by Ian Simpson
‘And her favourite classic was The Count of Monte Cristo,’ Tara said. ‘It’s all about revenge, meticulously planned and carried out,’ she explained.
‘There’s someone I must see before they go,’ Baggo said.
He found Sidney Francis alone in his room, all traces of arrogance gone.
‘It was me that found out,’ Baggo said, then he described what he had seen and heard.
‘It’s been a nightmare,’ Francis said. ‘Matilda couldn’t cope very well before the boys arrived or when they were babies, and she certainly couldn’t when they started being naughty. She would do nothing, ignore bad behaviour for ages, then completely lose control, sometimes over nothing. You saw the sort of thing that could happen. So I decided to be a strong disciplinarian, insisting on good behaviour all the time. I punished them often, but it was controlled, never too heavy. I got worse thrashings myself as a boy. And it had started to work. When I went away at weekends it was partly for my writing, partly to see if she could cope on her own. And she was doing well, very well. Then you came and warned me, told me not to use the stocks.’ He glared at Baggo. ‘Soon afterwards the boys started being naughty again. Matilda broke Harold’s arm, not me. She used a broom handle. I grappled with her, as you did, and she fell. Hence the bruise on her forehead. What will I do? What will happen to them?’ He held his head in his hands.
‘It is up to Social Services,’ Baggo said. ‘But remember this and hold onto it: you may not be great parents, but you are the only parents your boys have, and they have been consistently loyal to both of you.’
Francis looked up. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Good luck,’ Baggo replied.
Downstairs, Fergus was celebrating the news that Chapayev had been caught after a car chase. Faced with a tractor pulling a wide load, he had driven into a ditch near a village called Methven. In his car there had been a Russian-made revolver and a commando-style knife. He was in custody and had been tested for gunshot residue. The officer administering the test had been optimistic.
‘I think I’ll drop into Perth Royal Infirmary to check on Ms Pargiter,’ Fergus said as he left.
‘I think you mean Sergeant Fortune,’ Osborne said loudly, and was rewarded by a red flush that spread up the back of the Scot’s neck.
27
It was a hot, stuffy day and Wimbledon was the centre of the tennis world. Baggo got home late and found Cilla sitting beside an open window, sipping champagne.
‘The book, darling!’ she cried. She poured a second glass and gave it to him. They clinked glasses.
‘You’ve found an agent?’
‘Better than that.’
‘Not a publisher? I thought you needed an agent first?’
‘I had the best agent I could have, my dad.’
‘What?’
‘You know how Dad got in touch with me without Mum knowing and we met regularly in London?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And how he said about my book, it wasn’t the best time to try submitting it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well all the time he had given it in hard copy to a friend who is a publisher. That friend got in touch with me this morning, and he’s going to publish it! He said it’s entirely a commercial decision, and he thinks it will sell.’ Her voice caught. ‘He said Dad hadn’t told me he was submitting it as he didn’t want me to be disappointed.’
‘Well, congratulations. I am very, very pleased. You deserve this.’ They clinked glasses again and drank.
Cilla’s face clouded. ‘Every time I think of Dad, I can’t stop myself remembering that horrible, twisted little bitch. I’m glad she hanged herself, you know. I don’t buy this “She’d have been so miserable in jail” crap. She’d have found a way to make life bearable.’
‘She could not bear to lose control of her life.’
‘I’ll never forgive her for saying I was Crimewriter in her suicide note, that I had killed Dad.’
‘You know that was never going to work. By the time we had amassed it all, the evidence against her was overwhelming. Her suicide note was the final throw of a desperate woman. Come on, cheer up. This is your day of triumph.’
‘There’s just one thing. I have to make one or two minor changes to the book, but they’re easy.’
‘Such as?’
‘The opening. You remember I start with the priest being buried alive?’
‘Of course. It’s brilliant.’
‘Well, I’m going to have to give it a build-up. Apparently people are fed up with every crime book having a murder on page one.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
While a few literary agents treat aspiring authors with arrogant rudeness, I am happy to say that I have found most to be courteous and professional in their dealings. Some go the extra mile to help newcomers, and I gratefully acknowledge the generous encouragement and wise counsel I have received from Andrew Lownie. I would also like to thank Tara Wigley for patiently teaching this old dog some new tricks. David Roberts has boosted my confidence and given me the benefit of his experience.
This is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people is coincidental. I have never been anywhere near Wimbledon CID Room and I hope no one there minds my (ab)use of their workplace. The Pride O’ Atholl Hotel does not exist, and could not exist in the place I have imagined it. However, those readers who have visited the wonderful Knockendarroch Hotel, in Pitlochry itself, may notice some similarities to my creation.
I am most grateful to all at Matador, who have steered me through the publishing minefield. Special thanks go to Michael O’Shea at Tayburn for a brilliant cover design. My wife, Annie, and sons, Richard and Graham, have constantly encouraged and helped me make the transition from lawyer to writer and I cannot thank them enough.