all those years ago.’ She had a glass of Prosecco and drained it. ‘God, what a horrible day. I knew it was going to be horrible when I woke up this morning but I never dreamed it would be anything like this!’
Hawthorne was examining her. ‘I got the impression you didn’t much like Damian’s mother,’ he said, suddenly.
Grace blushed, the straight lines at the very top of her cheekbones darkening. ‘That’s not true! Who told you that?’
‘You said she ignored you.’
‘I said nothing of the sort. She was just more interested in Ashleigh, that’s all.’
‘Where is Ashleigh?’
‘In Hounslow, at my parents’ place. I’m picking her up when I leave here.’ She put her glass down on the bar and picked up another one from a passing waiter.
‘So you were close to her, then,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Damian and I had only been together a short while before Ashleigh arrived and she was nervous that being a father would hold him back.’ She stopped herself. ‘I know how that sounds but you have to understand that she was quite a lonely person. After Lawrence died, she only had Damian and she doted on him. His success meant the world to her.’
‘And the baby was in the way?’
‘She wasn’t planned, if that’s what you mean. But Damian loves her now. He wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘How about you, Miss Lovell? Ashleigh can’t have helped your career.’
‘You do say the most unpleasant things, Mr Hawthorne. I’m only thirty-three. I love Ashleigh to bits. And it doesn’t make any difference to me if I don’t work for a few years. I’m very happy with the way things are.’
She can’t have been that good an actress, I thought. I certainly wasn’t convinced by her now.
‘Do you enjoy Los Angeles?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘It’s taken me a while to get used to it. We have a house in the Hollywood Hills and when I wake up in the morning, I can’t believe I’m there. It was always my dream when I was at drama school – to wake up and see the Hollywood sign.’
‘I imagine you’ve got lots of new friends.’
‘I don’t need new friends. I’ve got Damian.’ She looked over Hawthorne’s shoulder. ‘If you don’t mind, I have to say hello to some of these people. I’m meant to be looking after everyone and I don’t want to stay too long.’
She slipped away. Hawthorne followed her with his eyes. I could see his thoughts ticking over.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘The doctor,’ he said.
‘Why him?’
Hawthorne glanced at me tiredly. ‘Because he knew Diana Cowper inside out. Because if she had any problems, she may have talked to him. Because he may have been the one who killed her. I don’t know!’
Shaking his head, Hawthorne approached the man in the three-piece suit whom Grace had pointed out. ‘Dr Butterworth,’ he said.
‘Buttimore.’ The doctor shook hands. He was large, bearded, with gold-framed glasses, the sort of man who would happily describe himself as ‘old school’. It had offended him, Hawthorne getting his name wrong, but he warmed up a little once Hawthorne had explained his connection to Scotland Yard. I often noticed this. People enjoy being drawn into a murder investigation. Part of them wants to help but there’s something salacious about it too.