by L. C. Tyler
As the years passed, the sightings became fewer. The television series continued with new plots devised by various scriptwriters, as they would have done anyway. The old episodes were repeated. Sales of the books remained steady, especially with the new television-tie-in covers. Royalties piled up in a bank account. Vane’s reputation, in fact, remained high, fuelled in part by his thrilling absence. On the fifth and tenth anniversaries of his vanishing there were long pieces in the Sunday papers, speculating on what had happened, but coming up with nothing that was both credible and new. Tim Macdonald refused to be interviewed or even to appear on reality television shows. The fifteenth anniversary passed largely unnoticed. As we neared the twentieth, it was proposed that there should finally be a memorial service. And I was asked to write a biography, somewhat late in the day, to cash in on what the publisher hoped would be at least a brief renewal of interest in his books.
When I received my invitation to the service I almost declined it. It seemed strange to mourn for somebody I had never had a conversation with. But being his biographer (even though the book was far from complete) tipped the balance. I had to be there – not to lament his passing but, as the fashion now is, to celebrate his life and work. Especially when I had supplied the photograph for the order of service.
Thus it was that I was able to send the first tweet when it all kicked off. As Elsie later pointed out – one day it could be the only thing that I am still remembered for.
CHAPTER THREE
So, that is what I knew – no more, no less – as I sat beside a dead man in a church in north London, wondering if things would go well or badly.
On this last point, Vane himself seemed willing to keep an open mind. Hands in his pockets, he slouched in the pew and listened to the various tributes being paid to him. Occasionally he half-turned to me and nodded his approval, or he muttered ‘that’s complete crap’ or ‘I hope you’ve got the correct version of that story in your book’ or, more succinctly, ‘arsehole’.
Though his posture was that of a sulky teenager, I think on the whole he was enjoying himself. Few of us get to hear what our friends will say of us after our deaths and for the most part they spoke quite well of him.
It was not until Tim MacDonald took to the stage that I noticed he tensed a little. Vane frowned and leant forwards. Tim, now I had a chance to study him, was an undoubtedly good-looking man, who appeared to both possess and use a gym membership. He was slightly younger than Vane, but his hair was showing the very first signs of grey at the sides. He was, I knew, an illustrator of children’s books – successful enough in his own right and still occupying Vane’s old flat in Canonbury. I had never seen the flat because Tim had refused to cooperate in any way with the biography – it was one of the many reasons why the book was still not finished. He paused before addressing us, apparently half amused, half contemptuous of the packed church before him. Slowly he took out a single sheet of thick cream paper, which he laid carefully on the lectern. He took from another pocket a pair of bright-green reading glasses and put them on. He knew we’d have to wait until he was good and ready. What others had said was merely a build-up to this, the definitive verdict on Roger Norton Vane.
‘I hope you’ve got your phone handy,’ said Vane without looking at me. He was staring fixedly at Tim.
‘It’s switched off,’ I whispered. ‘They told us to …’
‘And you actually did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Switch it back on, then, because in about thirty seconds you’re going to need it,’ said Vane.
An elaborate cough from behind us hinted that somebody would rather listen to Tim than to us. I suspected that, whatever Vane had in mind, it might not go entirely well. But it was, and for once quite literally, his funeral.
I fumbled in my pocket and so missed the first few words that Tim Macdonald spoke. But I did catch what he said next. ‘Some might say that Roger Norton Vane was loved and loathed in equal measure …’ It was at that point that Vane finally broke cover. One moment he was there beside me. The next it was just an empty space.
I heard a sharp intake of breath from all sides. Then somebody said: ‘Good grief! Surely not? It’s actually him.’
When I looked up, phone at the ready, Vane was already striding rapidly down the aisle, blue overcoat billowing out behind him, bearing down on the man who had once been accused of murdering him. My tweet carried a picture of his back, about halfway to his intended target. Based on this rear view alone, it was just somebody walking quickly down the aisle – but the evident consternation on people’s faces made it clear that this was a novel and unplanned feature of the service. The picture was retweeted several thousand times before the day was out. (Seventeen retweets was my previous best.) Even today, if you google ‘blue M&S overcoat’ it’s one of the first images to come up.
Thus it was that the world first heard of Roger Norton Vane’s resurrection, and thus it was that the congregation were informed firmly but politely that they could all piss off back to where they came from. Tim Macdonald included.
‘Of course, it has implications,’ said Elsie. ‘You realise that, I hope?’
I had arranged to see my agent after the service because, as I’ve said, I am rarely in London these days and she had suggested a catch-up coffee, which we were now having. I noted that her inviting me had not prevented my paying. But Elsie had not suggested we went anywhere expensive, in case she accidentally stumbled into footing the bill herself. It had, it seemed, happened at least once before.
‘It’s very exciting,’ I said, passing Elsie the sugar. ‘I mean … a writer reappearing after a twenty-year absence. After years of speculating, we’ll all finally know what happened to him.’
‘It will certainly increase the sales of the biography,’ she said.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I said.
