It was ten to eleven when Hawthorne and I arrived and made our way between the two red telephone boxes that seemed to stand guard on either side of the main gate. We followed a narrow, twisty path with bollards that could be lowered to allow vehicles – presumably hearses – to come in. A few mourners walked ahead of us. This part of the cemetery was shabbier and more depressing than I remembered. I noticed a headless statue on a plinth. Another greeted us with a severed arm. I took pictures of them with my iPhone. A few pigeons pecked at the grass.
We turned a corner and the Brompton chapel appeared ahead of us, a building that consisted of a perfect circle with two wings. If viewed from above, it would have the same shape as a London Underground sign … vaguely appropriate when you think about it. We had approached it from the back and, sure enough, there was a hearse parked on a square of concrete next to an open door. The willow casket that Diana Cowper had requested was inside, as – I realised with a jolt in my stomach – was she. Four men in black tailcoats stood waiting to carry her in.
The path bent round and brought us to the main entrance: a door with four pillars facing north. There was a small crowd making its way inside. Nobody was speaking to each other, instead keeping their heads down as if they were embarrassed to be there. It felt odd joining them when I had never met Diana Cowper. I had never even heard of her until a week ago. As a rule, I don’t go to funerals. I find them too horrible and upsetting and the older I get, of course, the more invitations I receive. As a favour to my friends, I’ll make sure that none of them are told the date of mine.
I recognised quite a few of the people who had turned up to this one. Andrea Kluvánek had decided to come to say goodbye to her old employer and was just disappearing in through the door as we turned the corner. Raymond Clunes was also there, wearing a brand-new black cashmere coat that he might have bought specially for the occasion. He had brought a younger, bearded man with him, quite possibly his partner. I glanced nervously at Hawthorne, who was watching them with narrow, guarded eyes. Fortunately, at least for the time being, he was saying nothing.
Clunes was also being observed by a second, very elegant man, possibly Hong Kong Chinese, with long black hair curling down to his shoulders. He was immaculately dressed in a suit and white silk shirt fastened with one of those Dr. No collars, and black shoes that had been polished until they dazzled. Curiously, I had met him once before. His name was Bruno Wang and, like Clunes, he was a major theatre producer. He was also a well-known philanthropist, on first-name terms with various members of the royal family, and had given large sums to the arts. He often came to first nights at the Old Vic theatre – where I was on the board. From the way he was looking at Clunes, I could tell at once that the two men were definitely not friends.
We found ourselves next to him at the door and I greeted him. ‘Did you know Diana Cowper?’ I asked.
‘She was a dear, dear friend,’ Wang replied. He spoke softly, always considering his next words, as if he was about to recite a poem. ‘A woman of great kindness and spirituality. I was devastated to hear the news of her passing and it almost breaks my heart to be here today.’
‘Was she one of your investors?’ I asked.
‘Sadly not. I had invited her many times. She had exceptional taste. Unfortunately, her judgement could sometimes be found wanting. If she had one fault, it was that she had too kind a heart. She was too trusting. I did speak to her. Only a few weeks ago, I tried to warn her …’
‘What did you warn her about?’ Hawthorne asked. He had effortlessly stepped into the forefront, pushing me aside.
Wang looked around. We were on our own. Everyone else had gone into the chapel ahead of us. ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn.’
‘Why don’t you give it a try?’
‘I don’t think we’ve met!’ Wang had been put on the defensive and frankly I wasn’t surprised. Hawthorne’s brand of low-key menace – the pale skin, the haunted eyes – was off-putting at the best of times. In a cemetery it was positively sinister. If a vampire had decided to turn up for the funeral it might have been less unnerving.
‘This is Daniel Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘He’s a police investigator looking into what happened.’
‘You know Raymond Clunes?’ Hawthorne asked. He had also noticed Wang examining the other man just a few moments before.
‘I can’t say I know him. But we’ve met.’
‘And …?’
