by PETER DAVEY
“I do appreciate your seeing me,” he began. “I wasn’t sure if you had any idea what it was about.”
“I have absolutely no idea what it’s about. But I haven’t got long, I’m afraid. I’m seeing a client in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll get straight to the point, then.”
So he did. And although he was imparting the same information that he had imparted two days earlier to her estranged husband, her reaction was totally different. She didn’t look mystified, she looked furious.
“Is this some sort of scam?”
“It’s no scam, Mrs Haymer. If you don’t believe me, you only have to read Nicola Carson’s book and you’ll see at once that it’s identical – assuming you’ve read your husband’s manuscript, of course.”
“Of course I’ve read it. I edited it.”
Dominic ducked down and extracted something from a carrier bag he had brought with him and which now lay beside his chair. He held it out to her – it was the copy of Loss which Katie had bought. Her cold, angry and defensive manner vanished at the sight of it. She glanced at him, then reached out and took it in fingers that Dominic was sure were trembling.
As she read, her eyes widened, and then he heard her murmur, not to him but to herself. “So Nicola Carson… is Nicola Pearson? But…”
It was now Dominic’s turn to be confused. “I’m sorry, who’s Nicola Pearson?”
She seemed not to hear. She was still staring at the book, apparently unable to speak. Then she murmured, “But Nicola Carson’s American.”
“No she isn’t. That’s a common misconception. She’s acquired an American twang because she’s spent so much time out there and starred in American films, but she’s actually as English as you or I.”
There followed another long silence, then it became clear from Anne Haymer’s face that something had come into focus. “So that was what she was up to, the little bitch!”
“You mean, you know Nicola Carson? Or Nicola Pearson?”
“More than I want to. Although I’ve never actually met her, obviously. But Ted must have known.”
“He says he didn’t. Although he does now, of course. I told him when I went to see him.”
“And how did he react?”
“He seemed amazed, but not as amazed as I expected him to be. Maybe he just hadn’t taken it fully on board.”
“I remember thinking when there was all that fuss about this book that the subject-matter sounded similar to Ted’s but I never gave it another thought.”
“Mrs. Haymer, how do you know Nicola Carson?”
She hesitated. “Look, Mr. Sealy…”
“Dominic.”
“Okay. Dominic. Much as I appreciate your coming all this way to give me this information, the fact is I don’t know you from Adam and we’re getting into an area that I’m not at all comfortable talking about.”
But she didn’t need to. Dominic had already guessed. And now it was he who was flabbergasted. “It’s okay, Mrs. Haymer, I quite understand. But, without wishing to pry, is it possible to ask if your ex-husband knew Nicola Carson – or Nicola Pearson – personally?”
“Yes. Yes, he did. Before she was famous, of course.”
“And may I ask how that came about?”
She hesitated again, as though trying to decide how much information to divulge. “Her mother lived in a place called Snetsham just outside Wemborne where Ted and I used to live. She may still do so for all I know. I knew her slightly – we were both on the committee of the Wemborne Horticultural Society years ago. Her husband ran off with another woman when Nicola was a child – I think that was the start of the trouble.”
Dominic took a moment to absorb the information. “You’d think in a little place like Wemborne people would want to claim her as their own, now that she’s a star. Use her fame to put the place on the map.”
“I don’t think anyone around there really knew she existed. She never went to Wemborne if she could possibly avoid it and when she did her mother practically disowned her. She was a bit... wild, to put it mildly.”
“And yet your husband knew her?”
“Yes, well, Ted’s always been a bit of a rebel himself on the quiet. She worked briefly as a waitress at our local and that was where he met her.”
Dominic was staring at the copy of Loss which she had set down beside her coffee cup, though his thoughts were miles away. What he was seeing was a whole new horizon opening up in the Nicola Carson scandal.
“Do you mind me asking how long this association lasted?”
“Mr. Sealy, with all due respect I don’t want to say any more on the subject. Ted and I were breaking up at the time.”
“No, okay. I’m sorry.”
“So how do you fit into all this?”
Dominic roused himself from an alarming mental picture of the old guy he had met a few days earlier having an ‘association’ with the girl whose bottom the readers of Nuts magazine had recently voted the most perfect on the planet. He told her about the mix-up over her husband's manuscript and how it had spent more than five years in the bottom drawer of someone's desk. He did not tell her it was his own.
“It sounds as though your office was a bit of a shambles.”
“It was, I’m afraid,” he laughed.
“And now you’re on a mission to put things right?”
“I just feel very strongly that your husband should get the credit he deserves for his novel. And I’d like to make that happen. If I can.”
“If you feel so strongly about it, why didn’t you publish it in the first place?”
“It wasn’t my decision. I was just an editorial assistant. I wasn’t much more than the tea-boy.”
“I see.”
“But I’d really appreciate your help. I feel nervous asking. I wasn’t sure what you’re position would be.”
“What do you mean, ‘my position’?”
“Well, I’m aware that you and your husband are no longer...”
