The Word Is Murder

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘I imagine you’ve got lots of new friends.’

  ‘I don’t need new friends. I’ve got Damian.’ She looked over Hawthorne’s shoulder. ‘If you don’t mind, I have to say hello to some of these people. I’m meant to be looking after everyone and I don’t want to stay too long.’

  She slipped away. Hawthorne followed her with his eyes. I could see his thoughts ticking over.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  ‘The doctor,’ he said.

  ‘Why him?’

  Hawthorne glanced at me tiredly. ‘Because he knew Diana Cowper inside out. Because if she had any problems, she may have talked to him. Because he may have been the one who killed her. I don’t know!’

  Shaking his head, Hawthorne approached the man in the three-piece suit whom Grace had pointed out. ‘Dr Butterworth,’ he said.

  ‘Buttimore.’ The doctor shook hands. He was large, bearded, with gold-framed glasses, the sort of man who would happily describe himself as ‘old school’. It had offended him, Hawthorne getting his name wrong, but he warmed up a little once Hawthorne had explained his connection to Scotland Yard. I often noticed this. People enjoy being drawn into a murder investigation. Part of them wants to help but there’s something salacious about it too.

  ‘So what was all that about, back in the cemetery?’ Buttimore asked. ‘I bet you’ve never seen anything like that, Mr Hawthorne. Poor Diana! God knows what she would have made of it. Do you think it was done on purpose?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have loaded an alarm clock into a coffin by accident, sir,’ Hawthorne said.

  I was grateful for the final ‘sir’. Otherwise, he would have sounded too obviously contemptuous.

  ‘That’s absolutely true. I take it you’re going to look into it.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Cowper’s murder is my first priority.’

  ‘I thought the culprit had already been identified.’

  ‘A burglar,’ his wife said. She was half the size of her husband, in her fifties, severe.

  ‘We have to explore every avenue,’ Hawthorne explained. He turned back to the husband. ‘I understand you were a close friend of Mrs Cowper, Dr Buttimore. It would be helpful to know when you last saw her.’

  ‘About three weeks ago. She visited my surgery in Cavendish Square. She’d come in to see me quite a few times, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Over the last few months. She was having trouble sleeping. It’s quite common, actually, among women of a certain age – although she was also having anxiety issues.’ He glanced left and right, nervous of sharing confidential information in a public place. He lowered his voice. ‘She was worried about her son.’

  ‘And why would that be?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘I’m speaking to you as her doctor as well as her friend, Mr Hawthorne. The truth is that she was worried about his lifestyle in Los Angeles. She had been opposed to his going in the first place and then she’d read all these vile things in the gossip columns – drugs and parties and all the rest of it. Of course, there wasn’t an iota of truth in it. The newspapers will print rubbish and lies about anyone who’s famous. That’s what I told her. But she was clearly in a state so I prescribed sleeping pills. Ativan to begin with and, later on, when that wasn’t strong enough, temazepam.’ I remembered the pills that we had found in the dead woman’s bathroom. ‘They seemed to do the trick,’ Buttimore went on. ‘I last saw her, as I just mentioned, at the end of April. I gave her another prescription—’

  ‘You weren’t afraid of her getting addicted?’

  Dr Buttimore smiled benignly. ‘Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne, but if you knew anything about medicine, you’d know there’s very little chance of addiction with temazepam. It’s one of the reasons I prescribe it. The only danger is short-term memory loss but Mrs Cowper seemed generally in excellent health.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about visiting a funeral parlour?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘She went to a funeral parlour. She arranged her funeral the very same day she died.’

  Dr Buttimore blinked. ‘I’m absolutely astonished. I can’t think of any reason why she would have done that. I can assure you that apart from the anxiety problem, she had no reason to believe her health was in decline. I can only assume the timing of her death was a coincidence.’

  ‘It was a burglary,’ his wife insisted.

  ‘Exactly, dear. She couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.’

