The Circle

by Peter Lovesey

  Tudor wasn't to be deprived of his libation, as he put it. Two packs of Black Label waited on the table in his living room. The place was roomy enough for three sofas, but it wasn't the furniture that caught the eye. The walls were plastered with photos of the sort you see in celebrity magazines. The fact that Tudor was in every one didn't make the impact he intended. It seemed to Bob like desperation, this urge to be pictured with minor celebs.

  Thomasine made a roundabout start. 'Tudor, baby, we're trying to prove Maurice is innocent. Thought you might have some ideas how to go about it.'

  Tudor's features relaxed. He picked up a can and opened it. 'Oh, if that's what this is about, I'm your man. I don't mind admitting I had my doubts when he was first taken in for questioning, but I'm like that. I was brought up to believe the police were infallible. It's hard to shake off, that kind of conditioning.'

  'You changed your mind?'

  'Totally. Maurice hasn't got a ha'p'orth of malice in him.'

  'The trouble is,' Bob said, 'he doesn't have an alibi either. He went for a walk on the night of the fire and his partner doesn't know when he got back.'

  Thomasine said as if she were speaking only to Bob, 'If you asked most of us where we were that night we wouldn't be able to come up with cast-iron alibis. I live alone and so does Tudor.'

  It was neatly done. She and Bob both looked to Tudor for a reaction.

  He hesitated. 'Good point. I was at home here in bed, but I can't prove it, if anyone should ask. I wasn't entertaining Miss World.' He winked at Bob. 'Not that night, anyway.'

  'And if the cops made some enquiries,' Thomasine said, 'they'd find Edgar Blacker was top of your hate list.'

  'Why?'

  'Because of the way he treated you at the meeting.'

  He sighed, like a chess player in check. 'What - keeping me waiting for an opinion on my book? He did, the bugger. That's true. He got up my nose. Only it hardly makes a motive for murder.'

  'Did he see you at the end?' Bob asked.

  'A few private words. He didn't want to speak in front of the others, his point being that it was too personal. My book's a memoir, you see, an account of my life so far.'

  'Were they encouraging, those few private words?' Thomasine asked.

  'Helpful, more than encouraging. After all, we didn't come to be buttered up, did we? Nice to hear, no doubt, but no damned use to serious writers. Constructive criticism was the order of the day.'

  'Was it really helpful, Tudor?'

  'To a degree, yes. He told me it was a matter of pitching it right. I tend to treat the reader as an old chum with a shared sense of humour, giving him the occasional nudge in the ribs. Edgar Blacker didn't care for that. Wanted a more neutral style, simply telling the story without signposting the funny bits. I could see what he meant.'

  'Anything else?'

  His eyes flicked left and right. 'Well, he was a little sceptical about some of my adventures, and I had to tell him straight that everything happened just as I describe it. He didn't seem willing to accept that an ordinary fellow like me could have been on friendly terms with so many of the great and good. As you know, Thomasine, I take folk as I find them, never mind if they've climbed Everest or won Wimbledon, and they always respond. They're only men and women like you and me. We all have to go to the bathroom, don't we? When you think of it like that, treating them as equals, you can get along with anyone.'

  'Was he interested in publishing you?' Thomasine asked.

  'If I was willing to make the changes he suggested I think he'd have jumped at the chance.'

  'Is that what he said?'

  'Not precisely.'

  'What did he say?'

  'About the book?' Tudor was stalling now. 'He said it needed beefing up, whatever that means.'

  'Not enough substance.'

  'Something like that. There was a danger the reader might think I was a name-dropper if I couldn't say something more startling about my friends in the public eye.'

  This sounded more likely. Bob tried to look mystified by the idea of Tudor as a name-dropper. 'More startling? What - badmouthing them?'

  'You've got it. He was after sensation. Well, if this had been a work of fiction I wouldn't have minded, but it's my life story, for pity's sake, and these are my friends. I can't stab them in the back.'

  'Out of the question,' Thomasine said.

  'I 'm glad you agree.'

  'And is that what you told him?'