‘I don’t like to speak unkindly about another human being,’ Wang said in his carefully measured way. ‘And particularly not in a place such as this. In my view, there’s already too much unkindness in the world. However …’ He drew a breath. ‘You will find, I think, that Raymond Clunes is being investigated by the authorities. He made certain claims with respect to his last production which turned out to be, to say the least, exaggerated.’
‘Are you talking about Moroccan Nights?’ I asked.
‘I did tell dear Diana, just a few weeks before the tragedy that took her from us. She was fully intending to take action which, in my view, she had every right to do.’
‘But then she got strangled,’ Hawthorne said, flatly.
Wang stared at him, making the connection for the first time. ‘I understood that it was a burglary.’
‘I don’t think it was a burglary.’
‘In that case, I’ve probably said too much. I don’t think Diana had invested a great deal of money. I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything … untoward.’ He spread his hands. ‘Excuse me. I don’t want to miss the service.’ He hurried inside.
We were left alone.
‘So that’s interesting,’ Hawthorne said, as much to himself as to me. ‘She finds out Clunes has been stiffing her. She plans to have it out with him. And before you know it, she’s a stiff herself.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’
‘That’s my pleasure. You can use it.’
There were a couple of men loitering a short distance away with cameras. I only noticed them when one of them snapped a photograph.
‘Fucking journalists,’ Hawthorne muttered.
It was true. They must have come here to catch a shot of Damian Cowper.
‘What have you got against journalists?’ I asked, thinking I might have to add them to the list.
Hawthorne threw down the cigarette he’d been smoking and ground it out beneath his foot. ‘Nothing. We always used to get them sniffing around the crime scene. They never got anything right.’
We went into the chapel.
It was a circular space, white, with pillars holding up a domed roof and windows positioned too high up to allow a view of anything other than the sky. About forty chairs had been arranged to face the coffin, which was being carried in as we took our places. Looked at more closely, the coffin had a strange and unfortunate resemblance to an enormous picnic basket, the lid fastened with two leather straps. There was a yellow and white floral garland resting on the top. A recording of Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary was already playing on the speaker system. It was odd because, of course, that piece of music is more often associated with weddings. I wondered if it had accompanied Diana Cowper down the aisle when she got married.
The coffin was carefully laid down on two trestles and while that was happening I examined the rest of the crowd, a little surprised by how few people had turned out. There couldn’t have been more than a couple of dozen in the room. Bruno Wang and Raymond Clunes were both in the front row, some distance apart. Andrea, in a cheap, black leather jacket, was over to the side. Detective Inspector ‘Jack’ Meadows had turned up too. I saw him stifling a yawn, sitting uncomfortably on a chair that was slightly too small for him.
I suppose Damian Cowper had the star role in this production and he seemed to know it. He had dressed for the part in a beautifully tailored suit, grey shirt and black silk tie. Grace Lovell was next to him, in a black dress, but there was a space around them as if this was the VIP area of the chapel and the other mo
urners could notice them but, please, don’t come too close. I’m not exaggerating: there were only two people sitting in the row behind him. Later I would discover that one of them had been sent by Damian’s London agent and the other was his personal trainer, a very muscular black man who seemed to be acting as his bodyguard.
Otherwise, the congregation was made up of friends and colleagues of Diana Cowper, none of them under fifty. Looking around, it struck me that although there were a great many emotions on display in the chapel – boredom, curiosity, seriousness – nobody seemed particularly sad. The only person who showed any sense of loss was a tall man with straggly hair, sitting a few chairs away from me. As the vicar stood up and approached the coffin, he took out a white handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
The vicar was a woman, short, fleshy, with a downturned smile. I know this is a sad occasion, she seemed to be saying, but I’m very glad you’re here. I could see that she was going to be modern rather than traditional in her approach. She waited until the music ended then stepped forward, rubbed her hands together and began her address.
