Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1)

by Simon J. Townley

  Tom stayed in his seat. “How many serial killers have you arrested so far in your career?”

  “I don’t see any murders here.”

  “Unfortunate accidents? Do me a favour.”

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Find Middleton for me. I’ll take it from there. At least contact him.”

  “On what grounds? If he is a killer, it would warn him.”

  “Make something up.”

  “You make it up,” Lock turned to go. “That’s your job, not mine. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  Tom stayed in his seat. Lock stood in the doorway, waiting for him to get the hell out of his station.

  “If you don’t move, I’ll charge you with wasting police time. With your record that’s open and shut.”

  Tom lurched out of his chair and walked to the doorway. He stopped, inches from Lock, with the kind of closeness men only get into when there’s a fight about to start. “Don’t blame me, when all this blows up.”

  “Unfortunate turn of phrase, don’t you think? For a journalist?” Lock smirked and stood his ground.

  For a moment, Capgras was sure he was going to punch the man in the mouth. Kiera Roche was dead, and the world didn’t seem to care. She’d been murdered, and no one wanted to know. No one in authority, at least.

  The man’s teeth, exposed in a sneering grin, made a tempting target. How many months inside, for punching a copper in the face in his own station? Too many. They might count it in years. And Tom Capgras didn’t intend to go back to prison. Not for one day, not now, not ever. He walked away, regretting it with every step, but he couldn’t secure justice for Kiera, or Joanne, from inside a cell.

  “Don’t approach Middleton,” Lock called out as a parting swipe.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Capgras said. “Not my job.”

  He heard Lock toss the newspaper into a bin as the door swung shut.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ghost Story

  Tom opened the door to his shipping container to find his sister Emma, with an expression on her face that said she needed a favour, badly. She thrust a bag into Tom’s hands. He recognised it. It was Ben’s overnighter, stuffed to the brim with clothes and books.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” she said.

  “I lost my phone.”

  “Get a new one.”

  “Ruby is tracing the old handset, says she can find it if it’s turned back on.”

  “It’ll be wiped by now.”

  “She can track it anyway, she reckons. She knows a secret technique. What’s so urgent?”

  “Look after Ben. Please. It’s important.”

  “He should be in school.”

  “He’s suspended.”

  “What was it this time?”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Everything. Being cheeky to the teachers. Refusing to play sport. Calling one of the girls retarded.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “She’s a christian.”

  “It’s still mean.”

  “Calling the headmaster a hypocrite. Shouting at one of the governors: he works for an oil company.”

  “You put him up to it.”

  “I did not. Help me. I have to go away.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at the school, trying to get him back in?”

  “A week, they said. Won’t change their minds. I can’t take him with me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Brighton, to discuss this libel case. Decide what to do.”

  “Can’t Mark look after him?”

  “You know what he’s like.”

  “Unreliable?”

  “Evasive.”

  “What about Mum?”

  “They’re off to Paris.”

  “I’ve got stuff to deal with.”

  “I know it’s hard for you, losing Kiera. I shouldn’t ask. But he’ll do you good. Take your mind off things. You can’t dwell on it, it doesn’t help.”

  “It’s not just Kiera. It might not be safe for him, being with me.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “There’s a serial killer blowing up hotels. I could be next in line. This is no place for a child. It’s cold, damp. Squalid.”

  “We lived in a World War Two ambulance for five years. He’s used to worse than this.” She yelled Ben’s name.

  “Where is he?”

  “Playing. Somewhere.”

  “It’s not a good time.”

  “There’s nowhere else. He won’t be any trouble. If you need more space, stay at mine.”

  “Will Mark be there?”

  She shrugged.

  “Does he live there now? Or still have his own place?”

  “He has something, yeah.”

  “But you’ve not seen it? Not been there?”

  “He likes to keep it for himself.”

  “He’s not married is he? Kids?”

