The Circle

by Peter Lovesey

  'Someone else should do it. As a circle we can't let an opportunity like this pass us by. Zach?'

  Zach shook his head.

  'Too busy with the big novel?' Tudor said. 'What about you, Sharon? Make a name for yourself.'

  Tudor seemed to believe he had a mission to draw the pretty blonde girl into the open.

  She said, 'You're joking.'

  'And has this event done anything for you as a writer?'

  'Give me a break,' Sharon said.

  Dagmar said, 'She wants to be a fashion writer.'

  'You've got me there,' Tudor said. 'Edgar Blacker in his sports coat and cords wasn't exactly the king of the catwalks. Why not stretch a point and do a piece on the two detectives who took Maurice in? They looked - what's the word? - cool.'

  Sharon shook her head and went back to her doodling. Tudor's sharp blue eyes swivelled in search of someone else to wind up.

  Anton said, 'Murder is too crude a topic for me.'

  Tudor looked across at Basil, the gardener. 'And you're going to say it doesn't beat keeping a lawn nice. I give up.'

  Dagmar said, 'It's a question of good taste, Tudor. A man we all met has died a horrible death, and we don't wish to exploit it in any way.'

  'Pleonasm,' Anton said.

  'I beg your pardon.'

  'You can't die a death. It's a pleonasm. Either you die, or a death takes place.'

  'Somebody strangle that man before I do,' Tudor said. 'Aren't we going to get so much as a pesky poem out of this murder, then?'

  Bob, sensing that the spotlight was about to turn his way, acted quickly to deflect it. 'What about you, Tudor? What are you going to write?'

  'Me? Oh, I haven't decided yet. It could be another chapter in my memoirs, especially if one of you lot is the killer.'

  'That Tudor's a pain in the bum,' Thomasine said to Bob in the car park. 'He'd take over as chair if it wasn't for all the extra work.'

  'Takes all sorts,' Bob said. It isn't a good idea to take sides when you're so new.

  'Trust me, last night wasn't typical. You didn't see us at our best. I hope you'll come again.'

  'I might'

  'You didn't give anyone your address or phone number. What if we have to cancel?'

  He stalled. He was still in two minds about joining the circle. 'Because of another murder?'

  'God forbid - I didn't mean that'

  'I'm not sure I'm up for it.'

  'Up for what?' She made it sound suggestive.

  He wasn't planning to get more friendly with Thomasine. She seemed fun, but he hadn't dated a woman since Maggie died. 'The circle.'

  'Don't be like that. Give us another try. It's a great laugh sometimes. A riot. Really it is.'

  'If I can make it, then.'

  'Give me your number just in case we change the date. It's been known.'

  'I'm saying I don't want to make it official.'

  'And it won't be. I'm not on the committee.'

  With some hesitation he told her his number. 'Sometimes my job keeps me busy at nights. I'll do my best'

  'What are you in - security?'

  'A bouncer, you mean?' He smiled.

  'You're big enough.'

  He told her about the driving job. 'And what do you do?'

  'Me? I teach . . . What's funny about that?'

  * * *

  It was getting on for midnight. Basil was at home making a cocoa prior to retiring and beginning to wonder when his wife Naomi would return. She'd gone out earlier on the bike without telling him her plans. She'd not shown up at the pub. However, he wasn't too concerned. They didn't live in each other's pockets. She was apt to go off 'checking some facts', as she liked to put it, and it was not unusual for her to get home late fulfilled by her researches.

  After the session with the circle members, he'd busied himself in his greenhouse whilst trying to remember some of the things that had been said. Naomi was sure to want chapter and verse on every blessed thing. She'd be pleased Maurice was in the clear. They both had a high regard for Maurice.

  The phone rang. This would be her, no doubt.

  And it was. And she didn't sound fulfilled.

  'Where have you been? I've been calling for the past two hours.'

  'You know where I was. I went to the pub with the circle.'

  'Till midnight?'

  'No, I got back early. I've been pottering in the greenhouse pricking out seedlings.'

  'While I've been trapped in a deserted building.'

  'I had no idea. Where are you now?'

  'Still here, you cretin.'

