The Word Is Murder

by Anthony Horowitz

  Just two of the tables were occupied. An elderly couple sat at one. Two young mothers with pushchairs and babies were at the other. We went up to the counter where a large, smiling woman in her fifties, wearing a dress and an apron that matched the canopy, was waiting to serve.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ Hawthorne said. ‘I’m with the police.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m making enquiries about the accident that happened here a while ago. The two children who were hit by the car.’

  ‘But that was ten years ago!’

  ‘Diana Cowper, the woman who was driving … she died. You didn’t read about that?’

  ‘I may have read something. But I don’t see—’

  ‘Fresh evidence may have come to light.’ Hawthorne was keen to shut down the conversation.

  ‘Oh!’ She looked at us nervously, in a way that made me wonder if she had something to hide. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much about it,’ she said.

  ‘Were you here?’

  ‘I’m Gail Harcourt. This is my shop. And I was here the day it happened. It makes me feel sick when I remember those poor little children. All they wanted was an ice-cream and that was why they ran across the road. But they were wasting their time. We weren’t open.’

  ‘At the beginning of June? Why was that?’

  She pointed at the ceiling. ‘We had a burst pipe. It completely flooded the place, ruined the stock and put out the electrics. We weren’t insured either, of course. Well, you should have seen the premium. It nearly ruined us.’ She sighed. ‘If only they’d stopped to look! They just ran across the road at the worst possible moment. I heard the accident. I didn’t see it. I went out into the street and saw them both lying there. The nanny didn’t know what to do. She was in shock – but then she was young herself. Only in her twenties. I turned my head and then I saw the car. It had stopped just the other side of the pier. It stayed there a minute and then it drove off.’

  ‘Did you see the driver?’ I asked. I got a dark look from Hawthorne but I didn’t care.

  ‘Only the back of her head.’

  ‘So it could have been anyone?’

  ‘It was that woman! They put her on trial!’ She turned back to Hawthorne. ‘I don’t know how anyone could do that, drive away from the scene of the accident. And those two little children, lying there! What a bitch! She wasn’t wearing her glasses, you know. But who gets behind the wheel of a car when they can’t see? She should have been locked up for life and that judge, the one who let her walk free, he should have been sacked. It’s disgusting. There’s no justice any more.’

  I was quite taken aback by her vehemence. For a moment, she seemed almost monstrous.

  ‘I’ve never felt the same here since,’ she continued. ‘It’s taken all the pleasure out of running this business but there’s nothing else I can do.’ Two more customers came in and she hitched up her apron strings, preparing for business. ‘You should talk to Mr Traverton next door. He was there. He saw much more than me.’ She brushed us aside and suddenly the plump, smiling lady was back, everyone’s favourite aunt. ‘Yes, dear. What would you like?’

  ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Quarter past four. It had been a beautiful day. Not like today. Perfect sunshine and warm enough to go paddling in the sea. I’d just been serving a customer – he was the one everyone was interested in later on. The mystery man. He left the shop about five seconds before it happened and it was thanks to him that I heard it so clearly. You see, he activated the entrance door. I actually heard the car hitting those two children. It was a horrible sound. You wouldn’t have thought it would be so loud. I knew at once it was going to be bad. I grabbed my mobile phone and went straight out. There was nobody else in the shop, by the way, except Miss Presley, who used to work in natural remedies but she’s married now and I don’t think she lives in Deal. I made sure she stayed behind before I left. We have a lot of drugs and medicines here and we’re not allowed to leave the premises unguarded, even in exceptional circumstances such as these.’

  Pier Pharmacy was one of those strange, old-fashioned shops that seem very much at home in a British seaside resort. As we’d gone in, the door had folded open automatically to reveal a rack with a dozen varieties of hot water bottle. Nearby, a collection of brightly coloured scarves hung forlornly on a wire display. The shop seemed to sell a little bit of everything. Looking around, I saw stuffed toys, jam, chocolate bars, cereal, toilet paper and dog leads. It was like one of those crazy memory games I used to play with my children. There was a corner with stationery and terrible birthday cards, the sort you might find in a garage. A whole aisle was given over to herbal remedies. By far the biggest area was at the back of the shop, which contained the actual pharmacy. Deal might have more than its fair share of old-age pensioners but no matter what diseases their later years might bring, I was sure they would find a remedy here. The staff wore white coats. They had hundreds of different packets, foils and bottles within reach.

  We were talking to one of them – Graham Traverton – the owner and manager, a man in his fifties, bald and ruddy-cheeked, with an off-putting gap between his two front teeth. He was keen to talk to us and I was astonished at his grasp of detail. He seemed to have a perfect memory of everything that had happened that day, to the extent that I wondered if he wasn’t making some of it up. But then again, he had been interviewed before – by the police and by journalists. He’d had plenty of opportunities to rehearse his story. And I suppose, when something terrible happens, you do tend to hang on to the details that surround it.

  ‘I went out through that door and almost bumped into the customer, who was standing on the pavement,’ Traverton continued. ‘I went straight up to him. “What happened?” I asked. He didn’t tell me. He didn’t say anything.