  “No. I’d know if he was. No.” She yelled Ben’s name again, and the boy appeared, his feet covered in mud from the self-build site.

  “There’s nowhere for him to sleep.”

  “On the sofa.”

  Tom sighed. There was no way he’d leave Ben to sleep by the doorway, not at the best of times. Certainly not with a killer on the loose. Ben would get his room, and Tom would sleep on the couch. “When are you back?”

  “Monday, maybe.”

  “Three days? What do I do with him?”

  “Don’t do anything. Just feed him, keep him out of trouble.”

  “His trouble or mine?”

  “Both, if you can.” She kissed Ben on the head, ruffled his hair, told him to be good and was gone.

  Tom tidied up, rapidly, sweeping dirty plates and mugs into the sink to be dealt with later. He talked to Ben as he worked, asking questions about school and friends and exams but he got only grunts in reply. Ben didn’t looked up, already lost in a book. The boy didn’t seem to care where he was, or who was there, so long as he could read. Or run around in the mud.

  Tom stepped outside to make sure his sister was gone. The coast was clear. He had places to be and he couldn’t leave Ben here on his own. “You’ve not been on the back of my motorbike, have you?”

  Ben looked up, interested at last.

  “I wasn’t much older than you, the first time I took it out.”

  “I know. I’ve heard.”

  A story told a thousand times around the Capgras dinner table. It was one misdemeanour that would never be forgotten.

  “Want to take a trip?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s the bike ride that’s the fun part.”

  “Oh.”

  There was no fooling that boy.

  “Can I steer?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “You did.”

  “That was different. Roads were quiet. This is London.”

  “What about here? Around the site? Please. Go on. Please.”

  “Maybe, later. Town first.” Tom rummaged through a pile of clothes until he found an old, brown leather jacket. “Try this.”

  The boy was lost inside the coat, the arms hanging lifeless and empty at the ends. It came down almost to his knees. “It’ll do,” Tom said and Ben grinned.

  Tom fetched the spare helmet from the coat rack. He placed in on Ben’s head, where it wobbled like an egg cup on an ant. He tightened the old leather strap as far as it would go. “You might have to hang on to it, with one hand. Maybe.”

  Ben rummaged through his bag and found string which he used to make a secondary strap pulled tight around his throat.

  “Hmm, should be safe,” Tom said, doubtfully, “better hope the police don’t stop us.”

  “Where are we going? Is it far? Will it be fun?” Ben asked.

  “It’s not far, won’t take long. I have to see a client. Tell them about a friend.”

  ✬✬✬

  He brought the bike to a halt on the driveway of Evelyn Vronsky’
s home in one of the leafier suburbs of south London. It was not so much a house, more a mansion: four floors high and big enough for half a dozen families. Did she really live here, alone?

  Tom lifted Ben off and left their helmets and goggles on the seat. “Best behaviour. This woman pays my bills.”

  They walked towards the entrance, shoes crunching on the gravel. Tom stood before the stout oak door wondering if he should rap on it with his knuckles or pull on the rusty chain. Before he could decide the door swung open.

  A tall, dark-haired man in his fifties, wearing a sombre and conservative suit, gestured them inside. “Mrs Vronsky is expecting you,” the man purred, with a voice smoother and deeper than a V8 engine idling in neutral. The butler guided them wordlessly towards Evelyn’s office.

  She sat behind her desk, her hands folded in front of her, as if she had been waiting for Tom this past hour or more. “Thank you, Barlow. Lemonade for our young guest. Tea for myself and Mr Capgras.”

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded at her butler and then gestured towards two chairs already set out for them.

  “This is Ben, my nephew,” Capgras said.

  “A little youthful as an apprentice isn’t he?”

  “He’s very precocious. His mother’s out of town. I’m looking after him. “He can wait outside if…”

  “Shouldn’t he be in school?”

  “There’s a holiday, or something.”

  “I’m quite out of touch,” she said. “To business?”

