The Word Is Murder

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Was he homophobic?’ I asked.

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘He must have said something. Even if he wasn’t very sociable, he must have expressed an opinion – maybe if he’d read something in the newspaper or seen something on TV?’

  ‘No.’ Meadows looked in the Twiglet bowl. It was empty. ‘People don’t express opinions in the police force any more. You start mouthing off about gay people or black people, you’re going to be out on your ear before you know it. We don’t even use words like “manpower” any more. You’ve got to be aware of gender equality. Ten years ago, if you said something out of order you might get a clip on the ear. Not any more. These days, PC means more than police constable and you’d better know it.’

  ‘What happened to Abbott?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He went to hospital and we never saw him again.’

  ‘There’s a detective chief inspector who’s been helping Hawthorne.’

  ‘That’d be Rutherford. He always had a soft spot for Hawthorne and he came up with this idea. It’s almost like a parallel investigation. You were at the crime scene. You saw how we had to leave everything in place for Hawthorne to come along and make his deductions. He reports directly to Rutherford. By-passes the whole system …’ Meadows stopped himself. He had said more than he intended. ‘Rutherford won’t talk to you,’ he added, ‘so I wouldn’t waste your time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘No. But maybe there’s something you can tell me. You’ve been following Hawthorne around. Has he spoken to a man called Alan Godwin?’

  I felt a cold sinking in my stomach. I had never thought that Meadows might try to use me to help him get ahead of Hawthorne in his investigation. It only occurred to me now that this might have been the real reason why he had agreed to meet me. I knew at once that I couldn’t tell him anything. If Meadows suddenly announced the identity of the killer, it would be a complete disaster. There would be no book!

  At the same time, I was aware of a sense of loyalty to Hawthorne that must have developed over the past few days, because I’d certainly never noticed it before. We were a team. We – not Meadows or anyone else – were going to solve the crime. ‘I haven’t been to all the interviews,’ I said, weakly.

  ‘I’m not sure I believe that.’

  ‘Look … I’m sorry. I really can’t talk to you about what Hawthorne is doing. We made an agreement. It’s confidential.’

  Meadows looked at me the way he might look at someone who has beaten up an old-age pensioner or killed a child. I had met him on three separate occasions and had considered him slow, inferior, even oafish. I suppose, in my mind’s eye, I had been casting him as a Japp, a Lestrade, a Burden: the man who never solves the crime. Now I saw that I had underestimated him. He could be dangerous too.

  ‘You don’t seem to know a lot about anything, Anthony,’ he said. ‘But I take it you’ve heard of obstruction.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Obstructing a police officer in the execution of their duty under the Police Act of 1991. You could be fined a thousand pounds or sent to jail.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. And it was. This wasn’t Scotland Yard – it was the Groucho Club. And I had invited him here!

  ‘I’m asking you a simple question.’

  ‘Ask him,’ I said, holding his gaze. I had no idea what he was going to do. But then, quite suddenly, he relaxed. The cloud had passed. It was as if that little bit of nastiness had never happened.

  ‘I forgot to mention,’ he said. ‘My son got very excited when he heard I was going to meet you.’

  ‘Did he?’ I’d been drinking gin and tonic. I took a sip.

  ‘Yes. He’s a big fan of Alex Rider.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact …’ Suddenly Meadows was sheepish. He’d been carrying a leather briefcase and he reached into it. I knew what was going to happen next. Over the years, I’ve come to know the body language so well. Meadows pulled out a copy of Skeleton Key, the third Alex Rider novel. It was brand new. He must have stopped at a bookshop on the way to the club. ‘Would you mind signing it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’ I took out a pen. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Brian.’

  I opened the book and wrote on the first page: To Brian. I met your dad and he almost arrested me. All good wishes.

  I signed it and handed it back. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘I think you said you were going to pay me for my time.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I reached for my wallet. ‘Fifty pounds,’ I said.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Actually, we’ve been here an hour and ten minutes.’

  ‘As long as that?’

  ‘And it took me thirty minutes to get here.’

  He left with £100. I’d also paid for three cocktails and signed his book. And what had I got in return? I wasn’t sure it had been much of a deal.

  Seventeen

  Canterbury

  For once, I was looking forward to meeting Hawthorne and I saw that he was in a good mood when I joined him the next day at King’s Cross St Pancras. He had already bought the tickets and he asked me to fork out only for mine.