  ‘I tell you, I can still see all of it. Every day when I go home, it’s like a photograph engraved on my mind. The two children were in the road, both of them dressed in blue shorts and short-sleeve shirts. I knew that one of them had to be dead just from the way he was lying there with his arms and legs all wrong. His eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving. The nanny – her name was Mary O’Brien – was kneeling beside the other little boy. She was obviously shocked – she was like a ghost. As I stood there, she looked up at me and for a minute she was staring right into my eyes. It was like she was pleading with me to help her but what could I do? I called the police. I think a lot of people must have done the same.

  ‘There was a car, a blue Volkswagen, parked just a short way up the road. I noticed someone sitting in it and then, seconds later, it pulled out from the kerb and accelerated away. I swear it had smoke coming out of the exhaust and I heard the sound of the rubber tyres screaming against the tarmac. Of course, at the time I didn’t know it belonged to the woman who was responsible for the accident but I took down her number and reported it to the police. That was when I noticed the man that I’d been serving. He suddenly turned round and walked away. He went round the corner into King Street and then he disappeared.’

  ‘Did that strike you as strange?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘It most certainly did. He was behaving in a very peculiar way. I mean, what do you do when you see an accident like that? You either stay and you watch – that’s human nature. Or you decide it’s got nothing to do with you and you leave. But he hurried away like he didn’t want to be seen. And here’s the point. He’d seen it. He must have. It had happened right in front of him. But when the police asked for witness statements, he never came forward.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about him?’

  ‘Not a lot – because that’s the other thing. He was wearing sunglasses. Now why would he do that? It was half past four in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. In fact, it was getting a little cloudy. He didn’t need them – unless he was someone famous and didn’t want to be recognised. I can’t remember much else about him, to be honest
. He was also wearing a cap. But I can tell you what he bought.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘A jar of honey and a packet of ginger tea. It was local honey from a place in Finglesham. I recommended it.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  Traverton sighed. ‘There’s not very much more to tell you. The nanny was kneeling there. At least one of the children was alive. I saw him open his eyes. He called out for his father. “Daddy!” It was pitiful, really it was. Then the police and the ambulance arrived. It hadn’t taken them very long to get there. I went back into the shop. Actually, I went upstairs and had a cup of tea. I wasn’t feeling at all well and I don’t feel that good now, remembering it all. I understand the woman in the car has been killed. Is that why you’re here? That’s a terrible thing, but I won’t say she deserved it. But driving away like that? All the harm she caused! I think the judge let her off far too lightly and I’m not at all surprised that someone else agreed.’

  From the pharmacy, we walked the short distance to the Royal Hotel. Hawthorne said nothing. He had a son himself, of course, an eleven-year-old. He was just three years older than Timothy Godwin had been when he died, and it was possible that the story we had just heard had made an impression on Hawthorne. But I have to say that he didn’t look particularly sad. If anything, he seemed to be in a hurry to be on his way.

  We entered the sort of lounge you can only get in an English seaside hotel: low ceilings, wooden floors with scattered rugs and cosy leather furniture. It was surprisingly crowded, mainly with elderly couples tucking into sandwiches and beer. The room was almost unbearably warm, with radiators on full blast and a gas-effect fire to one side. We made our way through to the reception area. The friendly local girl who was working there said that she couldn’t help us but telephoned the manager, who came up from the downstairs bar.

  Her name was Mrs Rendell (‘like the crime writer,’ she said). She had been at the Royal Hotel for twelve years but hadn’t been working on the day of the accident. She had, however, met Mary O’Brien and the two children.

  ‘They were dear little things, very well behaved. They had the family room on the second floor. It has a king-sized bed and bunks. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Not really,’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘Oh.’ He had offended her but she continued anyway. ‘They came down on a Wednesday and the accident happened the next day. As a matter of fact, Miss O’Brien wasn’t happy with the room. It doesn’t have sea views. She’d requested a twin and a double with an adjoining door but we don’t have such a thing in this hotel and we couldn’t allow two small children to sleep on their own.’ Mrs Rendell was a small, thin woman. She had the sort of face that finds it easy to express indignation. ‘I can’t say I terribly liked her,’ she remarked. ‘I didn’t trust her and although I hate to have to say it, I was right. She should have been holding on to the two boys. Instead, she allowed them to run across the road and that was what killed them. I really don’t think Mrs Cowper was to blame for the accident.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Of course I knew her. She often came into the hotel for lunch or for dinner. She was charming – and she had a famous son. Deal is quite well known for its celebrities. Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton are the best known but Norman Wisdom also came here. And Charles Hawtrey used to like sitting at the bar. He moved to Deal after he retired.’

  Charles Hawtrey. I still remembered him: the skinny actor with dark wavy hair and round glasses. He was the gay, friendless, drunken star of the Carry On films, British humour at its most dysfunctional. I had watched him in black and white films when I was nine years old, at boarding school. They used to screen them in the gymnasium: Carry on Nurse, Carry on Teacher, Carry on Constable. It was the one big treat of the week, a break from the beatings, bad food and bullying that made up the rest of my time there. For some children, growing up begins the moment they discover that Santa Claus doesn’t exist. For me, it was realising Charles Hawtrey wasn’t and never had been funny. And he had sat here, in this hotel, sipping his gin and watching the boys go by.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to be here either. And I was glad when Hawthorne thanked the woman and said he had no more questions and the two of us left.