  Capgras put an envelope on the desk. “A bill, for everything, up to this point. If you want me to continue…”

  “It will be paid immediately. As for continuing that depends on what you have to report.”

  “You saw the piece in the paper?”

  “Very subtle,” she said.

  “It had to be.”

  “Almost too subtle.”

  “But the police still won’t take the case seriously.”

  “Really? You surprise me.”

  “They’re stubborn.”

  “Do they know all the facts?” Her tone had become harder. Like a school teacher disappointed with an errant pupil.

  Capgras returned her stare. “They don’t see anything new here. As far as they’re concerned the explosion was just another accident. No suspicion of foul play. And no link to Middleton. They were both writers, that’s all. Represented by the same agency, but so what? They met a few times. Nothing more.”

  Evelyn Vronsky scrutinised his face, as though in pity, despair or amazement, he couldn’t tell which. Maybe it was all three. She rattled her glasses off her face and twirled them in her hand.

  “Can it be true? You don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?” Tom could sense Ben’s eyes, boring into him.

  “I’m no fool Tom. You were staying with her in that hotel.”

  “Well….”

  “Remind me, how much am I paying you? You’re my detective. My investigator. And you don’t know? You were sleeping with Kiera Roche, pursuing Arthur Middleton, friends with Joanne Leatherby and flirting outrageously, if what I hear is true, with young Hannah her assistant. And yet you don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?” He was beginning to sound like a stuck record being scratched to death by a gibbering DJ.

  “You seriously don’t know?”

  He wasn’t going to say it again. He was determined not to. “All right. Enlighten me.”

  Evelyn Vronsky leaned forward and wiggled her finger for Capgras to come closer as though he were a naughty schoolboy caught running in the corridors. “Kiera Roche wasn’t just any old writer.” She crumpled a sheaf of paper for effect. “She wasn’t merely a minor non-fiction author. And she wasn’t friends with Arthur Middleton. No.” She put her spectacles back on her face. For emphasis. Capgras was sure of it. He waited. The punch line was coming. Soon. But she held out, enjoying the moment.

  She looked at Ben, glared at Tom, manoeuvred her glasses on her nose, for all the world the headmistress reproaching her errant pupils.

  “Kiera Roche wrote his books,” she said finally. “Kiera Roche was the power behind the throne, or the talent at least. Up until two years ago when she refused to write for him any more. But until then, for ten years or more, for his whole career as close as makes little difference, Kiera Roche was Arthur Middleton’s ghost.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Spooks

  Capgras stumbled out of Evelyn Vronsky’s south London mansion, half in a dream. The pale grey light of an overcast autumn day dazzled Tom’s eyes as he emerged from the intense gloom. Ben tagged along at his side, like a faithful hound aware of its owner’s distress.

  It couldn’t be true, Tom told himself. He refused to believe it. Yet Vronsky had no reason to lie, and she knew everyone in publishing. She had fingers in pies. She was informed about the ins and outs and understood the secrets and the mystery of things. She must be right. Kiera had been a ghostwriter for the serial killer they had hunted together. She wrote his books for him. The good ones, at least. The strong middle period before they tailed off. Kiera Roche was Middleton’s ghost.

  Capgras stopped at the top of the stone steps and stared at his bike, his eyes wandering to the extensive gardens where the trees trembled in a brisk breeze, shaking the water from their leaves.

  Why did Kiera never tell him? She’d not even hinted, though they pursued Middleton half way across the country. When they parked outside his holiday cottage, she’d said nothing. During the five long hours of driving down the M3 and the A303 and the A38 and half a dozen other roads he couldn’t name. When they walked by the sea in Looe and ate in a fish restaurant. There had been a hundred opportunities for her to speak out. She hadn’t outright lied to him but the sin of omission was tantamount to deception.

  What did she have to hide? Was she ashamed? Embarrassed? She must have had her reasons, but she had taken them with her to the grave.