Anne Haymer shifted the teaspoon on the saucer of her empty cup. “Look, Mr. Sealy. Dominic. One thing I’ve never denied is that my husband’s a good writer. He could have been a great writer if he’d just got his act together. I spent thirty-five years of my life supporting him – in every sense of the word. After all that, I’m damned if I’m going to stand by and let that… that girl take all the credit for his work. Not to mention the financial rewards. I suffered for his art as much as he did – more, in some ways, since I didn’t have the creative satisfaction.” She stopped herself abruptly. Then she said, “So what are you proposing to do?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never done anything like this before. That’s why I need your advice. Could one get the press on side? Nicola Carson’s already controversial – a lot of literary snobs feel that anyone whose face has appeared on the cover of Vogue has no business winning the Connaught. The very idea of any Connaught Prize-winning novel being plagiarised would be a sensation, but especially hers.”
“Well, red hot though the story might be, the press wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole unless there’s some proof. You do have some proof?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Like an idiot I threw those sample chapters away – I just didn’t realise their significance at the time. And your husband said he’s thrown away the computer he wrote the novel on.”
“Yes, I think he may be right there. We had a massive clear-out when we sold our house. He’d have hard copies, of course, but there’s no way of proving they’re genuine.”
“Could he have backed those files up anywhere else?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I was always telling him to back up but he was very lax about it. I used to tell him to put the copyright symbol with his name and the date on everything too, and he used to laugh, ‘I’d be flattered if someone wanted to steal my novel!’ Ironic, eh? But he did get into the habit of doing it, just to humour me.”
“So, assuming we can find some proof, how should we proceed?”
“Through the courts. That’s what they’re there for. If she stole Ted’s novel and published it, it constitutes infringement of copyright and theft of his intellectual property. Not that it would ever be tried as a crime. We’d have to go by the civil route.”
“And if we can’t find any proof?”
“Then we’d be scuppered. Unless we can build such a convincing body of circumstantial evidence that it’d be decided on the balance of probabilities. But that’d be far more risky.”
“You sound as though you know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually I know almost nothing about IP law. But I do know someone who specialises in it. The press are bound to pick up on it, of course – she being who she is – so you’d get your media circus anyway.”
Anne Haymer’s involvement was making the whole thing seem far more real and possible. And a high-profile court case starring him as the witness who had unearthed the crime would be fantastic publicity for his book. But then he remembered Ted’s words on the phone.
“When I spoke to your husband recently,” he began, tentatively, “He said he didn’t want him or his family to get involved in a court case. I think he was worried that if she won, she could be awarded colossal damages, and then she could turn round and sue him for defamation of character.”
“She’d do that anyway if we start making unsubstantiated claims in the press. The bottom line has got to be proof. Maybe we should employ a detective to find some.”
Dominic was horrified at the idea. The last thing he wanted was some detective muscling in on his territory. “Let’s just hang fire on that for the moment,” he said. “I’ve got a few other possibilities I’m looking into.”
Anne glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to go,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to have to give this matter a lot of serious thought. Can I contact you?”
“Sure. Here’s my card.”
*
Dominic set off back to London in a state of shock. Edward Haymer had had an affair with Nicola Carson! Okay, he would have been nearly six years younger then, but why would a gorgeous girl like Nicola Carson have an affair with an old guy who looked like a tramp and was old enough to be her father? Because she had an ulterior motive, that was why. At least it explained his bizarre reaction when he had broken the news to him. Except that he hadn’t been breaking the news to him. He had known all along – he must have done. But if that were true, why hadn’t he acted sooner? Perhaps, in spite of everything, he was still in love with her.
He put his foot down to overtake a juggernaut. In a way the story was getting better and better. They now not only had plagiarism but sex as well. Nicola Carson had stolen the novel from an older man who was infatuated with her and with whom she was having an affair – an affair which (judging by the hatred in Anne Haymer’s eyes at the mere mention of her name) had caused the break-up of their marriage. But, as the miles rolled by, his enthusiasm became tinged with misgiving. He had taken a liking to Anne Haymer despite her initial defensiveness (who wouldn’t have been defensive?) and he would have to consider her feelings. She wouldn’t want the grief and humiliation caused by the break-up of her marriage splashed all over the newspapers and the pages of a subsequent bestseller. He was beginning to feel, also, that this new development somehow diminished Ted Haymer’s charm as the innocent victim. Some readers – especially women – might hold that he, a married man in his fifties, had got exactly what he deserved. Others – especially men – might think, ‘I’d give up a lot more than a manuscript for a night in the sack with Nicola Carson!’ But that was to fail to understand the creative process. A novel – especially one like The Tyranny of Love – in which years of life and a lot more besides had been invested – that was something no writer would ever sacrifice – even for that.
When he arrived back at the flat, Katie was out. He was puzzled at first, then remembered she had been invited for a farewell drink by her boss Trevor who was apparently pulling out all the stops to persuade her to stay, including the offer of a pay rise and a ride in his brand new Porsche. He had to admit that he was rather relieved.
He had just opened a can of lager when the phone rang.
“Dominic? It’s Ted. Ted Haymer.”
“Hello, Mr. Haymer. I’ve just come from talking to your wife.”
“I know. She called me. And it looks as though you’ve won her over.”