‘No, you wouldn’t have. That’s why you have me as your agent. To think of that.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing, however you look at it. I can ask Roger all sorts of questions that had been puzzling me.’
Elsie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course, we can’t now do the hatchet job we’d planned.’
‘Hatchet job?’
‘Oh, don’t look so innocent, Ethelred. You knew that’s what Lucinda wanted. I told her – Ethelred has read all of Vane’s books, and loves them, but he will be quite happy to write the biography exactly as you wish. He’ll make Vane look a total prick, if that’s what you’d like. No extra charge.’
‘Is that why Bill Stanstead was stood down?’
Another writer had originally been commissioned to write the biography but had quit or been sacked, according to which version you wanted to believe. I was a last-minute replacement for him – Lucinda’s sixth or seventh choice, according to Elsie, and lucky to get the work on any terms. That was another reason why the project was running so late and I was chasing round trying to finish the research as quickly as I could.
‘There were reasons,’ said Elsie vaguely.
‘Why does Lucinda want a hatchet job, anyway?’
‘Don’t you listen to any of the literary gossip?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then you have some catching up to do. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. And please don’t interrupt until I’ve finished.’
‘I won’t,’ I said.
‘You just did,’ she said. ‘So, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Vane got Lucinda fired from her job as assistant editor at the big publisher she was then with. Vane wanted to move elsewhere and cited Lucinda’s failure to do something or other – missing a rogue semicolon during proofreading, or something equally serious – as his reason for quitting. He moved. She got the boot. Same day.’
‘That was a little unfair.’
‘I never said it wasn’t.’
‘But anyway she’s now a commissioning editor …’
‘Elsewhere. Yes, I know. But only for crap books like the one y
ou’re writing. So, it’s not surprising she still hates his guts. She wanted the plain unvarnished truth – or plain unvarnished lies, if we could get away with it. Being dead he wouldn’t have been able to sue you or her or me or anyone else.’
‘Whereas now …’
‘Whereas now you’ve messed it up. According to your tweet, he’s alive and well.’
‘You never told me that,’ I said. ‘I mean that Lucinda wanted me to portray him as being in any way unpleasant. I thought I’d got the commission because Lucinda liked my work.’
‘Why would you think that?’
I sighed. ‘Well, I’ve always admired him – I mean his books – I’d never met him before today.’
‘I’m sure I did tell you, Ethelred.’
‘When?’
‘In an email.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘You remember all your emails?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it must have gone astray. That’s probably why you didn’t get it. It happens. They go astray. Like dogs chasing rabbits. Anyway, the point is, Ethelred, that now he can sue us, so Lucinda’s not going to be pleased with you.’
‘He’s not alive just because I tweeted it.’
‘A lot of people won’t see it that way, Ethelred. Your presence on social media is pretty much a definition of whether you are alive or not. You have brought him back to life, a bit like that Frankenstein.’
There are plenty of times when it isn’t worth arguing with Elsie, not unless you are a great fan of logic being tested to destruction.
‘Fine. I’m to blame, then,’ I said, taking up my default position with Elsie. ‘At least I can just write the book I was always planning to write.’
‘Sadly, that is what you’ll have to do, unless the lawyers can find a way round it. Of course he was a shit. Always charming when he appeared on television or whatever, but not a nice man. If he didn’t like you, he’d make it clear he didn’t like you. If he hadn’t heard of you, he’d make it very clear he hadn’t heard of you.’ She looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
‘Possibly,’ I said.
‘And poor Tim won’t be pleased to see him back.’
‘No?’
‘Don’t you listen to any gossip at all?’
‘No, not even to the nice gossip.’
‘Ethelred, there’s no such thing as nice gossip. Not in publishing. What you may already know is that, pre-vanishing, Roger Vane and Tim were about to split up.’
‘Yes, I do know that,’ I said. ‘It was reported by some papers at the time. That’s why they thought Tim might have killed him. That and a rather confused account of what had happened on the day of Vane’s disappearance. Plus a scratch on his face. Plus getting out of Thailand before he could be questioned further.’
‘Indeed. All of those things. Circumstantial but damning nonetheless. The trip to Thailand was one last attempt to put it all right. But they quarrelled every evening. Loudly. In public. Other diners complained to the management. The hotel faced bankruptcy, having to refund people their restaurant bills. Travel agents noted an inexplicable drop in bookings to Thailand …’
‘Can you stick to something like the facts?’ I asked.
‘What? The real facts? OK, if that’s what you prefer. They had a very public falling out. Fact. Roger Vane disappeared. Fact. Tim returned to the hotel and ordered a gin sling. Fact. That, as you say, is why the Thai police thought Roger Norton Vane had been done in by Tim. Lovers’ tiff. Plenty of people here thought that too. But, and this is what you may not know, they also thought he’d been quite justified in doing so. If you’d asked anyone within ten miles of Fitzroy Square what they reckoned, they’d have replied: “The kid done ’im in right enough, but nobody round this manor’s going to grass ’im up to the Old Bill.”’