  Hawthorne nodded and the two of us moved away. ‘Fucking prat,’ he muttered, as soon as we were out of earshot.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.’

  I looked puzzled.

  ‘You heard what he said. It didn’t make any sense,’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘It made sense to me.’

  ‘He’s a prat. Just make sure you write that down.’

  ‘A fucking prat? I assume you’d like the expletive.’

  Hawthorne said nothing.

  ‘I’ll just make sure it’s clear it was you who said it,’ I added. ‘That way, he can sue you instead of me.’

  ‘He can’t sue anyone if it’s the truth.’

  We moved on to Charles Kenworthy, the lawyer. He was still in the corner, talking to a woman I assumed to be his wife. He was short and round with curling, silver hair. She was a similar shape but heavier. The two of them could have come down to London from the country as they both had a horsey quality, with ruddy cheeks from all that fresh air. He was drinking Prosecco. She had a fruit juice.

  ‘How do you do? Yes, yes. I’m Charles Kenworthy. This is Frieda.’

  He could hardly have been more affable. As soon as Hawthorne had introduced himself, Kenworthy made it his business to tell us as much about himself as he could. He had known the dead woman for more than thirty years and had been a close friend of Lawrence Cowper (‘Pancreatic cancer. Absolutely shocking. He was a remarkable man … a first-rate dentist’). He still lived in Kent – in Faversham. He had helped Diana sell the house after that ‘dreadful business’ and move to London.

  ‘Did you advise her at the time of the trial?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Kenworthy couldn’t help himself. He didn’t just talk. He gushed. ‘There was no case against her. The judge was absolutely right.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Weston? We’d met once or twice. A fair-minded chap. I told her she had nothing to worry about, no matter what the newspapers said. Still, it was a difficult time for her. She was very upset.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Last week … the day she died. At a board meeting. We were both on the board of the Globe Theatre. As you may know, the theatre is an educational charity. We rely very heavily on donations to be able to continue.’

  ‘What sort of plays do you put on?’

  ‘Well … Shakespeare obviously.’

  I wasn’t sure if Hawthorne really was unaware that the Globe was a reconstruction of a theatre that had stood on the south bank of the Thames four hundred years ago and that it specialised in authentic performances of mainly Elizabethan plays. There was nothing about him that suggested he had any interest in drama – or, for that matter, literature, music or art. At the same time, though, he was remarkably well informed about a great many things and it was quite possible that he was simply trying to get under the lawyer’s skin.

  ‘I understand that you had a bit of an argument that day.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so. Who told you that?’

  Hawthorne didn’t answer. It was actually Robert Cornwallis who had heard raised voices when he had called Diana Cowper to ask about plot numbers in Brompton Cemetery. ‘She resigned from the board,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. But that wasn’t because of any particular disagreement.’

  ‘So why did she resign?’

  ‘I have no id
ea. She simply said that she’d been thinking about it for some time and that she would leave with immediate effect. Her announcement took us all by surprise. She had been a passionate supporter of the theatre and a driving force in our fundraising and educational programmes.’

  ‘Was she unhappy about something?’

  ‘Not at all. If anything, I would have said she was quite relieved. She had been on the board for six years. Maybe she thought it was enough.’

  Next to him, his wife was becoming uneasy. ‘Charles – maybe we ought to be on our way.’

  ‘All right, dear.’ Kenworthy turned to Hawthorne. ‘I can’t really tell you anything more about the board. It’s confidential.’

  ‘Can you tell me about Mrs Cowper’s will?’

  ‘Well, yes. I’m sure that will become public knowledge soon enough. It’s quite simple. She left everything to Damian.’

  ‘From what I understand, that’s quite a bit.’

