‘We all want to know the difference between crime writing and thrillers,’ said Jed. He looked so good, sitting there, in charge, air of natural authority. ‘Is there a difference, Fancy?’
Fancy shifted in her seat, found a more comfortable position. She could not think of any words. ‘The simple answer is … that crime writing includes an element of police procedure, whereas a thriller is all action. But the Die Hard films explode that theory, sorry Bruce Willis. They are all action yet Bruce is cast as a policeman.’
Fancy was off. There was no stopping her.
Jed had only to steer her towards new aspects. He had an idea what everyone wanted to know. But he did not mention cold cases or her magazine. There was no need to include something which might shatter her present fragile confidence.
‘You write every day, don’t you?’
‘A day without writing is a day wasted,’ said Fancy. She paused. She hadn’t written a word today yet she could not consider it wasted. She had spent a magical afternoon with Jed, among flowers and a sense of history, words spiralling into her head to use later. Perhaps there would be time tonight.
‘My own ninety-day novel course proves that you can write the first draft of a novel in ninety days. And I’ve done it myself several times. Seven hundred words a day and in ninety days you have a novel ready to work on.’
‘Ready to work on? What do you mean?’
‘The first draft is the skeleton of your story. Revising is putting the flesh on the bones. The next revision is honing and whittling and polishing. It’s the part I like best. Cut, cut … cut.’ Fancy’s voice was unsteady for a moment. The audience thought it was emotion. Jed knew she was thinking of her pink belt.
‘Is that it, then? Two revisions?’
‘No, I do a third and final revision so that each page looks right. A reasonable amount of white. And a shining word. Long exchanges of dialogue are broken up. Heavy paragraphs split. Although the typed page is shorter than the printed page of your book, if you get it right initially, it will look right on the page.’
‘What do you mean by white?’
Fancy laughed, looking around. ‘White paper, white space, a line with nothing much on it. When people go to borrow or buy a book, they flick through the pages. If there is too much black, that is, too much print, it looks heavy going and they may put it back, unless they are an academic. But if there is plenty of white, they know they are going to be able to read it quickly and enjoy it. That’s the way to sell books. Unless you rent a stall on Portobello Road and spend your Sundays flogging titles at a discount.’
‘You said something about a shining word.’
‘I always make sure that every page has a bright word, a beautiful word, an unusual word, something special that shines out like a beacon.’
‘Not all of us can write like a beacon.’
‘Every one of us has special words hidden away inside or favourite words. Mine are meticulous and serendipity.’
By a quarter past nine, Fancy was flagging. She had talked solidly for three-quarters of an hour, without a single note. Jed passed her a half-full tumbler of water and she took a grateful drink, almost choking on the first mouthful. The taste was sharp: a double gin and tonic.
She flashed him a brilliant smile of thanks. It was just what she needed. A sip of gin now and then kept the energy flowing. She got funnier and funnier. The audience were laughing, enjoying her dry wit and merciless opinion of the book trade She also made fun of herself.
‘Burne-Jones is a good writing name. I’m on the top shelf but a bit out of reach for shorter readers. I have a friend whose name begins with W. She goes into W H Smith every morning and moves her books from the floor to eye-level. The staff are getting to know her. Her books are moved back every evening.’
‘Writers are very generous people,’ said Jed. ‘Always willing to share their knowledge. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course. In the end it’s down to individual talent. Always write from the heart. Writing brings happiness, to you as the writer and then to your readers. Make a contract with your reader. This is the contract: I will give you a book worth reading. All you have to give me is your time.’
The audience broke out into spontaneous applause. Jed thought Fancy had brought it neatly to an end without sounding pompous or patronizing. He leaned across towards her chair. ‘Well done,’ he said, gravely. Fancy finished her drink.
‘Is there any more of that water?’ she asked.
‘In the bar.’
She pretended a big sigh. ‘I’ll have to wait.’
