‘Liz, you’ve been brilliant,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose I can borrow this?’ I was referring to the photograph.
‘I’m sorry. It can’t leave the building. But you can take a picture of it if you like.’
‘That’s great.’ My iPhone had been on the table, recording our conversation. I picked it up and took a shot of the image. I stood up. ‘Thanks a lot.’
Outside RADA, I made three telephone calls. First, I arranged a meeting. Then I called my assistant, who was waiting for me at my office. I told her I wouldn’t be coming back this afternoon. Finally, I left a message for my wife, saying I might be a bit late for dinner.
In fact, I wouldn’t have dinner at all.
Twenty-two
Behind the Mask
From Gower Street, I took the tube back out to west London and walked down to a square, red-brick building on the Fulham Palace Road just five minutes from Hammersmith roundabout. It’s no longer there, by the way. It was knocked down when they constructed a brand-new office block – Elsinore House. By a weird coincidence, HarperCollins are based there. They publish the American editions of my books.
The building that I visited that day was deliberately discreet, with frosted-glass windows and no signage at all. When I rang the front doorbell, I was greeted by an angry buzz and a click as the lock was electronically released from somewhere inside. A CCTV camera watched as I entered an empty reception area with bare walls and a tiled floor. It reminded me of a clinic or some obscure department of a hospital, though perhaps one that had recently closed down. At first I thought I was alone but then a voice called out to me and I went into an office just round the corner where the funeral director, Robert Cornwallis, was making two cups of coffee. The office was as unremarkable as the rest of the building, with a desk and a collection of very utilitarian chairs – padded without being remotely comfortable. A coffee machine stood on a trestle table to one side. There was a calendar on the wall.
This was the facility that Cornwallis had mentioned when we first met. His clients came to South Kensington for consultations but the actual bodies were brought here. Somewhere close by there was a chapel, ‘a place of bereavement’ Irene Laws had called it. Certainly, this wasn’t it – for the room I had entered offered no solace at all. I listened out for other people. It had never occurred to me that we might be alone but it was late afternoon by now and perhaps everyone had gone home. I had actually telephoned Cornwallis in his office but he had insisted on meeting me here.
He greeted me by name and as I came in and sat down he seemed warmer and more relaxed than the last two occasions I had seen him. He was wearing a suit but had taken off the tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt.
‘I had no idea who you were,’ he said, passing me one of the cups of coffee. I’d given him my name over the phone. ‘You’re a writer! I have to say, I’m quite surprised. When you came to my office – and my house – I had assumed you were working with the police.’
‘I am, in a way,’ I replied.
‘No. I mean, I thought you were a detective. Where is Mr Hawthorne?’
I drank some of the coffee. He had added sugar without asking me. ‘He’s out of London at the moment.’
‘And he sent you?’
‘No. To be honest, he doesn’t know I’m seeing you.’
Cornwallis considered this. He looked puzzled. ‘On the telephone, you said you were working on a book.’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that a little unorthodox? I thought a police inquiry, a murder inquiry, would be conducted in private. Will I be appearing in this book of yours?’
‘I think you might,’ I said.
‘I’m not sure that I want to. This whole business with Diana Cowper and her son has been extremely upsetting and I really don’t want the company dragged into it. As a matter of fact, I’m sure you’ll find quite a few of the parties involved may have objections.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to get their permission. And if anyone really does object, I can always change their name.’ I might have added that there was nothing to stop me writing about real people if they were in the public domain, but I didn’t want to antagonise him. ‘Would you prefer it if I changed yours?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid I’d insist on it.’
‘I could call you Dan Roberts.’
He looked at me curiously. A smile spread across his face. ‘That’s a name I haven’t used for years.’
‘I know.’
He took out a packet of cigarettes. I didn’t know that he smoked although now I thought about it there had been an ashtray of some sort in his office. He lit a cigarette and shook out the match with an angry wave of the hand. ‘You mentioned on the telephone that you were calling from RADA.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I was there this afternoon. I was seeing …’ I told him the name of the associate director. He didn’t seem to recognise it. ‘You never told me that you went to RADA,’ I added. I’d drunk half of the coffee. I set the mug down.
‘I’m sure I did.’
‘No. I was there on both occasions when Hawthorne spoke to you. Not only were you at RADA but you were there at the same time as Damian Cowper. You acted with him.’
I was sure he would deny it but he didn’t blink. ‘I never talk about RADA any more. It’s not a part of my life that I remember with any great fondness and from what you yourself told me, I didn’t think it was relevant. When you came to see me in my South Kensington office you made it quite clear that your investigation – or, I should say, Mr Hawthorne’s investigation – was directed towards the car accident that had taken place in Deal.’
‘There may still be a connection,’ I said. ‘Were you there when Damian talked about it? Apparently he used it as the basis of one of his acting classes.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was. It was a long time ago, of course, and I’d forgotten all about it until you brought it up.’ He came round the side of the desk and perched on the edge, hovering over me. There was a harsh neon light in the room and it reflected in his glasses. ‘He brought in a little red bus and he played the music. He talked about what had happened and the impression it had made on him.’ Robert Cornwallis reflected for a moment. ‘Do you know, he was actually quite proud of the fact that immediately after she had run over two children, killing one of them as it turned out, his mother’s thoughts were entirely focused on him and his career. The two of them were really quite remarkable, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘You acted with him,’ I said. ‘You were in Hamlet.’
‘The Noh production. Based on Japanese classical theatre. All masks and fans and shared experience. Ridiculous, really. We were just children with big ideas about ourselves but at the time it mattered more than you can possibly imagine.’
‘Everyone says you were brilliant,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘There was a time when I wanted to be an actor.’
‘But you became an undertaker.’
‘We discussed this when you were at my house. It was the family business. My father, my grandfather … remember?’ He seemed to have an idea. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you. You may find it interesting.’
‘What is it?’