  ‘It’s not for me to go into details. It’s been very nice meeting you, Mr Hawthorne.’ Charles Kenworthy put down his glass. He fished in his pocket and handed a car key to his wife. ‘Off we go then, dear. You’d better drive.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’

  ‘The keys …’ Hawthorne was speaking to himself. His eyes were fixed on Charles and Frieda Kenworthy as they walked away but at the same time he was no longer interested in them. His thoughts were elsewhere. Frieda was still holding the car key. I saw it in her hand as she went through the door, and realised that it had thrown some sort of switch, reminding Hawthorne of something he had missed.

  And then he worked it out. I actually saw the moment when it happened. It was almost shocking, as if he had been physically hit. I wouldn’t say that the colour drained from his face, as there had never been much colour to begin with. But it was there in his eyes: the terrible realisation that he had got something wrong. ‘We’re going,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s no time. Just move.’

  He was already on his way, pushing past a waiter, making for the door. We overtook the Kenworthys, who were saying goodbye to someone they knew, and burst out onto the street. We arrived at a corner and Hawthorne came to a halt, seething with fury.

  ‘Why are there no bloody taxis?’

  He was right. Despite the heavy traffic, there wasn’t a taxi in sight – but as we stood there, I saw one pull in on the other side of the road. It had been hailed by a woman carrying shopping bags. Hawthorne shouted – a single exclamation. At the same time, he ran across the road, blind to the traffic. Taking a little more care – I was remembering that the cemetery was just around the corner – I followed. There was the screech of tyres, the blast of a horn, but somehow I made it to the other side. Hawthorne had already interposed himself between the woman and the driver – who had clicked on the meter, turning off his yellow light.

  ‘Excuse me …’ I heard the woman say, her voice rising with indignation.

  ‘Police,’ Hawthorne snapped. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  She didn’t ask him for ID. Hawthorne had been in the police force long enough to have assumed its authority. Or maybe it was just that he looked too dangerous, somebody you wouldn’t want to argue with.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ the driver asked as we both bundled in.

  ‘Brick Lane,’ Hawthorne said.

  Damian Cowper’s home.

  I will never forget that taxi journey. It was a few minutes past midday and there wasn’t actually that much traffic but every snarl-up, every red traffic light, was torture for Hawthorne, who sat hunched up next to me, almost writhing. There were all sorts of questions I wanted to ask him. What was it about a set of car keys that had alerted him? Why had they put him in mind of Damian Cowper? Was Damian in some sort of danger? But I was sensible enough to keep silent. I didn’t want Hawthorne’s anger to be turned on me and – I don’t know why – but somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was whispering that whatever was happening, it might somehow be my fault.

  It’s a long way from Fulham to Brick Lane. We had to cross the whole of London, west to east, and it might have been faster to take the tube. We actually went past several stations – South Kensington, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner – and each time I saw Hawthorne making the calculation, trying to work out the amount of traffic ahead. As we headed down towards Piccadilly, he took out some of his frustration on the driver.

  ‘Why are you going this way? You should have gone past the bloody palace.’

  The driver ignored him. It was true that the traffic crawled as we came down towards Piccadilly Circus but when you’re in a hurry in London, every route will be the wrong one. I looked at my watch. It had so far taken us twenty-five minutes to get here. It felt a lot longer. Next to me, Hawthorne was muttering under his breath. I sat back and closed my eyes. He still hadn’t told me what was actually going on.

  Eventually, we reached Damian Cowper’s flat. Hawthorne leapt out, leaving me to pay. I handed the driver £50 and, without waiting for change, followed Hawthorne through the narrow doorway and staircase that led up between two shops. We reached the entrance on the first floor. Ominously, the door was ajar.

  We went in.

  It was the smell of blood that hit me first. I’d written about dozens of murders for books and television but I had never imagined anything like this.

  Damian Cowper had been mutilated. He was lying on his side in a puddle of dark brown blood that had spread all around him, seeping into the floorboards. One of his hands was stretched out and the first thing I noticed was that two of his fingers had been half severed as he had flailed out, trying to protect himself from the knife that had cut him half a dozen times and which had finally been left sticking out of his chest. One of the blows had slashed him across the face and this injury was more horrible than any of the others because when we meet someone it’s the first thing we look at. Lose an arm or a leg and you are still you. Lose your face and almost everything we know about you is taken away.