A forest of hands went up, each with a burning question. Some questions were almost a major speech but Jed managed to whittle them down into something that required an answer. Everyone wanted to ask Fancy a question. They got some odd-ball replies. She was relaxed now that it was all over and could afford to be a bit flippant. No one minded.
More applause and it was time to leave the hall, escorted by the chairman. People scraped their chairs back. They were going to give her a standing ovation.
Jed put his head down close to the microphone. ‘No standing, please. Fancy is a working author, not Nelson Mandela or Terry Waite.’
This brought another wave of applause. Jed had known instinctively that Fancy would hate disproportionate admiration. He was right. She was nodding and smiling in his direction. Their smiles caught like shafts of sunshine, bouncing back to each other.
‘The water was wonderful,’ she said as she brushed past him. ‘From an ancient Scottish spring, running over burns, no doubt.’
‘You were wonderful,’ he replied.
Fergus took her straight to the bar where there was a bottle of champagne on ice. ‘And you deserve every drop,’ he said, pouring the glistening foam into a cluster of flutes. The committee gathered round, eager for their share of the unexpected champagne. They didn’t get champagne after every speaker. Jed accepted a beer. He preferred it anyway.
‘That worked very well,’ said Fergus. ‘The twosome conversation was very relaxed and enjoyable. Sometimes speakers get carried away by their early struggles and we have to hear about every harrowing rejection.’
‘Or they insist on telling us the entire plot of their latest and then read bits of it out aloud to us. I hate that,’ said Jessie. ‘And of course, we had two classy people to look at. All the men were looking at Fancy and all the women were gazing at Jed. Like a scene from Gone With The Wind.’
Jed did not know where to look. He cleared his throat and sipped his beer.
Fancy unpinned her topknot and let it fall round her shoulders. She felt carefree for once. No more worries about talking.
She had to laugh again as the champagne tickled her nose. Jed looked so put out. ‘All the women gazing at such a handsome policeman?’ she whispered towards him. ‘And I hadn’t even noticed.’
Someone topped up her glass. She was well on the way to becoming rather merry. Lots of champagne and a double gin on top of a few carrots and a dish of muddy ice cream. What could she expect? She had freed her fingers from the bandage and could hold a glass very well now. It had taken practice.
There were only two more working days of Northcote: Wednesday and Thursday. She had two more course lectures to do and then she could go home first thing on Friday morning, having fulfilled her contract.
But she did not want to go home. There would be no Jed to support her. What if this belt-slashing maniac followed her back to her church lodge and set fire to it?
‘Fancy, you’re supposed to be signing books in the book room,’ said the book room lady. ‘There’s a queue forming. I hope you can still sign your name.’
‘I’ll put a cross,’ said Fancy, taking her champagne with her. ‘Or a double cross, meaning with love.’
‘Tut, tut,’ said the book room lady, grinning. ‘What we have to put up with, getting authors to sign their books. Next year I’ll bring a rubber stamp.’
Fancy spent half an hour signing books. Fergus cam
e through with a refill of champagne. She could hardly remember her name in the feeding frenzy. She had to look at each book cover to remind herself who she was before she signed. But her smiles became lovelier and wider. And she had some words of encouragement to say to each writer. She sold a lot of books.
Jed came to the door of the book room. He had loosened the top button of his shirt, but he looked cold, forlorn somehow. ‘Writer’s cramp yet?’
She could see that he needed her. He didn’t have to say anything.
‘Nearly finished,’ she said, wanting to wrap her arms round him but remembering in time that she was in company.
The queue tailed away, joining a different queue at the bar. Others drifted off to the late night talks, quizzes and readings. The energetic went to the disco; others stayed in the bar to drink and talk. It was warm enough to go outside and the lawn was dotted with groups talking and laughing. The gazebo was full, as usual, its occupants puffing away.
Jed found the same two seats in the vinery, hidden behind the big leaves. It was perfect for a quiet moment. Fancy needed to wind down. She was still on a high after her talk and too much to drink.
