Damian Cowper was waiting for us when we arrived, perched on a bar stool beside the kitchen counter. There was something that wasn’t quite real about him too: the languid pose, the shirt with its wide collar open at the neck, the gold chain resting against the chest hair, the tan. He could have been posing for the front cover of a fashion magazine. He was remarkably handsome – and probably knew it – with jet-black hair swept back, intense blue eyes and exactly the right amount of designer stubble. He looked tired, which might have been jet-lag, but I was aware he had spent much of the day being interviewed by the police. There was also a funeral to arrange – or, at least, to attend. The arrangements, of course, had all been made for him.
He had opened the door for us using an intercom and he was talking on his mobile as he waved us in. ‘Yeah, yeah. Look. I’ll get back to you. I have people here. Look after yourself, babe. I’ll see you.’
He rang off.
‘Hi. I’m sorry about that. I only got back yesterday and, as you can imagine, it’s a bit crazy around here.’ He had just enough of a transatlantic accent to be annoying. I remembered what Hawthorne had told me about money problems, girlfriends, drugs, and I decided at once that I believed him. Everything about Damian Cowper made my hackles rise.
We shook hands.
‘You want a coffee?’ Damian asked. He pointed at the sofa, inviting us to sit down.
‘Thank you.’
He had one of those machines that take capsules and spin the milk round in a metal cylinder to froth it up. ‘I can’t tell you what a nightmare this whole thing has been. My poor mum! I spoke to the police for a long time yesterday afternoon – and again this morning. When they told me the news, I couldn’t believe it … not at first.’ He stopped himself. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything I can do to help you catch the bastard who did this …’
‘When did you last see your mother?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘It was the last time I was over, in December.’ Damian opened the fridge and took out some milk. ‘She wanted to spend time with the baby – she has a granddaughter – and it’s easier for us to come here. I had some stuff to do anyway so we spent Christmas together. She and Grace get on really well. I’m glad they were able to get to know each other a bit better.’
‘You and your mum were close.’ Even as Hawthorne spoke there was a glint of something in his eye that suggested he thought otherwise.
‘Yeah. Of course we were. I mean, it wasn’t easy for her when I moved to America but she was a hundred per cent behind my work. She was proud of what I was doing and, you know, with dad dying a long time ago and her never remarrying, I think my success meant a lot to her.’ He had made two coffees, drawing a pattern across the foam even as he reminisced about his dead father. He glanced down at his work, then handed the cups over, adding: ‘I can’t tell you how gutted I was when I heard about it.’
‘She died over a week ago,’ Hawthorne remarked, without any particular rancour.
‘I had things to deal with. We’re rehearsing a new show. I had to shut down the house and get the dog looked after.’
‘You’ve got a dog. That’s nice.’
‘It’s a labradoodle.’
It was that last remark that made me wonder if the concerned, caring, recently bereaved Damian Cowper might not be quite as sincere as he seemed. It wasn’t just that his new show had come first in his list of priorities. He wanted us to know the breed of his dog – as if it might somehow help the investigation into his mother’s brutal murder.
‘How often did the two of you speak?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Once a week.’ He paused. ‘Well, once a fortnight, anyway. She used to come in here and check the place out for me, water the plants on the terrace and all the rest of it. She forwarded my mail.’ He shrugged. ‘We didn’t always speak. She was busy and the time difference didn’t help. We did lots of texts and emails.’
‘She texted you the day she died,’ I said.
‘Yes. I told the police about that. She said she was afraid.’
‘Do you know what she meant by that?’
‘She was referring to that kid, the one who got hurt in Deal—’
‘He was more than hurt,’ Hawthorne cut in. He had taken the corner of the sofa and was sitting there quite languidly with his legs crossed … more like a doctor than a detective. ‘He’s got serious brain damage. He needs twenty-four-hour care.’
‘It was an accident.’ Suddenly Damian seemed agitated. He searched in his pockets and, guessing that he wanted a cigarette, Hawthorne offered him one of his own. Damian took it. They both lit up. ‘Are you suggesting he’s got something to do with what happened? Because I spent half the afternoon talking to the police and they didn’t mention him. They think my mum died because of a burglary that went wrong.’
‘That may be one theory, Mr Cowper. But it’s my job to look at the whole picture. I’d be interested to know what you can tell me about Deal. After all, you were there.’
‘I wasn’t in the car. Christ!’ He ran a hand through his immaculate hair. This was a man who wasn’t used to being questioned – not unless it was for a glossy magazine. For once, there wasn’t a publicist in the room, guiding the interview. ‘Look, it was ten years ago,’ he said. ‘Mum was living in Walmer, which is the village next to Deal. We’d always lived there. It’s where I was born. And after Dad died, she wanted to stay. The house meant a lot to her – the house and the garden. It was her birthday and I went down to see her for a few days. I’d just finished a run at the RSC and I was reading scripts, thinking about what to do next. The accident happened on a Thursday. She’d gone to play golf. We were meant to be going out to dinner that night but when she came in she was in a terrible state. She said she’d forgotten her glasses and she’d just hit someone in her car. She knew they were hurt but she had no idea that she’d actually killed one of them.’
