I was kept in overnight for observation but generally I wasn’t in such bad shape. My two scalpel wounds hurt a lot but needed just two stitches each. I’d been badly scared. It would take between eight and twelve hours for the effects of the drug to wear off.
I had visitors. My wife came first, interrupting a busy production schedule to make her way up to the second floor where I had now been transferred. She wasn’t too pleased to see me. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’ she demanded. ‘You could have been killed.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘And you’re not really going to write about it, are you? You’ll look ridiculous! Why did you even go into the building? If you knew he was a killer …’
‘I didn’t know it was empty. And I didn’t think he was the killer. I just thought he might know more than he was saying.’
It was true. I had recognised Robert Cornwallis in the photograph that Liz had shown me but the trouble was, in the back of my mind, I’d already decided that if it wasn’t Alan Godwin, then Grace’s father, Martin Lovell, must have been responsible for the murders. He’d been in the photograph too, the man with the flowers on the edge of the frame. He had a good reason to want Damian Cowper dead. He would have done anything to protect his daughter and help her restart her career. I’d been so sure I was right that I hadn’t thought it through and had almost got myself killed.
‘Why did you never tell me you were writing this book?’ my wife asked. ‘You don’t normally keep things from me.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ I felt wretched. ‘I knew you’d think it was a bad idea.’
‘I don’t like the idea of you putting yourself in danger. And look where it’s got you: intensive care!’
‘It was only four stitches.’
‘You were very lucky.’ Just then her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the screen and got up. ‘I brought you this,’ she said.
She’d brought a book and laid it on the bed. It was The Meaning of Treason by Rebecca West, the book I was reading for Foyle’s War. ‘ITV are waiting to hear about the new series,’ she reminded me.
‘I’ll write it next,’ I promised.
‘Not if you’re dead, you won’t.’
My two sons sent nice texts but they didn’t come to the hospital. It was the same when I’d had my motorbike accident in Greece the year before. They were quite squeamish about seeing me horizontal.
Hilda Starke looked in though. I hadn’t seen or heard from my agent since our lunch and she was in a hurry, on her way to a BAFTA screening. She came bustling into my room, perched on a chair and examined me briefly. ‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m all right. They’re really only keeping me in for examination.’
She looked doubtful.
‘I was drugged,’ I explained.
‘This man, Robert Cornwallis, attacked you?’
‘Yes. And then he committed suicide.’
She nodded. ‘Well, I have to admit that will make a terrific end for the book. I’ve got news on that front, by the way. Good news and bad news. Orion don’t want it. I told them the idea and they just weren’t interested. At the same time, they want you to stick to the three-book contract so it may be a while before you can write it.’
‘What’s the good news?’ I asked.
‘HarperCollins have already confirmed American rights. And I’ve spoken to a terrific editor, Selina Walker, and she likes your work enough that she’s prepared to wait too. She’s coming back to me with a deal.’
I could see the books piling up in front of me. Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk I feel as if there’s a dump truck behind me. I hear the whirr of its engine and it suddenly off-loads its contents … millions and millions of words. They keep cascading down and I wonder how many more words there can possibly be. But I’m powerless to stop them. Words, I suppose, are my life.
‘I’ve also been in contact with the police,’ Hilda went on. ‘Obviously, some of this is going to get into the newspapers but we’re trying to keep you out of it. First of all they’re embarrassed that you were involved in the first place but, more importantly, we don’t want people to know the story before you write it.’ She stood up, ready to leave. ‘And by the way,’ she went on, almost as an afterthought, ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Hawthorne. The title is “Hawthorne Investigates” and we’re splitting the profits fifty-fifty.’
‘Wait a minute!’ I was stunned. ‘That’s not the title and I thought you said you were never going to agree to that deal.’
She looked at me curiously. ‘That was what you agreed,’ she reminded me. ‘And it was the only deal he was prepared to accept.’ She was nervous about something and I found myself wondering if there was something Hawthorne knew about her and if he had used it in the negotiations. ‘Anyway let’s talk about this when we hear back from Selina.’ She paused. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘No. I’ll be home tomorrow.’
‘I’ll call you then.’ She was gone before I could say another word.
My last guest arrived later that evening, long after visiting hours were over. I heard a nurse trying to stop him and the snap of his reply: ‘It’s all right. I’m a police officer.’ Then Hawthorne appeared at the foot of my bed. He was holding a crumpled brown paper bag.
‘Hello, Tony,’ he said.
‘Hello, Hawthorne.’ It was odd, but I was very glad to see him. More than that I felt a warmth towards him that had no basis in logic or reason. Right then, there was nobody I wanted to see more.
He sat down on the chair that Hilda had vacated. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘I’m much better.’
‘I brought you these.’ He handed me the bag. I opened it. It contained a large bunch of grapes.
‘Thank you very much.’
‘It was either that or Lucozade. I thought you’d prefer grapes.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I set them aside. I’d been given a private room, perhaps because I was involved in a police inquiry. The lights were low. There were just the two of us, the chair, the bed. ‘About Hammersmith,’ I said. ‘I was very glad you turned up. Robert Cornwallis was going to kill me.’
‘He was a total loony. You shouldn’t have gone in there on your own, mate. You should have called me first.’
‘Did you know he was the killer?’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘I was about to arrest him. But I had to sort out that business with Nigel Weston first.’
‘How is he?’
‘A bit pissed off that his house burned down. Otherwise he’s fine.’
I sighed. ‘I don’t really understand any of it,’ I said. ‘When did you first know it was Cornwallis?’
‘You up for this now?’
‘I’m not going to get any sleep unless you tell me. Wait a minute!’ I reached for my iPhone. The movement tweaked the wounds in my chest and my shoulder, making me wince. But I had to record him. I turned it on. ‘Start from the beginning,’ I said. ‘Don’t leave anything out.’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘All right.’
And this was what he said.
‘Right from the start, I told you we had a sticker. What Meadows and the rest of them couldn’t get their head round was this. A woman walks into an undertaker’s to arrange her funeral and six hours later she’s dead. That was the bottom line. If she hadn’t gone to the undertaker’s, there’d have been nothing very strange about her murder. It might have been that burglar Meadows was going on about. But we had two unusual events and the trouble was, we couldn’t work out the connection.