Crossing the Lines

by Sulari Gentill

  ***

  Ian Denholm tapped notes into his tablet. “I’ll run a background check on Elliot Kaufman,” he said without looking up. “What do you know about him?”

  Edward rubbed his brow, aware that Willow would hate him for what he was doing. “He’s an artist…works in oils and collage.”

  “Successful?”

  “I don’t think so. Willow’s the talent.”

  “What else?”

  “He’s a bastard.”

  “That’s not necessarily a crime. Would he kill Vogel to protect his wife’s reputation?”

  Edward shrugged. He had always thought Kaufman jealous of Willow’s success. It seemed to him more likely that he would have relished the dimming of her star.

  “How does Kaufman feel about you?” Denholm prompted.

  “The loathing is mutual.”

  “Clearly, he’s not a possessive man.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, he appears to tolerate the time you and Ms. Meriwether spend together.”

  “That has more to do with confidence than anything else,” Edward replied sullenly. “Kaufman is certain of Willow’s affections.”

  “Is he wrong to be?”

  Edward sighed. “No. She loves him. Would do anything for him. If he asked her to never see me again, she would probably agree.”

  “No she wouldn’t!” Madeleine protested. “She’s not like that. She has a backbone!”

  “This is not the first exhibition Willow’s been offered,” Edward replied, looking past Denholm at her. “She’s passed on bigger opportunities…asked them to offer the show to Kaufman instead. She’s constantly dodging and weaving so he doesn’t fall into her shadow. He knows it. He allows it.”

  “You’re underestimating her,” Madeleine said, unsure of why she felt so strongly. “Women sacrifice their dreams for love all the time. That doesn’t mean she’d do that to you!”

  His brow arched and he seemed about to respond when Denholm asked, “Why do you think he hasn’t demanded she never see you?”

  “As I said, he’s confident.”

  Denholm frowned. “I’d be surprised if that was all there was to it. Has Ms. Meriwether ever asked you for money?”

  “No.”

  “Have you given her money…gifts, perhaps?”

  “Not unless you count cake,” Edward said tersely.

  Ian Denholm sat back in his chair. “Could Mr. Kaufman be involved with someone else?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It occurs to me that Mr. Kaufman might be happy for you to spend time with his wife because he’s otherwise occupied. Of course that doesn’t go to why he might kill Vogel, but it does speak to his character.”

  “But…that’s…I don’t know,” he said in the end. “I barely know Kaufman. Generally speaking, we avoid one another.”

  “Were Mr. Kaufman and the deceased acquainted?”

  Again, Edward was unable to say. “I could find out,” he offered.

  “What do you write, Mr. McGinnity?” Denholm asked suddenly as he leafed through a file on his desk.

  “Novels.”

  “What kind of novels? You’re not a crime-writer, are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I find it does. I’ve represented writers before. The children’s book writers believe in happy endings, the science fiction writers assume there’s some sort of conspiracy at play, and the crime-writers take it upon themselves to investigate. None of these things are good ideas.”

  “What are you trying to say, Mr. Denholm?”

  “Leave any investigation to me and the police, Mr. McGinnity.”

  “Rest assured, Mr. Denholm, I am not a crime-writer.”

  ***

  Edward McGinnity turned as he always did to his notebook and pen for distraction. He called on Madeleine d’Leon to divert his frustration with Willow, his wounded brooding, and he found her on her knees, pulling weeds in the crisp damp of the morning garden. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow and her collar turned up. She didn’t look up.

  “Maddie.”

  “The bruises were left by my bracelet.” She dropped uprooted weeds into the bucket beside her.

  He watched. “Talk to me, Maddie.”

  She turned her head. He stood with the early sun behind him, splaying its rays. His shadow fell on the ground before her, and Madeleine wondered if she was already too lost. How could something she imagined block the sun, how could a character cast a shadow, and why did she long for him?

  “Are you angry with me, Maddie?”

  “No, I’m angry with myself. I’ve started to believe my own lies.”

  “Lies?”

  “That’s what we trade in, we writers. We’re crafters of lies. We call them novels or stories or narratives, but in essence they’re a collection of lies…interesting, thrilling lies that make you laugh and cry, but in the end, still lies.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No, it’s what I do. But it’s important to remember what’s real, what’s true.”

  “Perhaps telling lies is the only way to find the real truth.”

  Madeleine smiled. “That sounds literary. I’m not sure what it means, but it’s exactly what one would expect a literary character to say. I’m quite pleased with how you’re turning out.”

  He laughed that slow gentle laugh that was more a vocalised smile. And he studied her.

  She stood, dusting off the grass which adhered to the wet patches on her knees. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was wondering what to do next.”

  “Well, you need to look into Elliot Kaufman, his past, his associations. And you need to take another look at the security footage—in case there was something you missed.”

  “Or I could kiss you again, make love to you right here.”

  Madeleine stopped, startled. Had she wanted him to say that? The strange clenching ache that the night before had left on her skin had not yet dissipated.

  “Do you want to?” she asked. The question was guileless, an honest curiosity about her own intentions as well as his.

