It’s a long, long way from Hay-on-Wye to Paddington station. By the time I got home, I had made up my mind. As soon as I got in, I picked up the phone.
‘Hawthorne?’
‘Tony!’
‘All right. Fifty-fifty. I’m in.’
Three
Chapter One
Hawthorne did not like my first chapter.
I’m jumping ahead here because I didn’t actually show it to him until a while later and even then it was only with reluctance. I remembered all too well what had happened with Injustice and would have preferred to keep it under wraps – but he insisted and since this was meant to be an equal partnership, how could I refuse? But I think it’s important to explain how the book was written; the rules of engagement, so to speak. These are my words but they were his actions and the truth is that, to begin with, the two didn’t quite fit.
The two of us were sitting in one of the many Starbucks that seemed to punctuate our investigation. I had emailed him the pages and I knew I was in trouble when he took them out of his case and I saw that he had printed them, covering them with red crosses and circles. I am very protective of my writing. It’s fair to say that I think about every single word I write. (Do I need ‘single’? Would ‘true’ be better than ‘fair’?) When I had agreed to work with Hawthorne, I had assumed that although he was in charge of the case, he would take a back seat when it came to the actual narrative. He quickly disabused me.
‘It’s all wrong, Tony,’ Hawthorne began. ‘You’re leading people up the garden path.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The very first sentence. It’s wrong.’
I read what I had written.
Just after eleven o’clock on a bright spring morning, the sort of day when the sunshine is almost white and promises a warmth that it doesn’t quite deliver, Diana Cowper crossed the Fulham Road and went into a funeral parlour.
‘I don’t see what’s wrong with that,’ I said. ‘It was about eleven o’clock. She went into a funeral parlour.’
‘But not the way you say.’
‘She took the bus!’
‘She caught it at the top of her street. We know that because we’ve got her on CCTV. The driver also remembered her and gave the police a statement. But here’s the problem, mate. Why do you say she crossed the road?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because she didn’t. We’re talking about the number 14 bus, which she picked up at Chelsea Village. That’s the stop marked “U” exactly opposite Britannia Road. It took her to Chelsea Football Club, Hortensia Road, Edith Grove, Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, Beaufort Street and finally Old Church Street, stop HJ, where she got off.’
‘You have a terrific knowledge of London bus routes,’ I said. ‘But I don’t quite get the point.’
‘She didn’t have to cross the road. When she left the bus, she was already on the right side.’
‘Does it really make any difference?’
‘Well, yes, it might. If you say she crossed the road, it means she must have gone somewhere else before she went into the undertaker’s – and that might be important. She could have gone to the bank and taken out a load of money. She could have had a row with someone that very morning and that could have been the reason she was killed. That same person could have followed her across the road and seen where she was going. She could have stopped in front of someone who was driving a car and that could have led to an altercation. Don’t look at me like that! Road rage murders are more common than you think. But the facts of the matter are that she got up in her house, alone. She had breakfast, then she got on a bus. It was the first thing she did.’
‘So what would you want me to write?’
He had already scribbled something on a sheet of paper. He handed it to me. I read:
At exactly seventeen minutes past eleven, Diana Jane Cowper exited from the number 14 bus at the Old Church Street (HJ) stop and retraced her steps twenty-five metres along the pavement. She then entered Cornwallis and Sons funeral parlour.
‘I’m not writing that,’ I said. ‘It reads like a police report.’
‘At least it’s accurate. And what’s the bell doing there?’
‘What bell?’
‘In the fourth paragraph. Right here. You say there’s a bell on a spring mechanism leading into the funeral parlour. Well, I didn’t notice any bell. And that’s because it’s not there.’
I tried to stay calm. That was something I would soon learn about Hawthorne. When he put his mind to it, he could annoy me more easily than anyone I’d ever met.
‘I put the bell in for atmosphere,’ I explained. ‘You’ve got to allow me some sort of dramatic licence. I wanted to show how traditional and old-fashioned the business was – Cornwallis and Sons – and that was a simple, effective way.’
‘Maybe. But it makes a big difference. Suppose someone followed her in there. Suppose someone overheard what she said.’
‘You’re talking about the man she had the altercation with?’ I asked, sarcastically. ‘Or maybe someone she met at the bank? Is that what you think?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘You’re the one saying that there was a link between Mrs Cowper arranging her funeral and her getting murdered the same day. At least, that’s what you’re suggesting to your readers.’ He lingered on the first syllable of ‘readers’, making it sound like a dirty word. ‘But you have to consider the alternatives. Maybe the timing of the funeral and the murder was just a coincidence – although I’ll be honest with you. I don’t like coincidences. I’ve been working in crime for twenty years and I’ve always found everything has its place. Or maybe Mrs Cowper knew she was going to die. She’d been threatened and she arranged the funeral because she knew there was no way out. That’s possible, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense because why didn’t she just go to the police? And a third possibility: somebody found out what she was doing. It could have been anyone. They could have followed her in off the street and listened to her making all the arrangements because there’s no sodding bell on the door. Anyone could come in or go out without being heard. But not in your version.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll take out the bell.’
‘And the Mont Blanc pen.’
‘Why?’ I stopped him before he could answer. ‘All right. It doesn’t matter. I’ll lose that too.’
He pushed and prodded the pages as if trying to find a single sentence that he liked. ‘You’re being a bit selective with the information,’ he said, at length.
‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘Well, you say that Mrs Cowper only used public transport but you don’t explain why.’
‘I say she was eccentric!’
‘I think you’ll find there was rather more to it than that, mate. And then there’s the question of the funeral itself. You know exactly what she requested for her service but you haven’t written down what it was.’
‘A psalm! The Beatles!’
‘But which psalm? Which Beatles track? Don’t you think it might be important?’ He took out a notebook and opened it. ‘Psalm 34. I will bless the Lord at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth. The song was “Eleanor Rigby”. The poem was by someone called Sylvia Plath. Maybe you can help me with that one, Tony, because I read it and it didn’t make a word of bleeding sense. The classical music was the Trumpet Voluntary by Jeremiah Clarke. She wanted her son to give the main address … what do you call it?’
‘The eulogy.’
‘Whatever. And maybe you should have mentioned who she had lunch with at the Café Murano. His name is Raymond Clunes. He’s a theatrical producer.’