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

by Simon J. Townley

  “An assassin?”

  “Or a thug.”

  “Murder would cost a lot.”

  “Depends who you use, I guess.”

  “But this isn’t the work of a lunatic, or a loser, or druggie,” she said. “They’re getting away with it. Leaving no clues. Making it look like an accident, or suicide.”

  “Maybe he knows someone. A killer who reads his books and got in touch. Or someone he interviewed as part of his research. Then again…” Tom gave Hannah a searching look, “I guess he didn’t do the research. Since he didn’t write the books.”

  Her mouth flickered in confusion, indecision. “Of course he did.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  If it was an act, it was a good one. Tom peered at her through narrowed eyes but she didn’t blink or break away, she didn’t swipe her mouth with the back of her hand or touch her nose, or take a long sip of her drink to hide her face. None of the tell-tale signs. She was telling the truth. Probably. She didn’t know. So it wasn’t just him. Evelyn Vronsky might be surprised to hear that, if she lived.

  He took a swig of beer and then repeated what Vronsky had told him about Kiera being the ghostwriter of Arthur Middleton’s novels.

  “She couldn’t be,” Hannah said. “I’d know. Why keep that secret?”

  “Middleton’s reputation, maybe?”

  “I wonder if Joanne knew?”

  “Might be why she was killed. Could be the real reason behind all of this. He’s getting rid of anyone who knew the truth.”

  “Which means…” she gave him a long look.

  “Don't worry – he doesn’t know that we know.”

  “He might suspect, or think Joanne told me,” Hannah said.

  “Insane he may be, but he can't kill everyone in publishing.”

  “He’s made a good start.” She looked more scared now than at any time since he’d met her.

  Tom reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “There’s a way to stop it. We make it public. If it goes in the papers then the truth’s out there. Best means of protecting ourselves.”

  “Unless he takes revenge.”

  “That’ll be on me, not you. Don’t worry.”

  “He’s out there. Who knows where?”

  “The police are hunting him. He won’t be able to move around.”

  “You sure they’re looking? Do they believe you?”

  “He’s the only lead they’ve got. The only suspect.” Apart from himself, of course.

  “You were close to Kiera, I guess.” Her tone had changed. Sad now.

  Tom realised he was still holding her hand. He didn’t let go. It didn’t seem like the right time for that.

  She stared at the table for a moment, then picked up her drink with her free hand and downed it. “Another?”

  “I’ve got to drive,” he said.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t drive home.” She got up, took his glass and headed for the bar. He wasn’t sure what she meant. She needed the booze, he guessed, and someone to drink it with. He knew that feeling.

  She put the beer down in front of him. “Leave the bike. It’ll be safe here.”

  But how would he get home? A tube, two buses and a long walk in the dark, back to a cold, lonely shipping container.

  She leaned forward across the table. “What was she like?”

  She meant Kiera. Why was she asking? “I didn’t know her, not really.”

  “She never told you, about the ghost writing?”

  “I guess she just didn't get around to it.”

  “Strange though, since you were looking for Middleton.”

  “That’s women for you.”

  She stared into her drink once more, her face twitching as though she were thinking something through. She took another swig. “Let’s get drunk.”

  “You think it’s safe? We should stay alert.”

  “I’d rather forget it all. Besides, he won’t find us in here.”

  Not unless he knew how to hack a phone, or track it using friends within the Government’s spying network. Did Middleton’s contacts stretch so far? Tom doubted it.

  “He probably knows where I live,” Tom said. “In fact I’m sure he does. He left books there, outside my door. It must have been him.”

  “All the more reason not to go there.”

  “I could stay with Emma, I guess. Might put her in danger though.”

  “Emma?”

  “My sister.”

  “Ah.”

  “Her place is a mess, mind. Bit small.”

  “You must be used to that, living in a shipping container.”

  “It’s all mine, though. Don’t have to share it with anyone.”

  “We should stay somewhere so he can’t find us,” Hannah said.

  He felt her leg touch his. He didn’t pull away. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes locked on his and stayed there. And Tom Capgras finally realised what the drink and the trip to the pub and the questions about Kiera were really all about. And he also realised, too late, that his life was about to get even more complicated.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gilded Butterflies

  Tom spent two days and three nights in Hannah’s arms, most of it in her bed, a weekend of lovemaking and trips to the pub, a walk in a park and an informal pact not to discuss death and murder. Or publishing. Tom forgot it all for those blissful days – other than the stolen hours scouring the newspaper and filing his own in-depth colour pieces and backgrounders, thousands of words poured into Hannah’s laptop and emailed to Jon Fitzgerald. But once that was done, he went back to his idyll of bliss. He put aside his cares, worries and responsibilities and basked instead in Hannah’s love.

  It was only when he arrived home on Monday morning, chugging across the self-build site on his Norton 650, only when he saw the boy playing outside the shipping container, that he remembered Ben. He was supposed to be looking after his nephew. He’d left him with Ruby. She hadn’t called or texted to remind him, hadn’t complained, not once. Instead, she’d just got on with it, made the sacrifice, sorted things out.