‘Are you imitating Vane’s substandard cockney dialogue by any chance?’
‘I thought I was imitating your substandard cockney dialogue, but I stand corrected as always. Anyway, most people did sympathise with Tim. I certainly did. I’ve told him so.’
‘He’s a friend, then?’
‘As it happens, I represent him. I signed him up a few weeks ago. He knows I’m always there for him if he needs me. He has merely to call.’
Elsie’s phone beeped. She held her hand up, as a polite instruction that I was not to interrupt whatever important thing was about to happen, and then checked the screen.
‘It’s Tim Macdonald,’ she said. ‘He wants a bed for the night. Roger Vane has thrown him out of the flat. That was quick work, even for him. Respect.’
CHAPTER FOUR
I had an appointment to see Cynthia Vane the following day. There seemed no reason not to keep it, just because the subject of my book was now more alive than we had suspected.
‘I looked out the photos you wanted,’ she said. ‘That’s Uncle Roger with my father, just before he vanished. That’s both brothers while they were still at school. Looks as if they’re on holiday somewhere. Norfolk maybe? Flat and sandy, anyway. I’ve also got one or two reviews of the earlier books that you may not have seen – my father must have cut them out and kept them. He was always very proud of Uncle Roger – even before they made the television series.’
‘It must have been a shock for you, yesterday. A very pleasant one, I assume, but a shock all the same.’
‘Pleasant? You think so? I’m not sure Uncle Roger was aiming for pleasant. But it was certainly a surprise for a lot of people. As you know, we’d already started the process of having him declared dead – legally, I mean. We’d accepted he was actually dead long ago. Except it turns out he was alive and living in Laos. Nice of him to keep us informed. It would have served him right if he’d shown up a couple months late and we’d given all his books to Oxfam. Some might call that harsh, but if you don’t contact your family for twenty years, it’s the sort of risk you take.’
‘So, what would have happened exactly, if he’d been declared dead – legally?’
‘Apart from Oxfam lucking out? His will would have been dusted off. Probate would have been obtained. Inheritance tax would have been paid. Distant and largely forgotten members of the family would have fought to the death over the ormolu clock. His gardening coat would finally have gone to a tip with facilities for dealing with hazardous waste. The flat would have been put on the market and been sold to some venture capitalist from Novgorod. His material existence would have been shattered into a thousand tiny fragments. I’ve no idea how you undo something like that.’
‘And who would have inherited the bulk of the estate once he was legally dead, if that isn’t an indelicate question? Tim, I suppose?’
‘Oh, no. Tim may have got something, but most of it came to me. That was one of the reasons why my father wanted to have Uncle Roger declared dead years ago – he’d long since given up any hope his brother was coming home and thought it was better the money and the flat were mine. But I’ve never felt inclined to push for it myself.’
‘The flat will have increased a bit in value in the meantime.’
‘I would imagine so. It’s all a bit theoretical now that he’s back. I’ve never done the sums anyway, so I’m honestly not sure how much money I’ve lost. Not that I wouldn’t always have preferred to have had Uncle Roger alive and well. If you’re planning to quote me in the biography, then just say his impoverished niece was delighted to see the rich, devious bastard back. As indeed I am.’
‘Tim couldn’t have been too keen on having Roger declared dead, though. He’d have lost his home. He’s lived there for twenty years.’
‘Well over twenty years. They’d been together for a while, in spite of frequent fallings out.’
‘He couldn’t have claimed anything as a right … if Roger hadn’t returned?’
‘I don’t think so. There was never anything formal – no civil partnership, for example. I’m not sure they had them then. The discovery that Uncle Roger was alive should have meant Tim could st
ay on – except Uncle Roger has thrown him out anyway. When you think about it, it’s not surprising he did – they were apparently about to split up when he disappeared. Tim’s had rent-free accommodation for twenty years longer than he might. And he’s got money. He can afford to buy somewhere of his own at long last. He can’t complain.’
There was a discernible note of contempt in her voice. But I had to agree – however things turned out, Tim couldn’t complain. As for her own financial loss, Cynthia seemed to be taking it well. She’d lost a flat but gained an uncle.
‘So,’ I said. ‘It’s all as if Roger had never gone away.’
Cynthia paused and looked at me. ‘Not quite. In some ways Uncle Roger is the same …’
‘But he’s altered in others? I have to say the years don’t seem to have softened him much.’
‘He’s lost none of his old venom, I’ll give him that. But he’s much greyer. And somehow smaller. I scarcely recognised him at first. It was only when the rest of the congregation started to exclaim it was him … Then you sort of saw it. The face. The posture. The way of walking. But sometimes you don’t immediately recognise somebody you’ve not seen for a few months if they’ve dyed their hair or lost a lot of weight. You can change a hell of a lot in twenty years.’
‘He probably had the same problem with the rest of you.’
‘That’s the odd thing – he didn’t. He recognised me straight away. Not even a hesitant “well, you must be little Cynthia”. I mean, I was in my early teens when he vanished. But he came right up to me and kissed me on the cheek. Not a moment’s doubt.’