  'Trapped inside a building? I got that. Do you need help, my dear?'

  Her exasperated sigh was audible down the phone. 'Why else would I be calling? I was afraid I was in a dead spot.'

  'Dead spot?'

  'Stop parroting my words and listen to me. Do you know the publisher's cottage on the Selsey Road, the one that went up in flames? I'm stuck in the bedroom.'

  'How on earth . . . ?'

  'It doesn't matter how. Just get here as fast as you can and bring the steps. I can't climb out without them. You'll need a torch. Have you got that? The steps and a torch.'

  'Yes.'

  'Say it, then.'

  'The steps and a torch.'

  'As quickly as you can, Basil. I'm cold, uncomfortable and extremely annoyed.'

  The drive home in the van added nothing to Basil's understanding. Naomi was treating the episode as if it didn't merit an explanation and Basil knew from experience that it wasn't wise to ask. For his own satisfaction he was damned if he'd tell her Maurice had been at the pub. So nothing was said.

  Finally she asked, 'What seedlings?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'You said you were pricking out seedlings. What are you growing from seed this late in the year?'

  'Lettuces, dear. Late lettuces. You know how we both enjoy a salad.'

  Bob didn't expect a call this quick, lunch time the next day.

  'This is Thomasine. Are you working tonight?'

  'Depends.'

  'Could we meet? Something's happened. Well, it's Maurice. They've pulled him in for questioning again and this time it looks serious.'

  She was waiting in the Feathers in South Street, and little Dagmar was with her in a state of shock, sipping an Appletiser as if it was neat whisky.

  'He's been held for eight hours already' Thomasine said.

  'That's a long time considering they questioned him only the day before.'

  Dagmar spoke: 'They can keep him for up to thirty-six hours without charging him. They need a warrant to hold him any longer.'

  'Dagmar works for a solicitor,' Thomasine said, seeing Bob's reaction to this legal knowhow. 'What's going on, Bob? Maurice is a pussy cat. He wouldn't commit murder.'

  'How did you find out?'

  'What, that he's been pulled in again? Don't ask.'

  Dagmar turned a shade more pink. The best guess was that she'd overheard something at work.

  Bob went to the bar and ordered a beer, wondering how this had become his problem. He hadn't even joined their circle, yet Thomasine seemed to think he could save their precious chair from being stitched up. Ah well, he told himself, it's a change from sitting at home trying not to watch EastEnders.

  He returned to the table. As if they'd read his mind, Thomasine said, 'We need a man's help with this. If Dagmar or I go in to bat for Maurice, everyone's going to think we have a thing for him, and it's not like that. We just think he's entitled to some back-up.'

  'And if you think about the other men in the circle,' Dagmar said, 'well . . .' She smiled and shook her head. 'Tudor, Basil, Zach and Anton. They all mean well, but you wouldn't choose them as ambassadors.'

  'Do any of them know the police have got him there again?'

  'No, it's inside information,' Thomasine said, and Dagmar blushed again.

  Bob felt the weight of their confidence in him. 'I'd like to help, but I'm not sure what I can do. If the worst c
omes to the worst and they charge him with murder, he'll have a legal team defending him.'

  Dagmar said, 'We should be doing something now. Every minute could be important.'

  'Doing what?'

  'We were thinking his partner may know why the police are giving him such a hard time.'

  Dagmar said, 'If anyone knows, she will.'

  'What's her name?'

  'Fran.'

  'Have you met her?'

  'No. He doesn't bring her to any of our parties.'

  'But they live together?'

  'Yes. In Lavant,' Dagmar said. 'We had a meeting at the house once, before the club was formed, just Maurice, Naomi and me, and Fran went out for the evening. It's a nice house facing Goodwood and the racecourse.'

  'The thing is, I don't really know him at all.'

  'She'll know you're okay if you're from the circle,' Thomasine said. 'It's a big part of his life.'

  'I need another beer.'

  'Is that a good idea? We thought you might have a cup of peppermint tea to mask what you've drunk already.'

  'You want me to go up there tonight?'

  Maybe tonight was best. By the morning he might think better of it.

  They were right about the house. A paved drive, coach lamps, porticoed Georgian front.