  Damian had a deep cut that had taken out one eye and folded back a great flap of skin all the way down to his mouth. His clothes might hide the worst of his other injuries but here there was no disguising the madness of what had been done to him. One of his cheeks was pressed against the floor and his whole head had taken on the melting quality of a punctured football. He no longer looked anything like himself. I had really only recognised him by his clothes and the tangled black hair.

  The smell of his blood filled my nostrils. It was rich, deep, like freshly dug earth. I had never known that blood smelled like that but then there was so much of it and the flat was warm, the windows closed, the walls bending …

  ‘Tony? Come on! For Christ’s sake!’

  For some reason, I was looking at the ceiling. The back of my head was hurting. Hawthorne was leaning over me. I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped myself. I couldn’t have fainted. That was impossible. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing.

  But I had.

  Thirteen

  Dead Man’s Shoes

  ‘Tony? Are you all right?’

  Hawthorne was leaning over me, filling my vision. He didn’t look concerned. If anything, he was puzzled, as if it was a strange thing to do, to faint after seeing a hideously mutilated and still-bleeding corpse.

  I wasn’t all right. I’d hit my head on Damian Cowper’s warehouse-style floor and I felt sick. The smell of blood was still in my nostrils and I was afraid that I might have tumbled into it. Grimacing, I felt around me. The floorboards were dry.

  ‘Can you help me up?’ I said.

  ‘Sure.’ He hesitated, then reached down and seized my arm, pulling me to my feet. Why the hesitation? Here was a moment of insight. In all the time I had known him, during this investigation and while he had helped me with my research, there had never been any physical contact between us. We had never so much as shaken hands. In fact, now that I thought about it, I had never seen him come into physical contact with anyon
e. Was he a germophobe? Or was he simply antisocial? It was another mystery for me to solve.

  I sat down in one of the leather armchairs, away from the body and the blood.

  ‘Do you want some water?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m OK.’

  ‘You’re not going to throw up, are you? It’s just that we have to protect the crime area.’

  ‘I’m not going to throw up.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s not very nice, seeing a dead body. And I can tell you this is about as bad as it gets.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen decapitations, people with their eyes gouged out—’

  ‘Thanks!’ I could feel the nausea rising. I took a breath.

  ‘Someone certainly didn’t like Damian Cowper,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. I thought of what Grace had told us after the funeral. ‘This was planned, wasn’t it? Someone put the music player in the coffin because they knew it would get to Damian. They wanted to drive him away so he’d be on his own. But why him? If this is all about the accident in Deal, he can hardly take the blame. He wasn’t even in the car.’

  ‘You’ve got a point.’

  I tried to think it through. A woman drives a car recklessly and kills a child. Ten years later, she is punished. But why extend that to her son? Could there be some biblical reason: an eye for an eye? That made no sense. Diana Cowper was already dead. If someone had wanted to use her son to hurt her, they would have killed him first.

  ‘His mother didn’t go to the police at first, because she was trying to protect him,’ I mused. ‘That was the reason why she drove away. Maybe it was enough to make him responsible.’

  Hawthorne thought for a moment in silence – but not about what I’d said. ‘I’ve got to leave you for a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ve already called 999. But I’ve got to check the flat.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Funnily enough, it was something I remembered from our time working on Injustice. We had been talking about one of the scenes in Episode One, when the animal rights activist is found dead in a farmhouse. Hawthorne had told me then that when a body is discovered, the first priority for any policeman or detective will be their own self-preservation. Are they under threat? Is the assailant still in the building? They’ll make sure they’re safe. Then they’ll look for possible witnesses … classically, the child hiding in the wardrobe or under the bed. Hawthorne would have dialled 999 while I was lying on the floor. I suppose it was nice of him to notice me at all.