  We sat facing each other across a table as the train pulled out but before I could begin a conversation he suddenly produced a pad of paper, a pen and a paperback book. I looked at the cover upside-down. The book was The Outsider, by Albert Camus, translated from the French. It was a second-hand edition, a Penguin classic, with loose pages, falling apart at the spine. I was very surprised. It had never occurred to me that Hawthorne would read anything – except maybe a tabloid newspaper. He really didn’t strike me as someone who had any interest in fiction and certainly not in the study of a young nobody plumbing the depths of existentialism in 1940s Algiers. If anyone had asked me, I would have imagined him settling back with a Dan Brown novel perhaps, or maybe something more violent: Harlan Coben or James Patterson. Even that was a stretch. Hawthorne was clever and he was well educated but he didn’t strike me as having any interior imaginative life at all.

  I didn’t want to interrupt but at the same time I was itching to tell him my theory, the solution to the murders of Diana Cowper and her son, and after fifteen minutes, sitting in silence with London slipping behind me, I couldn’t resist it any more. He had read three pages in this time, by the way, turning them over with a decisiveness that suggested each one of them had been an effort and he was glad that he would never have to return to them again.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘L’Étranger.’ He looked blank, so I translated. ‘The Outsider.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘So you like modern literature, then.’

  He knew I was digging and he was briefly irritated. But for once he actually volunteered some information. ‘I didn’t choose it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s my book group.’

  Hawthorne in a book group! If he’d told me he was part of a knitting circle, it would be equally incongruous.

  ‘I read it when I was eighteen,’ I said. ‘It had quite an effect on me. I identified with Meursault.’

  Meursault is the title character. He drifts through the novel – ‘Today my mother died. Or maybe yesterday …’ – kills an Arab, goes to prison, dies. It was the bleakness of his outlook, his lack of connectivity, that appealed to me. As a teenager, there was a part of me that wished I could be more like him.

  ‘Trust me, mate. You’re nothing like Meursault,’ Hawthorne replied. He closed the book. ‘I meet people like him all the time. They’re dead inside. They go out and they do stupid things and they think the world owes them a living. I wouldn’t write about them. I wouldn’t read about them either except it wasn’t my choice.’

  ‘So who�
��s in the book group?’ I asked.

  ‘Just people.’

  I waited for him to tell me more.

  ‘They’re from the library.’

  ‘When do you meet?’

  He said nothing. I looked out of the window at the rows of terraced houses backing onto the railway line, tiny gardens separating them from the endless rattle of the trains. There was litter everywhere. Everything was covered in grey dust.

  ‘What other books have you read?’ I asked.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘I’d like to know.’

  He thought back. I could see he was getting annoyed. ‘Lionel Shriver. A book about a boy who kills his school mates. That was the last one.’

  ‘We Need to Talk About Kevin. Did you like it?’

  ‘She’s clever. She makes you think.’ He stopped himself. There was a danger that this was going to turn into a conversation. ‘You should be thinking about the case,’ he said.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ Hawthorne had given me exactly the opening I had been hoping for. I leapt in. ‘I know who did it.’

  He looked up at me with eyes that were both challenging and waiting for me to fail. ‘So who was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Alan Godwin,’ I said.

  He nodded slowly, but not in agreement. ‘He had a good reason to kill Diana Cowper,’ he said. ‘But he was at the funeral at the same time as us. You think he had time to cross London and get to Damian’s flat?’

  ‘He left the cemetery as soon as the music started playing – and who else would have put the MP3 player in the coffin if it wasn’t him? You heard what he told us. It was his dead son’s favourite song.’ I went on before he could stop me. ‘This has got to be about Timothy Godwin. It’s the reason why we’re on this train and the simple fact is that nobody else had any reason to kill Diana Cowper. Was it the cleaner because she was stealing money? Or Raymond Clunes with his stupid musical? Come on! I’m surprised we’re even arguing about it.’

  ‘I’m not arguing,’ Hawthorne said, with equanimity. He weighed up what I had just said then shook his head, sadly. ‘Damian Cowper was at home when the accident happened. He had nothing to do with it. So what was the motive for killing him?’

  ‘I think I’ve worked that out,’ I said. ‘Suppose it wasn’t Diana Cowper who was driving the car. Mary O’Brien didn’t actually see her face and as far as we know she was only ever identified because of the registration number.’

  ‘Mrs Cowper went to the police. She turned herself in.’

  ‘She could have done that to protect Damian. He was the one behind the wheel!’ The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. ‘He was her son. He was getting famous. Maybe he was drunk or on cocaine or something. She knew it would ruin his career if he was arrested, so she took the rap! And she made up that stuff about forgetting her glasses to get herself off the hook.’

  ‘You have no evidence for that.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do.’ I played my ace card. ‘When you were talking to Raymond Clunes, he mentioned that when he had lunch with her, the day she was killed, he saw her as she came out of the tube station. She waved to me across the road. That’s what he said. So if she could see him across the road, that means her eyesight was perfectly good. She made up the whole thing.’

  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 c
rimes. 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.’