‘So why didn’t she stop?’
‘I don’t mind telling you the truth, Mr Hawthorne. After all, you can’t prosecute her now. The fact of the matter is that she was worried about me. My career was taking off. I’d just had fantastic reviews for Henry V and they were even talking about taking it to Broadway. She thought that the bad publicity might hurt me and – I’m not saying she wouldn’t have turned herself in to the police. That was never in her mind. She just wanted to talk to me first.’
‘She’d killed a child.’ Suddenly Hawthorne was leaning forward, accusingly. It was another of those instant transformations I was getting used to: from witness to prosecutor, from friend to dangerous enemy.
‘I’ve already told you, she didn’t know.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, for what it’s worth, there were plenty of things about that accident that never added up.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, the nanny said that the two children ran across the road to get to an ice-cream shop. But the ice-cream shop was closed so that doesn’t make any sense. And then there was the question of the witness who disappeared.’
‘What witness was that?’
‘A man who was first on the scene. He tried to help. But when the police and the ambulance arrived, he suddenly took off and nobody ever found out who he was or what he’d seen; not at the inquest, not in court.’
‘Are you suggesting your mother wasn’t responsible?’
‘No.’ Damian drew on his cigarette. He held it like a black and white film star, in the O formed by his thumb and index finger. ‘Mum should have been wearing her glasses and she knew that. You have no idea how much it all upset her. She never drove again. And although it broke her heart, she realised she couldn’t stay living in Walmer. A few months later, she sold up and moved to London.’
Outside, in another room, we heard a telephone ring a few times before it was picked up.
‘So she never had any further communication with the family,’ Hawthorne asked.
‘The Godwins?’ Damian shrugged. ‘She did have “further communication” with them. Very much s
o. They never forgave her and they never accepted the court’s verdict. In fact the father, Alan Godwin, was hassling her just a couple of weeks before she died.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me. He actually came to the house in Britannia Road. Can you believe that? He was asking her for money to support his failed business. And when she told him to leave, he wrote to her. If you ask me, that’s harassment. I told her to go to the police.’
Alan Godwin had lost a child. His other child had been crippled. It was hard to think of Damian Cowper as the victim in all this. But before Hawthorne could say as much, a young, very attractive black woman came down the spiral stairs, leading a little girl by the hand and holding a mobile phone.
‘Dame, it’s Jason,’ she said. She sounded nervous. ‘He says it’s important.’
‘Sure.’ He took the phone from her and began to walk towards the terrace. ‘I’m sorry. It’s my manager. I’ve got to take this.’ He stopped at the window and frowned. ‘I thought you were putting Ashleigh down for a nap.’
‘She’s jet-lagged. She doesn’t know if it’s night or day.’
He went outside, leaving us with the woman and her child. This had to be Grace Lovell. There could be no doubt that she was – or had been – a model or an actress. She had the physique and the confidence that go with the job, a sort of look-at-me quality that demanded to be put on the screen. She was in her early thirties, quite tall, with very high cheekbones, a long neck and delicate, rounded shoulders. She was wearing the skinniest of jeans and an expensive loose-knit jersey that floated off her. The toddler couldn’t have been more than three. She was staring at us with saucer eyes. I imagined she’d had to get used to being trundled around the world.
‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘And this is Ashleigh. Are you going to say hello, Ashleigh?’ The child said nothing. ‘Has Damian offered you coffee?’
‘We’re OK, thank you.’
‘Are you here about Diana?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘He’s totally destroyed by this although you probably won’t have seen it. Damian is very good at hiding his feelings.’
I wondered why she felt the need to defend him.
‘He was devastated when he heard the news,’ she went on. ‘He adored his mum.’
‘He mentioned you were with her last Christmas.’
‘Yes. We did spend some time together although she was more interested in Ashleigh than me.’ She took a carton of juice out of the fridge, poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to the child. ‘I suppose that’s understandable. The first-grandchild thing.’
‘Are you an actor too?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Well, I was. That’s how we met. We were at RADA together. He played Hamlet. It was a fantastic production. They still talk about it years later. Everyone knew he was going to be a star. I was Ophelia.’
‘You’ve been together for a while, then.’
‘No. After RADA, he got picked up by the RSC and went off to Stratford-upon-Avon. I did a whole load of TV … Holby City, Jonathan Creek, Queer as Folk … that sort of thing. We actually met up again a few years ago. It was a first-night party at the National. We got together – and then Ashleigh came along.’
‘It must be difficult for you,’ I said. ‘Having to stay at home.’
‘Not really. It’s my choice.’
I didn’t believe her. There was a nervousness in her eyes. I’d seen it when she held out the telephone for Damian. She’d been afraid he was going to snatch it from her. In fact, she was probably afraid of Damian. I had no doubt that success had made him a very different man from the one she had met at drama school.