She tried to pin her hair back but her fingers had lost the knack. The bandages were coming undone and she fumbled, unable to retie them. They were looking dingy. Tomorrow she would beg a roll of cling film from the kitchen.
‘Thank goodness,’ she said, sitting back in a cane chair, ducking behind a leaf. ‘At last, a moment alone.’
‘You’re not alone. I’m here.’
‘A moment alone with you, I mean. I’ve had enough of the maddening crowds. Sit down, Jed. You look worn out.’
‘I’ve been on the phone a lot, finding out things. Do you want to hear about it?’
‘Yes, sure. But if you want another beer, the bar is about to close.’
‘Back in a moment. Keep my seat.’
Jed had to wait in the queue but when he returned, he was carrying a beer, a Campari and ice and a packet of crisps. They had lent him a tray. He manoeuvred the tray onto the table top. ‘Guessed you didn’t eat much at supper.’
‘Crisps! Salt and vinegar. Great, this must be Christmas.’
They let the wave of noise wash over them, almost too tired to open the crisps. It was quite dark outside, shadows creeping up over the lawn, great trees looming. Pale faces, a cigarette being lit, flash of a torch. People were dispersing.
Fancy felt the euphoria soaking away, down her legs and into the tiled floor. It was getting cold but it was too late and too far to go to fetch a jersey. Besides, she was afraid of room 425. Afraid of what she might find there.
‘Are you warm enough?’
‘I’m fine,’ she lied.
‘Do you remember The Missing Cover Girl case?’
‘Vaguely.’ Fancy was only being polite. She didn’t want to talk about a cold case. She was far too tired.
‘They were twin girls called Thelma and Grace, born in late July 1950. They were both dark and beautiful, stunners, in fact, but so different in character. Thelma was flighty and flirtatious, got a job as a model, her face on the covers of glossy magazines everywhere. Grace was quiet and studious, went on to Durham University, graduated and became a press officer for one of the political parties.’
‘She did well.’
‘The husband in the case was Rupert Harlow, a prospective candidate for some seat in the south and they all met at a constituency party. Grace was there as a press officer and Thelma went along to be photographed. A sort of gatecrasher, but Grace let her in. She could hardly turn her own sister away.’
‘I can see it all,’ said Fancy. ‘Rupert fell in love with the glamorous twin and she was dazzled by his political ambition, seeing herself standing on the doorstep of No. 10 in ten years’ time.’
Fancy let the words fall around her. She was too tired to take the story in. She was listening out of politeness.
‘Exactly. Rupert and Thelma became an item, although I’m not sure who pursued who. Thelma certainly had her eye on being the wife of a Member of Parliament, lunch on the Terrace, dinner in the Members’ Dining Room.’
‘Did Rupert Harlow ever become an MP?’
‘No, he lost at the next election and became a solicitor instead. Thelma and Rupert were married by then, living in Surbiton. It seemed a happy marriage; a smart young couple, dinner parties and trips abroad. Then Thelma disappeared. Rupert didn’t report her missing. He said later that she had flounced out in a huff, had gone to visit her sister.’
‘And had she?’
‘Grace wasn’t even in the country. She was attending some conference in Brussels. It was their mother who reported Thelma as missing. When the police went round to the house in Surbiton, they found spatters of blood in the bedroom and on the stairs, which Rupert Harlow could not explain. Thelma’s belongings were still in the house, her handbag, car keys, passport, bank book, money. She had taken nothing with her.’
‘How strange. It’s coming back to me now.’
Fancy remembered the story. The newspapers had called it the case of The Missing Cover Girl with lots of glamorous photos of Thelma. Thelma posing at parties, nightclubs, the races, always looking beautifully dressed and radiant.
‘Then it came out that Rupert had been having an affair with Grace for months, cheating on Thelma. He’d got tired of the flighty one and had fallen for the serious one. Thelma had caught them in bed together. There had been an almighty row. It was here that the stories began to differ. Rupert said that Thelma had walked out on him. Grace said that the sisters had forgiven each other and Rupert and Thelma were planning a second honeymoon. Their mother did not believe it.’
