A taxi had pulled in just ahead of us and I nudged Hawthorne as Grace Lovell got out. She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn to the funeral, with her handbag over her arm – but now she had Ashleigh with her, wearing a pink dress and clutching her hand. Grace stopped and looked around, shocked by all the activity. Then she saw us and hurried over.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Why are the police here?
‘I’m afraid you can’t go in there,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I’ve got some bad news.’
‘Damian …?’
‘He’s been killed.’
I thought he could have put it more gently. There was a three-year-old girl standing in front of him. What if she had heard and understood? Grace had had the same thought. She drew her daughter closer towards her, a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘Someone attacked him after the funeral.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘No. That’s not possible. He was upset. He said he was going home. It was that horrible joke.’ She looked from Hawthorne to the door, then back again. She realised that the two of us had been on our way out. ‘Where are you going?’
‘There’s a DI in the flat called Meadows. He’s in charge of the investigation and he’ll want to talk to you. But if you’ll take my advice, you won’t go inside. It’s not very pleasant. Have you been with your parents?’
‘Yes. I went to pick up Ashleigh.’
‘Then get back in the taxi and go back to them. Meadows will find you soon enough.’
‘Can I do that? They won’t think …?’
‘They won’t think you had anything to do with it. You were at the pub with us.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ She made up her mind, then nodded. ‘You’re right. I can’t go inside. Not with Ashleigh.’
‘Where’s Daddy?’ Ashleigh spoke for the first time. She seemed confused and scared by the police and all the activity around her.
‘Daddy’s not here,’ Grace said. ‘We’re going back to Granny and Grandpa.’
‘Do you want someone to travel with you?’ I asked. ‘I don’t mind coming with you, if you like.’
‘No. I don’t need anyone.’
I didn’t know what to make of Grace Lovell. I’ve never been very comfortable with actors, because I can never tell if they’re being sincere or if they’re simply … well, acting. This was how it was now. Grace looked upset. There were tears in her eyes. She could have been in shock. And yet there was a part of me that said it was all just a performance, that she had been rehearsing her lines from the moment the taxi drew in.
We watched as she got back into the car and closed the door. She leaned forward and gave instructions to the driver. A moment later, it pulled away.
‘The grieving widow,’ Hawthorne muttered.
‘Do you think so?’
‘No, Tony. I’ve seen more grief at a Turkish wedding. If you ask me, I’d say there’s a lot of things she’s not telling us.’ The taxi passed through the traffic lights at the top of Brick Lane and disappeared. Hawthorne smiled. ‘She didn’t even ask how he died.’
Fourteen
Willesden Green
It was a 1950s semi-detached house, red brick on the first floor, then off-white stucco topped with a gabled roof. It was as if three architects had worked on it at the same time without ever being introduced to one another but they must have been pleased with their work because they’d replicated it on the house next door, which was an exact mirror of its neighbour, with a wooden fence dividing the drives and a single chimney shared between the two properties. Each one of them had a bay window which looked out over an area of crazy-paving running down to a low wall, with the street, Sneyd Road, on the other side. I guessed it had about four bedrooms. A poster in the front window advertised a fun run for the North London Hospice. A garage stood open to one side, with a bright green Vauxhall Astra, a tricycle and a motorbike fighting for space.
The doorway was arched, the door fake-medieval with thick panels of frosted glass. There was a novelty welcome mat which read: ‘Never mind the dog – beware of the owner!’ When Hawthorne pressed the doorbell, it played the opening notes of the theme from Star Wars. Chopin’s Funeral March might have been more appropriate. For this was where Robert Cornwallis lived.
The woman who opened the door was almost aggressively cheerful, as if she had been looking forward to our visit all week. There you are, at last, she seemed to say as she beamed out at us. What took you so long?
She was about forty years old and was hurtling into middle age with complete recklessness, actually embracing it with a baggy, out-of-shape jersey, ill-fitting jeans (with a flower embroidered on one knee), frizzy hair and cheap, chunky jewellery. She was overweight – an earth mother, she might call herself. She had a huge pile of laundry under one arm and a cordless telephone in her hand but didn’t seem to notice either of them. I could imagine her balancing the laundry on her raised thigh with the phone squeezed between her ear and her shoulder as she struggled to open the door.
‘Mr Hawthorne?’ she asked, looking at me. She had a pleasant, well-educated voice.
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s him.’
‘I’m Barbara. Please come in. I’m afraid you’re going to have to excuse the state of the house. It’s six o’clock and we’re just putting the children to bed. Robert’s in the other room. I’m sure you’ll understand, we’ve had a bit of a day! Irene told us what happened at the funeral. It’s shocking. You’re with the police. Is that right?’
‘I’m helping the police with this inquiry.’
‘This way! Mind the roller skate. I’ve told the children not to leave them in the hall. One day someone’s going to break their neck!’ She glanced down, noticing the laundry for the first time. ‘Look at me! I’m so sorry. I was just putting on the wash when the door rang. I don’t know what you must think of me!’
We stepped over the loose roller skate and went into a hallway cluttered with coats, wellington boots and different-sized shoes. A motorbike helmet sat on a chair. Two children were racing around the house. We heard them before we saw them – screaming, high-pitched voices. A second later, they came charging out of a doorway, two little boys, both fair-haired, aged about five and seven. They took one look at us, then turned round and disappeared, still screaming.
‘That’s Toby and Sebastian,’ Barbara said. ‘They’ll be going up for their bath in a minute and then maybe we’ll get a bit of peace. Do you have children? Honestly, sometimes this place is like a battlefield.’
The children had taken over the house. There were clothes on radiators, toys everywhere … footballs, plastic swords, stuffed animals, old tennis rackets, scattered playing cards and pieces of Lego. It was difficult to see past the mess but as we were shown through an archway and into the living room I got the impression of a comfortable, old-fashioned home, with dried flowers in the fireplace, seagrass carpets, an upright piano that would almost certainly be out of tune, throws on the sofas and those round paper lampshades that never seem to have gone completely out of fashion. The pictures on the walls were abstract and colourful, the sort of art that might have come out of a department store.
‘Do you work in your husband’s business, Mrs Cornwallis?’ Hawthorne asked as we followed her towards the kitchen.
‘God, no! And call me Barbara.’ She dumped the laundry on a chair. ‘We see enough of each other as it is. I’m a pharmacist … part-time, the local branch of Boots. I can’t say I love that either but we have to pay the bills. Watch out! That’s the other roller skate. Robert’s in here …’