Damian had finished the call and came back into the room. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘They’re all going crazy out there. We start shooting next week.’
‘What did he want?’ Grace asked.
‘He wants to know when I’m coming back. Jesus! He’s such an arsehole. I’ve only just arrived.’ He looked at his watch, a great chunk of steel with several dials. ‘It’s five o’clock in the morning in LA and he’s already on his treadmill. I could hear it as he talked.’
‘When will you go back?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘The funeral’s Friday. We’ll go back the day after.’
‘Oh.’ Grace’s face fell. ‘I hoped we could stay longer.’
‘I’m meant to be rehearsing. You know that.’
‘I wanted to spend a bit of time with Mum and Dad.’
‘You’ve already had a week with them, babe.’
That word – ‘babe’ – sounded both patronising and faintly menacing. ‘Is there anything else you need?’ he asked us, his mind clearly elsewhere. ‘I don’t see how I can really help you. I told everything I know to the police and, to be honest with you, their investigation seems to be moving in a completely different direction. Losing Mum is bad enough but having to go over what happened in Deal really sucks.’
Hawthorne grimaced, as if it genuinely upset him to continue with this line of enquiry. It didn’t stop him though. ‘Did you know your mother had planned her funeral?’ he demanded.
‘No. She didn’t tell me.’
‘Do you have any idea why she might have decided to do that?’
‘Not really. She was someone who was very organised. That was part of her character. The funeral, the will, all of that …’
‘You know about the will?’
When Damian was angry, two little pinpricks of red, almost like light bulbs, appeared in his cheeks. ‘I’ve always known about the will,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to discuss it with you.’
‘I imagine she left everything to you.’
‘As I said, that’s private.’
Hawthorne stood up. ‘I’ll see you at the funeral. I understand you’re going to be performing.’
‘Actually, that’s not what I’d call it. Mum left instructions for me to say a few words. And Grace is going to read a poem.’
‘Sylvia Plath,’ Grace said.
‘I didn’t know she liked Plath. But I had a call from the undertaker, a woman called Irene Laws. Apparently, everything was written down.’
‘You don’t think it’s a bit strange that she made all these arrangements the same day she died?’
The question seemed to annoy him. ‘I think it was a coincidence.’
‘A funny coincidence.’
‘I don’t see anything funny in it at all.’ Damian walked over to the front door and opened it for us. ‘It’s been nice meeting you,’ he said.
He hadn’t even tried to make that sound sincere. We left and went down the single flight of stairs and out into the busy street.
Once we got there, Hawthorne stopped. He looked back, deep in thought. ‘I missed something,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what. It was when you asked him about the text that Diana Cowper sent. After what I told you, why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?’
‘The hell with you, Hawthorne!’ Right then, I’d really had enough. ‘Don’t you ever talk to me like that. I’m listening to you. I’m taking notes. But if you think I’m going to follow you around London like some kind of pet dog, you can forget it. I’m not stupid. What was wrong with asking him about the text? It’s obviously relevant.’
Hawthorne glared at me. ‘You think!’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know! Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But there was something he’d just told me that was important. You broke my train of thought and I haven’t picked up on it. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘You can ask him at the funeral.’ I walked away. ‘Let me know what he says.’
‘It’s eleven o’clock on Friday!’ he called after me. ‘Brompton Cemetery.’
I stopped and turned round. ‘I can’t come. I’m busy.’
He stalked after me. ‘You’ve got to be there. It’s a big deal. That’s what this is all about, remember? She wanted a funeral.’
‘And I’ve got an important meeting. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to take notes and tell me about it afterwards. I’m sure you’ll be more accurate than me anyway.’
I saw a taxi and flagged it down. This time, Hawthorne didn’t try to stop me. I was careful not to turn round but I saw him reflected in the mirror – standing there, lighting another cigarette as we accelerated round a corner.
Ten
Script Conference
There was a reason why I couldn’t attend the funeral. The day before, I’d finally had a phone call from Steven Spielberg’s office. Both he and Peter Jackson had arrived in London and wanted to meet me to discuss the first draft of the Tintin script at the Soho Hotel in Richmond Mews, just off Dean Street.
I know the hotel well. Although it’s hard to believe, it was once an NCP car park (the low ceilings and the lack of windows are the only clues) but has now become something of a focal point for the British film industry. It’s surrounded by production houses and post-production facilities and has two screening rooms of its own. Once or twice I’ve had lunch in its busy, ground-floor restaurant, Refuel. It’s almost impossible not to spot someone you know and the very fact that you’re meeting there can make you feel that, somehow, you’ve arrived. In this respect, it’s London’s own little corner of Los Angeles.
I forgot all about Damian Cowper and his mother for the next couple of days. Instead, I immersed myself in the script, going through it line by line, trying to remember the thought processes that had got me this far. I was convinced that there were lots of good things in it but I still had to be prepared to fight my corner if need be. I wasn’t sure how either Jackson as director or Spielberg as producer was going to respond to my work.
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