‘And he was charged with Thelma’s murder, despite no body being found?’
Fancy’s fingers were itching to make notes. But she had no pen and no paper. Not like her at all. She would have to remember everything.
‘The prosecution claimed that the blood spatters were Thelma’s blood, but Grace had the same blood group. Grace said she had cut herself on a broken glass. Defence claimed the evidence was flimsy and the case was thrown out,’ said Jed.
‘Were you on the case?’
‘Before my time, Fancy. I know I have grey hair. It was all the talk at the station. They were certain Thelma had been beaten up and buried under the patio.’
‘Was there a patio?’
‘Police in-joke. Tacky. Poor taste.’
‘And why do you think the case might be re-opened?’
‘It’s the development in DNA testing these days. They can find evidence in the tiniest sample of earth or dust or smear of blood. My digging around to write about the case has stirred things up. And I’ve a lot more facts about Rupert and Grace that casts a different light on their affair and their subsequent marriage. I want to write about it and put it in my book.’
‘The Missing Cover Girl: Where is she now? sort of thing?’
Jed nodded.
‘If Thelma walked out on Rupert, then she is still around, isn’t she? Thirty years older, but still good-looking, I bet. Have you the keys to both rooms?’ Jed asked, changing the subject and finishing his beer. Fancy yawned.
‘Yes. No one has asked for them back.’
Jed stood up and stretched. ‘Do you fancy a dance?’
The small conference hall was belting out music. It was not Fancy’s kind of music – pulsating rock at mega-decibels. She cringed in the doorway. Her ears were protesting.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Jed. ‘Let me see what I can do.’
He went and spoke to the skinny, short-skirted DJ. She turned down the volume and changed the disc. ‘By request, ladies and gentlemen, for one night only,’ she said. ‘Lady in Red.’
Jed led Fancy onto the dance floor. ‘Other way round,’ he said. ‘My left hand goes round your waist. My right hand can be held anywhere in space.’
‘It seems all right,’ said Fancy. ‘Even if it is the wrong way round.’
‘Who wrote the rules? I
t wasn’t Einstein.’
The music was universal. The floor filled. Everyone loved this song of haunted love. Fancy felt herself being held closer. Jed smelled so fresh and strong, as if he showered every hour. She needed this kind of strong man. She had been alone, fending alone, for so long.
‘Don’t fight me,’ said Jed, his face close to her hair. His breath fanned her cheek. ‘This was meant to be.’
But she was not sure what she heard. She was floating on a cloud. Moving in time to the music, letting the words wash over her. It was a song she had loved for years. The singer … Chris de Burgh. What a mesmerizing voice. He had suffered. He knew what it was all about.
As the music faded away and the dancers stopped swaying, so the DJ pounded her original choice back onto the airwaves. It was ear-splitting, enough to deafen a thirty-year-old.
Fancy and Jed left the dance floor and went outside onto the lawn. The music was still pounding the air. Even the smokers were irritated.
‘Do they think we’re all deaf?’ they coughed.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Jed. He still had his good arm round her waist.
They went up in the lift at Lakeside, soothed by the electronic voice telling them about floors and doors.
‘Is it all right if I move into the room opposite tonight?’ asked Jed.
‘Yes,’ said Fancy. ‘I should like that. If you don’t mind. I’d feel safer.’
‘The rooms are all alike. It’s no problem.’
Fancy leaned against room 425. ‘Were you going to tell me something else about the missing twins?’
‘Part of my research. I’ve discovered that the twins’ maiden name was Marchant. So Melody Marchant might have been the missing Thelma Marchant. What do you think, Fancy?’
‘Melody was very good-looking, even with white hair. Quite striking. But who would want to kill her? The name might be a coincidence.’
‘If Melody was Thelma Marchant, then she has already been declared dead. You can’t kill the same person twice. That’s the law.’
Money Never Sleeps Page 9