  “Yes, very much.”

  She blinked. This was all part of her fantasy, she supposed—that he would want her, value her. It seemed she could not even indulge in a simple erotic dream without embellishing and romanticising it. Even now he watched her intensely as if he were loath to miss even the slightest moment of her life.

  Still, his proximity made her reckless.

  He stroked her neck. “Did I do that?” He circled his thumb around each of the bruises. The question was more for himself than her, because of course he had. He wondered why. He had not done so consciously, but there would be a reason, some instinctive purpose which guided his pen to leave a mark on her body. Here, now, in the midst of this manuscript, he might have believed he was in love with Madeleine d’Leon, that he wanted her as more than a literary construct. Edward meant it when he said he wanted to make love to her, but he also wanted her to be more cautious.

  And so she was.

  “I slept on my bracelet.” Madeleine held her hand up against the glare of the sun, displaying the denounced jewellery in the process. “It’s getting too hot. I’m going inside to write.” She bit her lip. “You’re not going to get anywhere until you start investigating Geoffrey Vogel. The victim always holds the clue…you’d know that if you read.”

  “I do read.” His protest was amused.

  “Sorry—I meant if you read anything other than literary masterpieces. I’m afraid you don’t solve crimes by learning about yourself.”

  He smiled. Madeleine’s refusal to pay due homage to literary elitism was more charming than offensive. And it was not bad advice.

  On Sidekicks

  Edward closed his
notebook and booted the laptop he’d purchased earlier that day. Whilst he wrote his novels longhand, he was by no means computer illiterate. He began with a basic search on Geoffrey Vogel, pulling up a biography, and various eulogies and articles about the murder. He read them all and followed threads within each site in the search for more information. But everything he found was media released and public related, sanitised. A veneer which hid goodness-knows-what, perhaps another veneer.

  He had given up in frustration and was pouring himself a drink when Leith Henry called.

  “I have some papers for you to sign,” she said. “But I promised to take the kids to the park. I don’t suppose you could meet me there, Ned?”

  “Of course.” He jotted directions and grabbed his jacket before heading out to meet his agent.

  The park to which she’d directed him was a showpiece among modern recreational facilities. The equipment was new and made of recyclable material, designed in accordance with a prehistoric theme. Well-dressed children scaled climbing walls, descended slides, and swung with determined abandon as upwardly mobile parents hovered and encouraged from the surrounding trees. The ground beneath the play equipment was rubberised so that children bounced rather than fell.

  Edward found Leith by the sandpit instructing her youngest on the finer points of sandcastle construction. The three-year-old watched on as she demonstrated sand compaction and tower placement. She upended a bucket and gently removed the mould. “See that, Tom, it’s perfect. Now you try.”

  Tom lunged at the newly sculpted castle as if he were throwing himself upon a grenade. Sand flew in all directions and the castle was lost. Leith shrieked and expressed her disappointment in Tom’s inability to use a sandpit properly. Somewhat unhelpfully, Ned applauded the three-year-old.

  “Tom’s a free spirit, Leith. He won’t be confined by your sandpit rules.”

  Leith shook the sand from her hair. “William was never like this…he knew to find the corners first.”

  “What corners?”

  “Of puzzles. Tom just takes any old piece and tries to jam the others into it.”

  “Hmmm. I’m afraid Tom’s fast becoming my favourite. Where are your rule-abiding offspring?”

  The agent pointed to the line-up of children waiting impatiently for their turn on the flying fox. She called names and two young Henries waved in response. With all three clearly in sight, she motioned Edward to a seat by the sandpit and, once she’d shouted reminders about hats and manners, she fished a folder from her large handbag. “I’ve tagged all the places that need your signature.”

  Edward retrieved a pen from his breast pocket and proceeded to sign. “And what is this?” he asked.

  “The usual, in terms of foreign and collateral rights. An acknowledgement of your editorial control, an agreed marketing budget, and an escalation of royalties if the book sells more than fifty thousand copies.”

  “Sounds fair.” Edward did not bother to read the documents himself. He trusted Leith to look after that sort of thing and, in any case, there was something else he wanted to discuss.

  “Leith, what do you know about Geoffrey Vogel?”

  “I heard he died.”

  “No, really, what do you know about his background?”

  “Not much…he worked for a number of publishing houses as an editor. I suspect you’re not the only writer who found his approach overbearing. Somehow he morphed into a critic, had a television show called Arts Review for a while. Most recently he reviewed for the Herald.”

  “What do you know about his personal life?”

  Leith poked him. “Look at you, Sherlock!”

  “I’m just trying to think this through,” Edward replied. He felt vaguely embarrassed.

  Leith smiled. “Afraid I can’t help you, Ned. I haven’t a clue.” She paused to flutter her eyelashes appealingly. “Though I still want to be your quirky but loyal sidekick.”

  Edward sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” Leith said, still smiling. “But don’t you think you’re getting a bit Famous Five about this? I hate to sound like your agent, but shouldn’t you be writing?”