  She was Emma’s friend, after all. Part of the extended Capgras clan. She knew the boy better than Tom. She was the right person to care for him. But she shouldn’t have to do it. Not alone, at least.

  He felt the guilt roll and tumble in his belly.

  As he parked the bike Ruby appeared in the doorway. Without a word, she handed him an A4 envelope. He glanced at the postmark: Oxford. The results of the authorship tests he had ordered on the manuscript of The Profits Of My Death.

  “I’m sorry…”

  Ruby looked away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all right.”

  “I was busy…”

  “I guessed as much.”

  She moved inside. He followed. She began to pack her things, and he realised she had spent the night there, sleeping on the sofa.

  “You could have taken him to yours.”

  “I didn’t know when you’d turn up. And I can’t put him on the back of a mountain bike. Or carry his stuff.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not… I should have… Why didn’t you call? I forgot all about it. Didn’t think…”

  “You got over Kiera fast.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s just…”

  “Was it Hannah? The girl from the agency? I thought you didn’t mix work and relationships.”

  “I don’t. Not normally. It just happened.”

  “She made it happen. You’re a fool, Tom Capgras.” She rammed her sleeping bag into a stuff-sack and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ve got to get home, things to do.”

  “I’m really sorry and I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Make it up to Ben. He’s the one you forgot about. You might need to tell Emma the truth, as well.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  She headed for the door. Quick, he urged himself, think of something to say
, or do, that would make things right. But there were no words or gestures fit for purpose. He should stop taking Ruby for granted. And pay her for all the work she did.

  She paused in the doorway. “Nearly forgot. I traced that email. The one from Joanne Leatherby, inviting you to the meeting. She didn’t send it. It was spoofed.”

  “Who by?”

  “Public computer, Brixton library.”

  It meant he’d been lured to Joanne’s office deliberately, so that he would find her that morning. This was getting personal. Middleton had targeted him from the start. Why? Because he was a journalist, that must be it. Because he could provide the publicity the man craved. “What would Middleton be doing in Brixton?”

  She shrugged. “You’re the investigator.”

  “Can you trace another email for me? It came from Evelyn Vronsky, minutes before she was killed.”

  “You think that’s from Middleton too?”

  “Could be.”

  “Send it to me.” She turned and left.

  He’d pushed things too far. Taken too many liberties. Been too selfish. She could have balled him out. She had every right. But that wasn’t her way. Leaving so soon, without a cheery wave, was about as severe a reproach as he was ever likely to get from Ruby.

  He watched her cycle off across the self-build site and called Ben inside. “I need to shut this door and get some heat in the place.”

  The boy slouched indoors and threw himself onto the sofa.

  “You should keep up with school work. You got any books with you?”

  “Nope. I’ll read something.” Ben picked a Middleton novel from the pile of books on the floor.

  Tom glanced at the cover: Gilded Butterflies. It was a mid-period serial killer mystery involving the murder of prostitutes. “There are better ones.”

  Ben chose a copy of Violent Harms. “Why do they all have such weird names?”

  “The titles come from a Shakespeare play. King Lear.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The detective’s called Lear.”

  “Seems like a dumb idea.”

  “Maybe. I don’t read them for fun. It’s work.”

  “Is this the guy who killed your girlfriend?”

  “Kiera? Yes.”

  “Ruby says you found a new one, that’s why you didn’t come home.”

  “I should have phoned, I’m sorry. It was difficult.”

  Ben slumped into the depths of the sofa cushions, opened the novel and began to read.

  Tom took the chance to open his mail. The report on the text analysis ran to twenty pages. He skimmed it. There was no doubt. The Profits Of My Death was written in the same style as the bulk of the Middleton canon. There were inconclusive discrepancies and nothing could be cast-iron because a novel such as this isn’t the work of one person. There are editors and proof-readers to consider. But the take-away from it all was that The Profits Of My Death was genuine. Middleton wrote it. He could deny it all he liked. Tom had his evidence. But too late. None of that seemed to matter much any more – not since the attack on Evelyn Vronsky, in broad daylight at her London home. Middleton was now public enemy number one and, temporarily at least, Britain’s most wanted man. The police were looking for him, the press, his family and friends, many of whom had gone on record to say the accusations were absurd and he must himself be in danger. Who would find him first?

  It should be Tom. He had the inside track, he’d had it all along. Even though Middleton had played him for a fool, there was still time to turn those tables.

  Ben looked up from his book. He tore off the corner of a scrap of paper and used it as a bookmark, then placed the novel into his day-bag rucksack.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Home.”

  “In a bit. I’ve things to do here.”

  Ben rounded up his belongings, scattered around the shipping container: books and socks, headphones and an iPod that looked as if it came out of the ark. Five minutes later, Emma arrived at the doorway. “Come on, we’ve got to go. Thanks Tom, can’t wait, Mark’s keeping the engine running.”

  “Invite him in, I should meet him.”

  “Sorry, he’s in a hurry. And a bad mood.”

  Tom and Ben exchanged a glance. “I’ll walk you to the van.”