  Lights were on inside. Someone had heard the chimes and came to the door and the surprise was that she was a little old lady. Not a day under seventy-five, he thought. Soft permed silver hair, pale skin, thin arms. No one had mentioned an elderly parent.

  Bob had forgotten Maurice's surname. A bad start. 'I, em, come from the writers' circle. Is Fran at home?'

  'You're looking at her.'

  He said, 'Ah,' in a way that was meant to sound calm, and didn't. It was more the strangled 'Ah' of a patient at the dentist's.

  'Who are you?' she said.

  Her voice was strong. Maybe she's younger than she looks, he thought. However hard he tried, he couldn't make her under seventy. 'Em, Bob Naylor.' Honesty was needed here. 'You may not have heard of me.'

  'That's true.'

  'I don't look the type, I admit, but I'm the new bloke in the circle. They - we - want to help Maurice if we can. We heard they pulled him in again. Is there any more news?'

  'He's still there, as far as I know.'

  'We think the Old Bill have cocked up.'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'The police, ma'am. They're out of order.'

  'I'm sure they are but I don't know what any of us can do. You'd better come in, Mr Naylor.'

  She opened the door wider.

  'This way.' She showed him into a front room out of the 1950s, with three-piece suite, china cabinet, nest of tables, glass-fronted bookcase and a Swiss mountain scene over the fireplace. What was Maurice's game, moving in here with a woman so many years his senior? Maurice as a middle-aged toy boy? It was hard for Bob to get his head around that.

  'Tea or coffee?'

  'Thanks, but no. Just a chat. The gang - the circle - are trying to decide the best way to help Maurice, but we don't know what we're up against.'

  'You're up against the police. It's good of you to offer, but what can anyone do?' She was twisting an embroidered handkerchief around her fingers.

  'He told us how Edgar Blacker shafted him over the book.'

  'Yes, er, that's a fair summary.'

  'Said there was a thumping great row.'

  'I believe there was. He felt terribly let down.'

  'We feel for him as fellow writers. He also said he didn't start the fire that night, and we believe him.'

  'That's reassuring.'

  'Well, I guess you know for certain that he's blameless. You would know if he went out that night.'

  Fran twisted the handkerchief tighter and sighed. 'That's one of the difficulties. You see, we sleep in separate rooms. About eleven that evening, I went to bed and Maurice said he was going for a walk. He often does about that time, just to look at the stars and get a little exercise before turning in. I never hear him come in. I'm asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.'

  'Shame,' Bob said, and it was an understatement.

  'Yes, it is. They haven't come along to question me yet, and I'll have to be truthful if they do.'

  'You said that's one of the difficulties. Is there another?'

  She sighed. 'I'm afraid there is, but I couldn't possibly divulge it to you, not without Maurice's permission.'

  'Something else happened?'

  'A long time ago.'

  'What - tied in with Edgar Blacker?'

  'No. Quite separate.' She raised her hand. 'That's all I can say.'

  'But you believe he's innocent?'

  'I have total confidence in him, Mr Naylor. I wouldn't share my life with him if I thought he was evil.'

  'I don't want to seem nosy, ma'am—'

  'Fran. Call me Fran.'

  'Fran. How long have you two been together?'

  'Nearly ten years. He had a difficult, unhappy marriage and I only met him after it was over. You'll appreciate that there's an age difference between us and some people find it difficult to understand. If the reverse happens - an older man and a younger woman, nobody seems to think anything of it. I don't believe he regards me as a mother figure, as some people suppose, and I certainly don't treat him that way. We have a loving, relaxed relationship. Are you married?'

  'A widower.'

  'Perhaps you understand, then.'

  'I wasn't trying to judge you, love. We've all got our lives to lead. I only asked because I wanted to know how far you two go back.'

  The phone rang - and it really did ring as phones once did. It was the Bakelite model with a dial once supplied to everyone who asked to be connected. She crossed the room and picked up the receiver. 'Yes?'

  She listened to the caller, and her face creased in anxiety.

  Finally, she said, 'Oh,' and replaced the receiver. To Bob, she said, 'They're keeping him overnight.'