  'More or less. Look, what was said between him and me doesn't matter in the least. We should be turning the spotlight on some of the others.'

  Bob kept the spotlight where it was. 'Was that your first meeting with Blacker, that evening at the circle?'

  Tudor's eyes gave the answer.

  'You knew him already?'

  'I wouldn't put it so strongly as that.'

  'But . . . ?'

  In desperation he started to flannel. 'There are degrees of knowing, aren't there? If you know somebody in the biblical sense, you ought to be married to them. My contact with Blacker was way down the scale. We'd met on one or two occasions, no more.'

  This could be the breakthrough. Bob was pleased he'd asked the question. 'When?'

  'A few years ago. I sold him some insurance. That's my job.'

  'You insured him?'

  'My firm did. I'm just a cog in the machinery.'

  'What kind of insurance? Life?'

  'I can't go into it. Confidentiality.'

  'Fire?'

  'Good Lord, no,' Tudor said. 'Please respect my position here. I could get into fearful trouble if head office find out I've discussed a client's business.'

  'The client is dead,' Thomasine said.

  'And my dealings with him have nothing to do with the case.'

  'Did he ever make a claim?'

  Tudor made a sweeping movement with his open hand. 'If you persist with this, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Believe me, it has no bearing. End of discussion.'

  'But we have established that you and he knew each other before the night he died,' Thomasine said.

  'Slightly. Can we leave it there?'

  'After the meeting - the circle meeting, I mean,' Bob said, 'did you see him again?'

  'Before he died? Not me. Why all this interest in me? Have you spoken to any of the others?'

  'You're not the first,' Bob said.

  'You should talk to our blonde charmer, Sharon. She's not a writer. She's never read anything out. She just sits and scribbles on her notepad all the time, doodles, not words. What's she doing, coming to a writers' circle and making no contribution whatsoever?'

  They left without discussing Sharon.

  That same evening, the author of 'The Sussex Witchcraft Trials' called on the next Tolkien and made a bold suggestion. 'I'm looking for a partner,' Naomi told Zach in the converted railway carriage that was his home in Selsey, 'and I can't think of anyone better than you.'

  'For what?' Zach said. Confident and able as he was, secure in his own home, he still felt uneasy under the hyperthyroid gaze of those brown eyes.

  'For our mutual benefit.' But the tone of her voice didn't make it sound so inviting.

  'Oh yeah?'

  'You and I have certain things to offer each other, wouldn't you say?'

  This hit Zach like a poleaxe.

  'How do you mean?' He was stunned, weak at the knees and disbelieving, but to be honest with himself he'd never had an offer like this from a woman. He wasn't every girl's idea of a sexy hunk. As for Naomi, well, she scared most people rigid with her steely looks, but she was probably younger than she appeared and she had the body of a tennis player.

  'A way of bringing out the best in each of us.'

  His thoughts were racing now. What would Basil say if his wife had a fling? Maybe Basil wasn't giving her what she wanted. He was a pretty old guy, quite a few years her senior. He might be grateful.

  Zach heard himself saying, 'You've got me interested.'

  'Good. It's ob
vious you have a good imagination.'

  True, and it was working overtime. 'Thanks.'

  'Unlike me,' she said. 'I stick to facts.' She gave him a long look.

  What fact does she want from me? he thought. The size of my jigger? 'So?'

  'There's some risk attached to this, and I must ask you to keep it between the two of us.'

  'No problem,' he said. Some risk, huh? Was it outdoor sex she wanted?

  She surprised him by saying, 'I had a look inside the burnt-out cottage.'

  That would be kinky. Thinking about it, he wasn't so sure he wanted to go along with this any more.

  'You mean Edgar Blacker's place?'

  'Yes.'

  'You went inside? What for?'

  'For the truth, of course. He was murdered and Maurice McDade has been charged with it. I don't believe for one moment that Maurice is the arsonist. Do you?'

  Zach was unequal to this twist in the plot. 'I don't know. Haven't thought about it.'