‘Hello, everybody. I’m so very glad to welcome you here to this very beautiful chapel, built in 1839 and inspired by St Peter’s in Rome. I think it’s a very special, very beautiful place to come together today to pay our respects to a lovely, lovely lady. Death is always difficult for those of us who are left behind. And as we say goodbye to Diana Cowper, who was snatched so very suddenly and violently from the path of life, it’s particularly hard to see any reason for it and it’s very difficult to come to terms with what has happened.’
I was already wishing she’d stop saying ‘very’ all the time. I wondered if Diana Cowper would have enjoyed being described as ‘a lovely, lovely lady’. It made her sound like a special guest on a television game show.
‘Diana was someone who always tried to help. She did a fantastic amount of work for charity. She was on the board of the Globe Theatre and of course she was the mother of a very famous son. Damian has flown all the way from America to be here today and although we understand the sadness you must be feeling, Damian, we’re very, very glad to see you.’
I turned round and noticed Robert Cornwallis, the undertaker, standing next to the door. He was whispering quietly to Irene Laws, both of them dressed formally for the funeral. She nodded and he slipped outside. I thought briefly of Steven Spielberg and Peter Jackson, who were probably still at the Soho Hotel. Maybe they’d popped down together for an early lunch at Refuel. And I should have been with them! I felt a surge of rage at having been dragged here.
‘Diana Cowper was someone who was aware of her own mortality.’ The vicar was still talking. ‘She had arranged every aspect of today’s service, including the music you have just heard. She wanted to keep it short, so that’s enough from me! We are going to begin with Psalm 34. I hope that when Diana chose this, she understood that death is not always something to be feared. The righteous person may have many troubles, but the Lord delivers him from them all. Death can be a comfort too.’
The vicar read the psalm. Then Grace Lovell stood up, walked forward and recited ‘Ariel’ by Sylvia Plath.
Stasis in darkness
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances …
I was impressed that she had learned it off by heart – and she certainly put her heart into it. Damian watched her with a strange coolness in his handsome eyes. Next to me, Hawthorne yawned.
Finally, it was Damian’s turn. He got up and walked slowly forward, then turned so that he was standing with his back to his mother’s coffin. His words were brief and unemotional.
‘I was just twenty-one when my dad died and now I’ve lost my mother too. It’s harder to come to terms with what happened to her because Dad was ill but Mum was attacked in her own home and I was away in America when it happened. I’ll always be sorry that I never got a chance to say goodbye but I know she was proud of what I was doing and I think she’d have enjoyed my new show, which starts shooting next week. It’s called Homeland and it should be on Showtime later this year. Mum always supported me being an actor. She encouraged me and she had total belief that I’d become a star. She came to every one of my productions when I was at Stratford – Ariel in The Tempest, Henry V, and Mephistopheles in Doctor Faustus, which was her favourite. She always said I was her little devil.’ This got a few murmurs of sympathetic laughter from the mourners. ‘I think I’ll always look for her in the audience when I’m onstage and I’m always going to see the empty seat. I hope they can resell the ticket …’ They were less sure about that last remark. Was it actually a joke?
I had been recording everything he said on my iPhone but I stopped listening at this point. Damian Cowper’s funeral address had confirmed my feelings about him. He talked for a few more minutes and then the sound system came back on with ‘Eleanor Rigby’, the doors were opened and we all trooped out into the cemetery. The man with the straggly hair was right in front of us. He dabbed at his eyes a second time.
We traipsed off to the western side of the cemetery, behind the colonnades. A grave had been dug in a long stretch of unkempt grass next to a low wall. There was a railway line on the other side. I couldn’t see it but as we walked forward I heard a train go past. We came to a gravestone with the inscription Lawrence Cowper, 3 April 1950 – 22 October 1999. After a long illness, borne with fortitude. I remembered that he had lived and presumably died in Kent, and wondered how he had come to be buried here. The sun was shining but a couple of plane trees provided shade. It was a pleasant, warm afternoon. Damian Cowper, Grace Lovell and the vicar had stayed behind to accompany the body on its last journey and as we waited for them Detective Inspector Meadows lumbered over to us. He was wearing a suit that could have come out of a charity shop – or should have been on the way to one.