  5

  No, on the whole I think all writers should be in prison.

  Ralph Richardson, on being asked to appear in a charity programme in support of imprisoned writers; quoted by Ned Sherrin in Anecdotage (1993)

  The ladies were still in the bar. Three empty Appletiser bottles were lined up in front of Dagmar, and Thomasine was using a cherry on a cocktail stick to scoop up the last of her drink. Bob gave them the news about Maurice being kept overnight.

  Dagmar looked devastated.

  Thomasine, too, was devastated, and she had drowned her inhibitions in a series of G&Ts. 'Shit and derision - what can he tell them that he hasn't already?'

  'Who knows?' Bob said. 'They think there's more.'

  'And so do you, Bob. I see it in your eyes.'

  'Not much I can tell you, though. Fran hinted at something and then kept the cap on the bottle. She called it a difficulty. Said it happened a long time ago.'

  'Sounds like he's got form.'

  'My thought exactly'

  'What do you mean - a criminal record?' Dagmar said, making it clear this was about as likely as an elephant in church.

  'Right on.'

  'Maurice?

  'What else could she mean?' Bob said.

  'Maurice? Dagmar said again.

  'They wouldn't hold him overnight without something they can work on. Fran is in a sweat. I can tell you that.' He told them about Maurice's late night walk on the night of the murder and Fran being unable to supply an alibi.

  'What's the matter with the dopey woman?' Thomasine said. 'If it was me, and my man was up shit creek, I'd speak up for him.'

  'Me, too,' Dagmar said.

  'No disrespect,' Bob said, 'but that lady is high-principled. She's not going to tell porkies for anyone.'

  'But if she knows he's innocent. . .'

  'She doesn't know. It's about trust, isn't it? She trusts the bloke. For her, that's enough, but it's not enough for the Old Bill.'

  'Besides,' Thomasine said, spreading her hands wide, 'th
ey'd expect his partner to lie for him. In the eyes of the law, alibis from your nearest and dearest don't amount to a fart in a whirlwind.'

  'What's she like, this woman?' Dagmar said.

  'Fran? Bit older than I expected. I'd say there's all of twenty years between them.'

  Dagmar's eyes widened. 'That makes her over seventy.'

  'That's what I thought.'

  Thomasine said, 'She must be a bloody good cook, is all I can say. So what are we going to do, poppets? Tell the others Maurice is back in the nick?'

  'There's nothing any of us can do for him tonight,' Bob said.

  'Suppose they charge him and he's innocent?'

  'Of course he's innocent,' Dagmar said, beginning to get over the shock of that age gap. 'We've got to support him.'

  'There's only one way,' Thomasine said. 'We must find out who really set fire to that sodding publisher's house. And when I say "we", I mean the entire circle, the whole kit and caboodle - all twelve of us.'

  'Eleven,' Dagmar said.

  'Twelve. Bob's in, aren't you, baby?'

  'Yes, but what Dagmar means is that Maurice can't help us much.'

  On that note of unity, they decided to leave. Thomasine got upright with difficulty, pushing at the table edge as if it was the river bank and she was in a small boat.

  'You're not driving, are you?' Bob said.

  'Why? You want a lift?'

  'We'd better get you home,' he said, looking to Dagmar for a sign that she would help. She gave a nod.

  Out in the fresh air, Thomasine swayed and grabbed Bob's arm. He helped her to his car. They eased her into the back seat and Dagmar got in beside her.

  'What's this - a threesome?' Thomasine said.

  'Don't be daft,' Dagmar said.

  'I don't need a chaperon.'

  'I do,' Bob said. 'Where do you live?'

  They drove to some flats west of the city. Between them, he and Dagmar negotiated the stairs, taking most of Thomasine's weight. Dagmar found the key in the handbag and they let themselves in and opened the bedroom door. Thomasine flopped onto the bed without another word. Dagmar removed her shoes and covered her with the quilt.

  On the drive back to the centre of town, Dagmar said, 'She'll be so embarrassed tomorrow. It's not a habit.'

  'We've all been there.' Even as he said this to Dagmar, Bob was thinking that a lifelong Appletiser drinker probably had not been there.