  “I am…I am writing.”

  “Good. Are you going to have something for me to read soon?”

  “Soon. I guess I’ll have plenty of time to write in prison.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ned. They don’t let you write books in prison. You’ll be busy breaking rocks and doing laundry.”

  Edward laughed.

  “Go home and finish that manuscript. Let the police worry about Geoffrey Vogel.”

  “You’re a terrible sidekick, you know.”

  “But I’m a brilliant agent. Stop messing about and write!”

  Edward had every intention of doing as he was told. Madeleine could see that, feel that. Despite everything that was happening, the hero of her crime novel really just wanted to write. In the absence of Willow, she would need to prompt him within the story. Leith had been less than motivational, but then Leith was his agent and that was exactly what she would say. It was then Madeleine remembered the reporter from Channel Six.

  Edward saw the business card on the hallstand as he came in. It was perhaps peculiar that he noticed it now when he’d missed it before, but Edward did not pause to think about that. He picked up the card that Peter Blake had left days earlier—the reporter had claimed friendship with Geoffrey Vogel. He wandered into the kitchen and called Peter Blake’s number.

  Madeleine cheered out loud. The sound startled her in the emptiness of the house. She’d had no idea that Peter Blake would have any further part to play in the novel when she’d first written him, but he was perfect here. It pleased her when this happened. She wondered if readers ever guessed that the coherence of her plots was often accidental.

  “It’s not, you know,” Edward muttered as he hung up the phone after arranging to meet the reporter.

  “What?”

  “It’s not accidental. Somewhere in your subconscious you have it all worked out, plotted, tied up. You shouldn’t underestimate yourself.”

  Madeleine rolled her eyes. “Just go see the man.”

  ***

  Peter Blake was waiting in the beer garden of the inner-city tavern. He stood, though there were stools available, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet like a boxer awaiting the bell. He was in motion as soon as he saw Edward, going to the bar and collecting two glasses and a bottle of whisky, which he took to a table. Edward joined him there. The journalist lit a cigarette and poured two drinks, one of which he swigged straight away.

  Refusing to cooperate with the unfolding cliché, Edward declined the whisky and ordered a coffee. Blake raised the second glass.

  “I thought you’d want to come clean sooner or later,” he said. “I’m glad you came to the realisation that I’d give you a fair hearing.”

  Edward responded cautiously. If Blake realised he wasn’t going to get a confession, he might not be as forthcoming. “I have a few questions for you first.”

  “Why?” Blake took a recording device from his breast pocket and set it on the table.

  Edward shrugged. “It’s important to me to know a bit about Geoffrey Vogel. I barely knew him.”

  “Okay…” Blake said suspiciously. “And then we’ll talk about what happened the night Geoff died?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Did Vogel have a partner of some sort? Was he involved with anyone?”

  “Not particularly. Geoff was a bit of a tart. He was just celebrity enough to mean there was always some ambitious young thing willing to keep him from becoming lonely.”

  “Weren’t any of these ambitious young things upset when he decided to move on?”

  “Is that what you’re trying to tell me, McGinnity? That you were upset when he moved on from
you?”

  “Me?” Edward moved the bottle of whisky out of the way and stared at Blake. “What the—?”

  “You’re just the kind of strapping talent that he liked to take under his wing.”

  Edward paused. “You’re saying Vogel was gay?”

  “Gay, homosexual, queer…whatever you call it nowadays. It was an unofficial secret, but I would have thought it obvious.”

  It probably was, on reflection, but it hadn’t before occurred to Edward. Flamboyant affectations were, after all, something of a tradition in the arts community.

  Blake squinted at him. “You didn’t know?” He sat back in his chair. “Well then, I guess this was more than a simple crime of passion.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Edward forgot for a moment that Blake assumed he was there to confess. “Do you know who Vogel was more recently involved with, even briefly?”

  “It’s a long list,” Blake said uneasily. “As I said, Geoff was a tart.”

  “Could you write the names down?”

  “You want me to write you a hit list? Forget it, mate.”

  “Hit list, no. I just want to find out who might have had cause to—”

  “Look, McGinnity, I know you topped Geoff. I just thought you might like a chance to tell the world why. You’ll have to face a real trial, of course, but the sympathy of the media won’t hurt your case.”

  “I didn’t kill Geoffrey Vogel,” Edward said slowly.

  “That’s not what the police believe.”

  “Whatever you think they believe, Mr. Blake, I have not been charged, and I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with Geoffrey Vogel’s death.”

  “Then why are you here, Mr. McGinnity?”

  “The lines of enquiry that the police seem to be following are, I believe, misdirected. I was hoping you might help me unearth some alternative lines.”

  Blake studied him, clearly disappointed. “What’s in it for me?”

  “You said Vogel was your friend. You’d be helping to bring his killer to justice.”

  Blake shrugged. “Perhaps friendship was an exaggeration. I wasn’t Geoff’s type.”

  “However this turns out, working with me will give you an exclusive, either as an investigative exposé which reveals the real killer, or an insight into the mind of the prime suspect.”