  'Well, it's time you did,' she said. 'This is why I'm confiding in you. I have my own ideas who the murderer might be, and I'm collecting evidence, but I can't see my way to putting it on record without risking a libel action. There's a way round it, and this is where you come in.'

  'Oh?'

  'We dress it up as fiction using your gift with words.'

  She wanted him to collaborate in a book.

  'But I'm a fantasy writer. I don't do crime.'

  'You have the gift. I'll give you the plot. All you have to do is get into the mind of the killer and make it convincing. Together we can turn out a bestseller.'

  'It's not my scene.'

  'Rubbish. Where's your sense of adventure?'

  'Can't you work with someone else?'

  'Who? Basil? He's a gardener, not a writer.'

  In desperation, he cast around for another suggestion. 'Dagmar? She does fiction.'

  'She does daydreams for sex-starved women. And she's no damned good at it. I want a real writer.'

  'But I'm working on a book already.'

  'Take a break, Zach. When you come back to it your batteries will be recharged.'

  Her intensity was scary, yet it played to Zach's ego. He didn't know how to wriggle out of this and he wasn't certain that he should. He still had the impression that she fancied him. 'What's in it for me?'

  'That's better,' she said with the beginning of a smile. 'It's cards on the table time.'

  'Was that any use?' Bob asked Thomasine in the main bar at the Feathers. They'd left Tudor in his flat looking like a frog in a dried-out pond.

  Thomasine was on Martinis. 'His ego was bruised, for sure.'

  'Because of what Blacker thought of his book?'

  'You want to hear him reading it out. It's all "my good friend the Duke" and "my old chum Ringo". Makes you want to puke.'

  'Hasn't anyone told him this before?'

  'That's one of the problems in the circle. We're too damned polite to each other. It takes an outsider like Blacker to speak the truth, and even he was pussyfooting really.'

  'Except he was a publisher, and you knew he wasn't bullshitting if he took one of you on.'

  'Which he didn't'

  'He seemed to think Zach was all right. And he liked your stuff.'

  'He wanted to get out without being lynched. Would he have published us? Would he, heck. He dropped poor old Maurice, didn't he?'

  'Has anyone found out why?'

  Her eyes widened. 'You were there when Maurice told us. Blacker's costs had spiralled, he said.'

  'But there must have been something else. He must have had second thoughts.'

  'If he did, Maurice didn't share that with us.'

  'But he probably told his partner Fran.'

  'Hey, smart thinking!' Thomasine said.

  She made swift work of her third Martini, and they took a taxi out to Lavant.

  When Fran opened the door and saw them, she said with disappointment, 'You again? I was hoping it was Maurice.'

  'They charged him,' Bob said. 'They're keeping him there.'

  Yes, but I was hoping they'd realise the mistake they made.'

  He didn't comment. 'This is Thomasine.'

  Fran managed a faint smile for Thomasine. 'I've heard about you from Maurice.'

  'Like I said, we're trying to find out what really happened,' Bob said.

  You'd better come in.'

  Even on this second visit she still looked too old to be Maurice's lover. She dressed old, as well. Tonight she was wearing a white lace blouse with a cameo brooch at her neck. She offered tea and went to the kitchen to make it.

  Thomasine glanced about her, at the Alpine scene above the fireplace and the willow pattern tea service in the china cabinet. 'Can't picture Maurice in this set-up.'

  'Researching his unsolved crimes?'

  She crossed to the bookcase. 'Even these are in a time warp. Nevil Shute. Hammond Innes.'

  'They're bookclub titles. My old man had a set.'

  'But what's in it for Maurice?'

  'Wait till you try the fruit cake.'

  In fact, it was Victoria sponge, and it came on a tray with a cloth and was placed on one of the nest of tables. Fran's hand was not too steady as she poured out the tea.

  'We use this room for visitors,' she said, as if she'd overheard them. 'Maurice and I like to relax and spread ourselves out in the back room with our newspapers and magazines and my sewing. Then he has his study upstairs with his filing cabinet and all his crime books.'

  'Do you help him?'

  'Whenever I can. I know a fair bit about crimes that don't get cleared up. My first husband was one of the Richardson gang.'

