Hawthorne treated me to a rare smile. It flickered across his face but was gone in an instant. ‘I see you’ve been paying attention,’ he said.
‘I’ve been listening,’ I said, warily.
‘The trouble is, she might have been wearing her glasses when she came out of the station,’ Hawthorne went on. He seemed genuinely sad, as if it pained him, demolishing my theory. ‘Clunes didn’t say anything about that. And if she wasn’t the one who was driving, why did she never get behind the wheel of a car again? Why did she move house? She seems to have been pretty upset by something she didn’t do.’
‘She might have been just as upset that Damian had done it. And she was an accessory. Somehow Alan Godwin found out the truth and that was why he killed both of them. They were in it together.’
The train had picked up speed. The buildings of east London were giving way to a little more greenery and some open spaces.
‘I don’t buy your theory,’ Hawthorne said. ‘The police would have checked her eyesight after the accident and, anyway, there’s all sorts of things you’re forgetting.’
‘Like what?’
Hawthorne shrugged, as if he didn’t want to continue the conversation. But then, perhaps, he took pity on me. ‘What was Diana Cowper’s frame of mind when she went to the undertaker?’ he asked. ‘And what was the first thing she saw when she went there?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I don’t need to, mate. It was in that rubbish first chapter you showed me. But I think you’ll find that’s what matters most. Everything turns on it.’
What was the first thing that Diana Cowper saw when she went into the funeral parlour?
I tried to put myself in her shoes, stepping off the bus, walking down the pavement. Obviously, it was the name: Cornwallis and Sons, written not once but twice. Or maybe she saw the clock which had stopped at one minute to midnight. What could that possibly have to do with anything? There had been a book made out of marble in the window – the sort of thing you’d see in any undertaker’s. And what of her frame of mind? Hawthorne had told me that Mrs Cowper knew she was going to die. Somebody had threatened her but she hadn’t gone to the police. Why not?
Suddenly I was angry.
‘For God’s sake, Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘You’re dragging me halfway across England to the coast. You could at least tell me what we’re meant to be doing.’
‘I already told you. We’re seeing the judge. Then we’re going to the scene of the accident.’
‘So you do think it’s relevant.’
He smiled. I could see his face reflected in the glass with the countryside rushing past on the other side. ‘When you’re paid by the day, everything is relevant,’ he said.
He went back to his book and didn’t speak again.
Nigel Weston, the judge who had presided over the case of The Crown vs Diana Cowper but who had favoured the second of the two, lived in the very centre of Canterbury with a view of the cathedral on one side and St Augustine’s College on the other. It was as if, having worked in law all his life, he had chosen to surround himself with history and religion: ancient walls, spires, missionaries on bicycles. His house was square, solid, with everything in proportion, looking out over a green. It was a comfortable place in a comfortable city with a man now enjoying a comfortable life.
Hawthorne had arranged to meet him at eleven o’clock and Weston was waiting for us at the door as I paid the taxi. He looked more like a musician than a retired barrister, a conductor perhaps: slender and fragile with long fingers, silver hair, inquisitive eyes. He was in his seventies, shrinking with age, disappearing into the heavy-knit cardigan and corduroys that he was wearing. He had slippers not shoes. His eyes were sunken, gazing out at us intently over rigid cheekbones like two clerks behind a bench.
‘Do come in. I hope you had a good journey. Trains not playing up?’
I wondered why he was so genial. I assumed that Hawthorne hadn’t told him why we were here.
We followed him into a hallway with thick carpets, antique furniture, expensive art. I recognised an Eric Gill drawing and a watercolour by Eric Ravilious – both originals. He showed us into a small living room with views over the green. There was a fire burning – it was real too. Coffee and biscuits had already been laid out on a table.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Hawthorne,’ he began, after we had sat down. ‘You have quite a reputation. That business with the Russian ambassador. The Bezrukov case. Excellent police work.’
‘He was found not guilty,’ Hawthorne reminded him.
‘He had a brilliant defence and the jury, in my view, was misdirected. There was no question that he was guilty of the crimes. Will you have some coffee?’
I hadn’t expected Hawthorne to be known to the judge, and wondered if the Bezrukov case had happened before or after he had left the force. The very name sounded unlikely. Would the Met have ever had dealings with the Russian embassy?
The judge poured for all three of us. I examined the room, which was dominated by a miniature grand piano, a Blüthner, with half a dozen photographs in expensive frames arranged on the lid. Four of these showed Weston with another man. In one of them, they were dressed in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, arm in arm. I had no doubt that Hawthorne would have already noticed them too.
‘So what brings you to Canterbury?’ Weston asked.
‘I’m investigating a double murder,’ Hawthorne explained. ‘Diana Cowper and her son.’
‘Yes. I read about that. A horrible business. You’re advising the Metropolitan police.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very wise of them not to let you go! You believe that the traffic accident in Deal and the very unfortunate death of the young child connect in some way with the murders?’
‘I’m ruling nothing out, sir.’
‘Indeed. Well, emotions do run very high in these sorts of cases and I note that we are approaching the tenth anniversary of the actual event, so I would imagine it is a distinct possibility. That said, I’m sure you’ll have had full access to the court reports, so I don’t see quite how I can help you.’
He still spoke like a judge. No word left his lips before it had been carefully evaluated.
‘It’s always useful to speak to the actual people involved.’
‘I agree. It’s the difference between testimony and written evidence. Have you seen the family? The Godwins?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I feel very sorry for them. I felt sorry for them at the time and said so. They felt that justice had not been done but – I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, Mr Hawthorne – the views of the victim’s family, particularly in a case such as this, cannot be taken into consideration.’
‘I understand.’
Just then the door opened and a second man looked in. I recognised him from the photographs. He was short, quite stocky and about ten years younger than Weston, holding a supermarket bag-for-life.
‘I’m just going out,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you want?’
‘I left the list in the kitchen.’
‘I’ve got it. I just wondered if there was anything you forgot.’
‘We need some more dishwasher tablets.’
‘They’re on the list.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything else.’
‘I’ll see you.’ The man disappeared again.
‘That’s Colin,’ Weston said.
It was a great pity that Colin had chosen this moment to introduce himself. I glanced at Hawthorne. Nothing in his manner had changed but I was aware of a certain frisson in the room that had not been there before and I’m sure that the interruption influenced the interview and the direction it now took.