“I didn’t do much. She seemed to be on your side from the start.”
“No, it was your charming, diplomatic manner that did the trick. If I’d suggested it we’d have ended up having a row. So thanks. I hope it wasn’t too awkward for you.”
“No, not at all. But I was wondering, Mr. Haymer, if we could meet again. Maybe tomorrow...?”
“I’ll be in the Queen’s around one. And for God’s sake stop calling me Mr. Haymer! It’s Ted.”
When he had ended the call, Dominic slumped down in his armchair and lit a cigarette. At least Katie wasn’t there to hassle him about his smoking, which had increased markedly since he had reinvented himself as an investigative journalist. He would have to open all the windows before she got back to blow the evidence away.
He thought about his conversation with Edward ‘it’s Ted’ Haymer and the computer he had allegedly thrown away. Surely even he wouldn’t have done anything so drastic without backing up those files somewhere first. He must have worked on that novel for years! The only shred of hope was that he was lying – just as he had lied about knowing Nicola Carson, or Nicola Pearson. There had been an unequivocal, almost defiant note in his voice when he told him he had thrown it away. But whether he had or not was academic if he was unprepared to give it up.
He blew out a cloud of smoke in a sigh. The fortnight Katie had allowed him to solve this mystery was running out fast and the great adventure that lay ahead of them was beginning to feel more and more like deportation. If only he had a bit more time.
5
Ted stood up and proffered his hand as Dominic approached and this time it was he who went to buy them both a pint.
“Anne and I are going to meet,” he said as he was settling back in his seat by the inglenook. “Apparently she knows some red hot solicitor who specialises in this sort of thing and who'll be able to point us towards a suitable barrister. I told her I thought it sounded a bit risky, but she seems determined to go ahead. I’m amazed, though. And quite touched.”
Dominic was astonished by the transformation in this man’s manner. Whereas before he had been surly, defensive, unwilling to get involved and then only ‘unofficially’, he now seemed to be throwing himself wholeheartedly into the enterprise. And he, Dominic, without whom none of it would have been possible, was beginning, in some subtle way, to feel sidelined.
“I think you’re right, though,” he remarked, after an initial sip of his beer. “Going through the courts would be suicide without that computer or some other proof. And, as you said yourself, Nicola Carson’s got an awful lot of money and clout behind her.”
Ted looked at him in surprise. “You’ve changed your tune a bit, haven’t you?”
“No, not really. But meeting your wife has made me more of a realist.”
“Well Anne, bless her heart, is one of the few lawyers left who believes in justice. Once she gets the bit between her teeth there’s no stopping her.”
“Maybe she has her own reasons for that.”
Ted had raised his pint half-way to his lips. He set it down again. “So she told you. I wondered if she would.”
“You mean, about you knowing a girl called Nicola Pearson? Who turned out to be Nicola Carson?”
“And what else did she tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, if she ever does, don’t believe her.”
Dominic met Ted’s eye for a moment, then glanced down at his drink. “It’s just that, when we met before, I got the distinct impression you’d barely heard of Nicola Carson and had no idea how she got her hands on your
manuscript. But in fact it’s pretty obvious how she got her hands on it.”
Ted said nothing at first. And when he spoke it was slowly, choosing each phrase carefully, the way someone crossing a stream chooses each stepping-stone. “I didn’t mention it before because those few short weeks I knew Nicola were very traumatic – since they were responsible for the break-up of my marriage. I wasn’t about to share that with a complete stranger who comes waltzing up to me in my local without a by-your-leave. And I’m under no obligation to share it with you now. Just because you’ve decided to make a mission out of this doesn’t give you the right to go prying into every aspect of my private life.”
“No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“It’s just that I can’t believe that when I told you the other day that Nicola Carson had stolen your novel, you didn’t already know. I mean, you had a… she was a close friend of yours. She then publishes a book, she gets into films, she becomes famous. Curiosity alone must have made you want to pick up her novel in Waterstones and have a look at it.”
“I told you before, I never read other peoples’ novels. I’m too busy with my own work.”
“But she wasn’t just ‘other people’, was she?”
Ted was glaring at him. “Look, I don’t have to defend myself to you. I never asked you to get involved in this. In fact, I could have the landlord throw you out for harassing one of his most lucrative customers. But I’m too civilised for that, so I’m going tell you what you want to know on condition you never mention the subject again. Nicola was a friend. Okay? A friend. We were a couple of struggling artists and we had a lot in common despite the age difference. But it was a friendship Anne couldn’t accept. After it ended I never saw Nicola again. Our house was in Anne’s name and she sold it and bought a little place to rent and then went to live with a female friend in Hailsham while I went to live in a clapped-out old caravan in the middle of nowhere with no television and no internet. I used to have a radio but the batteries went flat and I never bothered to replace them. I don’t miss it. And I don’t waste what little money I have on newspapers. My life’s moved on, Dominic. I’m a hermit – I spend my days reading, playing music, growing vegetables, gazing at the sea. I don’t even write novels any more, I write poetry – about nature, about the universe, about the human condition – stuff like that. So no, I didn’t know Nicola had published a novel. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared.”