  Bob almost choked on his first sip of tea. She could not have amazed him any more if she had flapped her arms and flown around the room. This from a white-haired lady with a willow pattern tea service and a cameo brooch. Who would have thought it? The Richardson brothers ruled south London in the sixties, hard men notorious for torturing those who crossed them.

  He tried to keep this as a normal conversation. 'You saw it on the inside, then?'

  'He did. Women kept their distance.'

  'What happened? Did you separate?'

  'No. He died in prison - which is why I don't want Maurice going there.'

  'It wouldn't be the first time, would it?' Seeing her reaction he added, 'It's all right, Fran. We know he's got form.'

  She had gone deathly white. 'Who told you?'

  'It was bound to come out.'

  'He's no villain,' she said. 'Believe me. I was married to one.'

  Thomasine said, 'We all know he's a lovely guy.'

  'The police don't. To them he's a convicted fire-raiser.'

  'It wasn't like that, was it?' Bob said. 'We're trying to find out who really should be banged up for this.'

  'I wish I knew,' Fran said.

  'But you know why Maurice's book deal with Blacker fell through?'

  Her voice took on a different note, harder and more angry. 'Because Blacker was a low-down, conniving shyster, that's why.'

  'The five-grand demand?'

  Fran rolled her eyes upwards.

  Thomasine said, 'The man was a tosser.'

  Fran said, 'You bet he planned it all along. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd played the same trick on other writers he published. They got so close to seeing themselves in print that they paid up. It's called vanity publishing in the trade, except it's worse than that because real vanity publishers tell the writers from the start that they're expected to meet the costs. He wasn't even honest about that.'

  'No wonder he was touting for business at the circle,' Thomasine said. 'I could have been caught. I was over the moon when he said my poems were good enough to publish.'

  'You'd have paid the printing costs, but you wouldn't have owned the book. You'd get six free copies, and that's all.'

  'I'd have murdered the bastard,' Thomasine said.

  'Someone did,' Bob said.

  'One of his authors?'<
br />
  'We'll find out. Do you have a copy of his catalogue?' he asked Fran.

  'I think so. I'll look in the office if you don't mind helping yourselves to more tea and cake.'

  While Fran was out of the room, Thomasine said, 'I'll be so relieved if someone outside the circle is the killer.'

  Bob had been here already. 'If they are, there's not much we can do.'

  'Why? Maurice is still our chair. We've got to help him.' No one was going to duck out while Thomasine was on the case.

  Bob offered her a slice of cake and she pointed out that it must have been made for Maurice. 'We can't eat his cake and walk away.'

  Fran returned with the Blacker List catalogue. It was modest in size, more of a leaflet than a brochure.

  'Not a lot here,' Bob said when he'd leafed through the few pages. Two of the books were by the same author, memories of Chichester in the Second World War by an old lady who lived in Pennsylvania. She'd married a GI and never returned to England. Another was the illustrated book Blacker had mentioned, showing dog owners who resembled their pets. A note on the back cover stated that the author had died shortly before publication. And the only other Blacker List title was Shinty, Bandy and Hurling, by a former Bishop of Chichester now living in a retirement home in Scotland.

  'Strong stuff for a bishop,' Thomasine said.

  'Says here they're ball games,' Bob said, '"akin to hockey". I wouldn't think any of these are bestsellers. My guess is that Blacker conned the authors into paying for publication.'

  'But it doesn't look as if we have a suspect among them,' Thomasine said. 'One deceased, one retired bishop and one old lady in Pennsylvania.'

  The focus of guilt shifted back to the circle. No one said a word, but it was in their minds.

  The phone was ringing when Bob got in around eleven.

  'Thank goodness you're back. I've been trying on and off since nine. I didn't want to leave a message.'

  He couldn't place the voice yet. 'Sorry. Who is this?'

  'Amelia.'

  Well, it was late, and it had been a long, taxing day. 'Come again?'

  'Miss Snow.'

  'Ah.'

  'I - em - I need the video.'

  'Why? What's up, love?' He called her love in response to the nervousness coming down the line.