  Nineteen

  Mr Tibbs

  I wasn’t expecting to see Hawthorne the next day, so I was surprised to get a telephone call from him shortly after breakfast.

  ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’

  ‘I’m working,’ I said.

  ‘I need to come round.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Hawthorne had never been to my London flat before and I was happy to keep it that way. I was the one trying to insinuate myself into his life, not the other way round. And so far, he hadn’t even told me his address. In fact, he had deliberately misled me. He had said his home was in Gants Hill when he actually had a flat in River Court, Blackfriars, on the other side of the river. I didn’t like the idea of him casting his detective’s eye over my home, my possessions, and perhaps coming to conclusions that he might later use against me.

  He must have sensed the hesitation at the other end of the line. ‘I need to set up a meeting,’ he explained. ‘I want it to be somewhere neutral.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your place?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be appropriate.’ He paused. ‘I’ve worked out what really happened in Deal,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll agree that it’s relevant to our investigation.’

  ‘Who are you meeting?’

  ‘You’ll know who they both are when they get here.’ He tried one last plea. ‘It’s important.’

  As it happened, I was on my own that evening. And it occurred to me that if I allowed Hawthorne to see where I lived, perhaps I might be able to persuade him to do the same. I was still keen to find out how he could possibly afford a flat overlooking the river and although Meadows had said he didn’t own it I was curious to see inside.

  ‘What time?’ I asked.

  ‘Five o’clock.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, already regretting it. ‘You can come here for an hour – but that’s it.’

  ‘That’s great.’ He rang off.

  I spent the rest of the morning typing up my notes from the investigation so far: Britannia Road, Cornwallis and Sons, the South Acton Estate. I had made several hours’ worth of recordings on my iPhone and I connected it to my computer, listening to Hawthorne’s flat, wheedling voice through a set of headphones. I’d also taken dozens of photographs and I flicked through them, reminding myself of what I’d seen. I already had far more material than I needed and I was sure that ninety per cent of it was irrelevant. For example, Andrea Kluvánek had talked at length about her childhood in the Banská Štiavnica district of Slovakia and how happy she had been until the death of her father in an agricultural accident. But even as she had gone on, I’d been doubtful that any of it would make the first draft.

  I had never worked this way before. Normally, when I’m planning a novel or a TV script, I know exactly what I need and don’t waste time with extraneous details. But without knowing what was going on inside Hawthorne’s head, how could I tell what was relevant and what wasn’t? It was exactly what he had warned me about when he’d read my first chapter. A spring bell mechanism on a door or its absence could make all the difference to the conclusion and leaving something out could be just as damaging as making it up. As a result, I was having to write down everything I saw in every room I visited – whether it was the Stieg Larsson in Diana Cowper’s bedroom, the fish-shaped key hook in her kitchen or the Post-it notes in Judith Godwin’s kitchen – and the rapidly growing pile of information was driving me mad.

  I was still convinced that Alan Godwin was the killer. If it wasn’t him, who else could it have been? That was the question I asked myself as I sat at my desk, surrounded by what felt like a devastation of white A4.

  Well, there was
Judith Godwin, for one. She had exactly the same motivation. I thought back to what Hawthorne had said about the killer when we were at the scene of the crime, then rifled through the pages until I found it. He was almost certainly a man. I’ve heard of women strangling women but – take it from me – it’s unusual. Those were his exact words, recorded and written down. As a result, I hadn’t considered any of the women I had met. But almost certainly was not one hundred per cent definite and unusual was not impossible. It could have been Judith. It could have been Mary O’Brien – so devoted to the family that she had stayed working with them for the whole ten years. And what about Jeremy Godwin? It was always possible that he wasn’t quite as helpless as everyone supposed.

  And then there was Grace Lovell – the actress who had moved in with Damian Cowper. Although she hadn’t said so in as many words, there was clearly no love lost between her and Damian’s mother, whose interest had extended no further than her first grandchild, Ashleigh. The baby had been the end of Grace’s acting career and if the newspaper stories were true, Damian had proved to be a far from ideal partner. Drugs, parties, showgirls … it easily added up to a motive for murder. On the other hand, she had been in America when Diana was killed.

  Or had she?

  Once again, I scoured through my notes and found exactly what I was looking for, a line spoken by Damian Cowper that hadn’t registered at the time but which, I now saw, was hugely significant. Grace had complained that she didn’t want to go back to Los Angeles. She wanted to spend more time with her parents. And Damian had said to her: You’ve already had a week with them, babe. I felt a glow of satisfaction. I really had missed nothing! It might even be that I was ahead of Hawthorne on this one. A week might be an approximation. Grace could have arrived nine or ten days ahead of Damian. In which case she could easily have been in the country on the day that Diana was killed. That said, we had left her behind at the pub in the Fulham Road after the funeral and remembering how heavy the traffic was, I would have thought it impossible for her to have reached Brick Lane before us.