  “Not now.”

  “I want to meet this guy. At least see him.”

  Emma took Ben’s bags from him and slung them over her shoulder. “Leave it. Another time. Thanks, though.”

  “Thank Ruby. She did…”

  “Gotta go. Come on Ben. Don’t upset Mark, please.”

  “I don’t know what I’ve done…”

  “It’s because you’re press, I think.”

  “Sure it is.”

  She was gone. He stood in the doorway of his shipping container and watched her scurry across the self-build site, half wondering what was wrong with her, while mulling over how he should find Middleton.

  His phone dinged. A message from someone who claimed to be close to Evelyn Vronsky. Come to the hospital, it said. As soon as you can. She needs to see you.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Last Words

  The text had said only that she wanted to see him. It hadn’t been from Evelyn herself, but from an anonymous friend of hers. Or servant. Or something. Vronsky had still not recovered consciousness according to the message which begged the question: how could anyone know she wanted to see him? And, also, what was the point?

  Capgras headed to the hospital all the same. She was in a private room with a uniformed policeman on guard outside. The man debated with his radio, scowled deeply at Tom, but eventually let him through nonetheless.

  Evelyn lay dead to the world yet still alive according to the battery of electronic equipment attached to various parts of her body. An elderly man in a sharp suit sat beside her bed. At first Capgras thought it might be a brother or an ex-husband, but it turned out to be a lawyer. The man got to his feet and whispered an introduction as though fearing to wake the patient. He gave his name as Bernard Harrison and held out his hand with a slip of paper. A cheque. Tom hesitated, not for long but long enough.

  “She would want all her debts settled. If there’s anything outstanding let me know.” He thrust the paper at Capgras, followed by a business card.

  Capgras took both, looked at the cheque, made out for five thousand pounds. “This is more than I’m owed.” It was a lot more, in truth.

  “Think of it as an advance. Your work is not finished.”

  “I’m not sure Mrs Vronsky is in a position to care about such things.”

  “She would want this matter settled. Whatever happens to her. You heard about Barlow I assume?”

  “The butler?”

  “He didn’t make it.” Harrison gestured Capgras to move away from the bed. He dropped his voice to a murmur, so quiet that even from a few inches, Tom could barely hear him. “The doctors say she may not last the night. I want someone here with her…”

  “She must have family.”

  “Indeed. But if she says anything pertinent to who did this, it should be someone who will listen, remember and take notes. And appear in court as a witness, if necessary. I assume taking notes is something with which you are familiar?”

  “Isn’t this a job for the police?”

  The solicitor raised an eyebrow.

  “Fair enough. I’ll stay, if you think it will help.”

  “And promise me,” Harrison said, his eyes intense and his lips set hard, “that you won’t stop pursuing this. She deserves justice.”

  “She doesn’t need me any more, you know that,” Capgras said. “The police are taking it seriously, at last. They’re looking for him. They’ll find him.”

  “Assuming, of course, that it really was Middleton.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “I keep an open mind. You should too. Evelyn could tell us a lot if she recovered consciousness.”

  “Can’t the doctors do
anything? Use drugs to bring her round?”

  “They won’t risk it. Quite right too, if she has a chance of life…” The man turned away, as though trying to hide tears. Was he more than merely the family solicitor? A friend as well perhaps. Maybe even a former lover. Or an admirer who never spoke his love.

  “I must go,” Harrison said, his back still to Capgras, gathering up papers.

  “How long do you want me to sit here?”

  “Through the night, if you can. I’ll send my secretary to relieve you in the morning. If that proves necessary…”

  Harrison clicked the door shut as he left. Capgras took the seat next to Evelyn’s bed and watched her face, hoping to see some flicker of the eyes that might mean she was awake. She must have been beautiful in her day, and she still was in her own way despite the wrinkles, the sagging skin and the deep lines of worry and age. For an hour or more he stayed attentive, waiting and watching like a cat at a mouse hole, but as time went by his eyelids grew heavy and his head began to nod. He woke with a jolt and realised there was a voice in the room, a croak of a whisper. Evelyn’s lips moved, the eyes flickering at last. He leant close, took her hand which rested on top of the blanket and squeezed gently. “It’s Tom Capgras,” he whispered. “You’re in hospital.” Should he call a nurse, or a doctor? Should he urge her to save her strength or to tell him all while she had the chance?

  Her mouth quivered open, and he put his ears to her lips anxious not to miss a single syllable. She strained to speak but no words came. He caught an indistinct “argh” sound that might have been a gasp of pain, or the beginning of a name: Arthur, perhaps?

  She tried again. This time he was sure she was saying Tom’s own name. A hard ‘C’ for Capgras. That must be it. “Yes, it’s me, I’m here. It’s Tom Capgras,” he whispered. “Did Arthur Middleton do this?” He stared intently at her face, hoping to see a nod or a gesture. Did she squeeze his hand or did he imagine it? What would it mean in any case: yes or no? This wasn’t evidence they could use in court. He took out his phone and turned on a voice memo, held the device close to her face. “Give me a name,” he said. “Who did this?”