  Ben ran ahead and leapt onto the motorbike. As Tom stared vacantly at the flower beds, Ben made broooom broooom noises and pretended to steer, though he could barely reach the handlebars and his feet dangled above the footrest.

  Tom glanced over his shoulder at the house. Was that a face at the window, watching him? It was gone – if it was ever there. Time to leave. Sort out his thoughts. Take care of business, and of Ben. He moved the boy into the pillion position, made sure he was safely wearing his helmet, put on his own and his goggles and kick-started the bike. The engine rumbled like a contented tiger after a good meal. He steered the Norton down the long driveway and out onto the leafy suburban avenue.

  This news changed everything. He should take it to the police. That was the responsible thing to do. He knew it, and yet…

  The prospect of DC Lock’s sarcasm held little appeal. Leave that for another day. Or never. Let the coppers play catch-up while he exposed Middleton through the press.

  Capgras headed north towards the river and crossed at Vauxhall Bridge. He parked the bike on the Edgware Road and headed for the phone shops. In the first, he bought an iPhone, activated it and signed into his account. Sitting in a cafe with Ben he sent a string of emails and messages to let people know his new number. Then, in a second store, he paid cash for the cheapest pay-as-you-go handset in the place and in a third he picked up a sim card.

  Ben trailed along behind, content to inspect the gadgets. As they walked back to the bike Ben grabbed his arm and tugged on it furiously. The boy pointed across the street. “It’s Mark,” he hissed.

  “Emma’s Mark?”

  “With a woman. And two children.”

  “Are you sure? Where? It can’t be him.”

  “It’s him,” Ben said.

  “I don’t see anyone.” Capgras had never met, nor even seen his sister’s boyfriend, though she lived less than a mile from him. From the hints Emma had dropped, the man seemed to carry a pathological hatred of journalists. Or was it fear?

  Ben tugged on his arm. “In the c
rowd. With the ponytail.”

  “Where? What’s he wearing?”

  Ben pointed down the pavement. “A jacket. Like a suit. He wasn’t dressed right. He was too smart.”

  “Then it wasn’t him.” Emma didn’t hang out with people who could dress smartly.

  “There.” Ben jabbed with his hand pointing to the far side of the road.

  Capgras saw the back of a man’s head, his long hair pulled tight and tied in a pony tail. A tall man, muscular, as though he had worked out plenty in his younger days.

  “We should follow him,” Ben said. “Spy on him, film him in secret.”

  Tom grabbed hold of Ben before he could run into the carriageway. “It’s not him. Let him go. And don’t say anything to your mother.”

  “She should know.”

  “Trust me, for once.”

  Ben glared at him. “He got away.”

  Tom pulled the boy towards the bike.

  “I’ll drop you at home. With Ruby.”

  Ben groaned in protest. “Where are you going? I want to come.”

  “You can’t, it’s work, it’s news stuff, important.” Dangerous. Emma would kill him if he got Ben mixed up in this business with Douglas and his spy circus. Or with Middleton and his murders.

  He hoisted Ben onto the bike, kicked the engine into life and pulled out into the sea of London traffic.

  ✬✬✬

  Tom Capgras sat on a park bench with his recently bought pay-as-you-go mobile phone on his lap, watching the wildlife and waiting for Doug to text or call. A light drizzle dripped through the yellowing leaves. Pigeons strutted back and forth inspecting the ground for crumbs.

  Capgras waited. And waited. No reply came. He glanced at his watch. This was taking too long. He made an extravagant show of turning the pages of a broadsheet newspaper as if devouring every sacred inscription. Still, his phone didn’t ring, or beep. Was Doug in trouble? Or ignoring him?

  A black four-by-four with darkened windows circled the park: the kind of vehicle popular with bankers, bouncers, mothers on the school run and agents of the state, in all their diverse categories, sects and denominations. It went round once and headed down a side-street. Tom lifted the newspaper to hide his face. He waited. The car returned. It circled once and slowed.