‘So how’s it going, Hawthorne?’ he asked.
‘Not too bad, Jack.’
‘You getting anywhere with this?’ Meadows sniffed. ‘You don’t want to solve it too soon, I’d have thought. Not if you’re being paid by the day.’
‘I’ll wait for you to come up with an answer,’ Hawthorne said. ‘That way, I’ll make a fortune.’
‘Actually, I may have to disappoint you there. Looks like we’re closing in …’
‘Really?’ I asked. If Meadows actually solved the case before Hawthorne, it would be catastrophic for the book.
‘Yes. You’ll read about it in the newspapers soon enough so I might as well tell you now. There have been three burglaries in the area around Britannia Road recently with an identical MO. The intruder dressed up as a dispatch rider, delivering a package. A motorbike helmet covered his face. He targeted single women living on their own.’
‘And he murdered them all, did he?’
‘No. He beat up the first two and locked them in a cupboard while he ransacked their houses. The third one was smart. She didn’t let him in. She dialled 999 and he hiked it. But we know who we’re looking for. We’re looking at CCTV footage now. We should be able to track down the bike without too much trouble and that’ll lead us to him.’
‘And what’s your theory for how Diana Cowper got herself strangled? Why didn’t he just beat her up like the rest of them?’
Meadows shrugged his rugby player’s shoulders. ‘It just went wrong.’
There was a movement on the other side of the trees. Diana Cowper was being brought to her final resting place in a procession which included the four men from the funeral parlour – they were carrying the basket – along with the vicar, Damian Cowper and Grace Lovell. Finally, Irene Laws followed behind at a discreet distance, her hands clasped behind her back, making sure that everything was being done correctly. There was no sign of Robert Cornwallis.
‘You know what? I think your theory is a lot of shit,’ Hawthorne said. His language jarred with the setting – the sunlight, the cemetery and the approaching coffin with its garland of flowers. ‘You always were complete crap at t
he job, mate. And when you finally track down your masked dispatch rider, you can give him best wishes from me because I bet you any money you like he never went anywhere near Britannia Road.’
‘And you always were an insufferable bastard when you were in the Met,’ Meadows growled. ‘You don’t know how glad we were to see you go.’
‘It’s just a shame what happened to your targets,’ Hawthorne responded, his eyes glittering. ‘I hear they nosedived after I went. And while we’re on the subject, it’s too bad about your divorce.’
‘Who told you about that?’ Meadows jerked back.
‘It’s written all over you, mate.’
It was true. Meadows looked neglected. His crumpled suit, the shirt that hadn’t been ironed and was missing a button and his scuffed shoes all told one half of the story. He was still wearing a wedding ring though, so either his wife had died or she had left him. Either way, the comments had hit home. In fact I was almost expecting the two of them to come to blows – like Hamlet and Laertes on the side of the grave – but just then the coffin arrived and I watched as it was set down on the grass, the willow creaking. Two ropes ran underneath it and the four pall-bearers took a moment to run the ends through the handles, securing it, while Irene Laws looked on approvingly.
I glanced at Damian Cowper. He was staring into the mid-distance, unaware of anyone around him. Grace was standing beside him but there was no contact between them. She wasn’t holding his arm. The photographers I had noticed earlier were some distance away but their cameras had zoom lenses and I imagined they could get everything they needed.
‘It’s time to lower the coffin,’ the vicar intoned. ‘Let us all stand together and maybe you’d like to hold hands while we take these last few moments to think about the very special life that has now ended.’
The coffin was lifted and manoeuvred over the grave that waited to receive it. The small crowd stood around, watching as it was lowered. The man with the handkerchief touched his eyes. Raymond Clunes had found himself standing next to Bruno Wang and I noticed them exchange a few quiet words. The four pall-bearers began to lower the coffin into the dark slit that was waiting to receive it.
The Word Is Murder Page 13
