To say the phone call had unnerved him was an understatement, though the ensuing conversation had, on the surface, seemed quite innocuous. The undertones had been more than intimidating, however. The manager of Overton Hall had been careful in his choice of words, had been adept at orchestrating his tone of voice, something, presumably, he’d had to master over the years. And Carl had managed to scare the shit out of him. He was a wreck the rest of the evening. This wasn’t happening, he thought as he took a shower, as if the scalding water might wash away the implications of the pone call. He hadn’t dared tell his wife, and she couldn’t understand why he’d yelled at her the way he had, flown off the handle without provocation. Or there again maybe she knew all too well.
Two days later and he still shook when he thought of it, though now some of that shaking was anger, at both himself and Carl. Who the hell did that little bastard think he was? Threatening him like that.
Only he hadn’t threatened, not directly. But he got the gist all right. He got the message.
The rain became heavier, more insistent, drumming on the roof like miniscule fists, as if to encourage him out: “Come on, Miller, what’re you afraid of?” it sang.
The night was thick with the smell of damp concrete, of car fumes, the air burdened with the constant drone of cars ripping along a wet main road nearby. He slammed the car door shut behind him, deliberately loud, so as not to show his fear and to assert his confidence. A cardboard confidence.
Before him was a thirties semi, ordinary looking, in an ordinary street, lined with mature, bare cherry trees, one to each ordinary garden. It had a red door, looking muddy-brown under the street lights, a brass horse-head door knocker in its centre, a brass letterbox beneath this. He envisaged the postman whistling his way up the garden path, the milkman rattling milk bottles on the doorstep, and carol singers at Christmas. He trod in their footsteps up to the door, the clutching fingers of a pruned, naked rosebush snagging his coat as he went by, as if wanting to drag him back. He had a choice. Ring the illuminated door bell that said ‘push’, or lift the horse-head knocker. He jammed his thumb fiercely at the button, but its cheery chimes appeared to forgive his brusqueness. “Been carol singing,” he muttered under his breath. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen…”
The rain beat at the door, raindrops racing each other down the glossy surface. He used to be fascinated with them as a kid, betting which one would tear down the glass pane and reach the windowsill first. He heard the sound of someone shuffling about in the hallway, the scraping of a key in the lock then the drawing back of a bolt at the bottom. The doorknob turned with excruciatingly slowness. There was the feeling that a little old lady would emerge and ask him if he had come to service the gas boiler.
“Do come in, Mr. Miller? Do come in.”
“Evening, Carl,” he said, but his voice carried with it no warmth.
Carl executed a mock bow and gestured into the room with the flat of his hand. Gavin Miller stepped cautiously inside, wiping his feet on the mat. The interior still didn’t wipe away the feeling that the little old lady was somewhere present, waiting to dash out with a tray of scones and tea.
“Cold,” said Carl.
“More wet than anything,” Miller returned.
Carl closed the door, and the warmth from the radiators, obviously up full, ran down the narrow stretch of corridor to wrap its stifling folds around Miller, like a dog running to its master. He unfastened the first two buttons of his coat, and Carl held out his hand for the coat. Miller eyed the scrawny fingers, the scrupulously scrubbed and filed nails. He hadn’t intended staying, oh no, definitely not; long enough to take Carl by the neck and throw him against a wall, give him what for. Verbally, of course, but if it needed something else there were options available. He’d done nothing but think about them, throwing the possibilities into the cement mixer that was his skull and sending them swilling around until an answer was forthcoming. But there were no answers that had satisfied him, so now he found himself removing the coat and handing it over. He watched as Carl hung it carefully by its loop on the brass hook of an Edwardian coat and hat stand.
“It’ll be dry soon as anything,” Carl said, giving it a final brush down with his hand to remove the surface moisture. “Shall we go through? Let me show you my library.”
“I really don’t think…”
“You’ll like it, I’m sure,” he insisted lightly.
Miller sighed and licked his dry lips. “If you say so.”
“The place used to belong to my parents,” said Carl, obviously pleased he could perform this guided tour. “When they died it came to me. I had intended selling it, but somehow I never got around to doing it. That’s mum,” he said, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall. Bless her. 1986. Died a year later.” He straightened the frame, though it never looked crooked to Miller.
“Carl,” Miller said abruptly, pausing. “I’m a busy man…”
The man pushed down his spectacles a little, smiled thinly. “Indulge me,” he said softly, turning and walking down the hall, indicating with a flick of his hand that Miller should follow. “My library is quite special,” he said. “I’ve given your books pride of place, you know. Next to Nabokov.” He came to an abrupt halt by a door and removed a set of keys from his pocket. “I’ve spent thirty years acquiring this,” he remarked, inserting a key into a lock at the top of the door, snapping it open and then bending to another at the door’s base. “My life’s work, you might say. Hence the security.” He indicated a dark corner on the ceiling in front of them. “Security camera. Neat, eh? Everything’s wired up, alarmed: doors, windows, floor. The house was broken into about six years ago. They turned the place upside down and finally decided to take the video recorder and the television.” He chuckled. “Can you believe it? I have books worth thousands of pounds and they chose a cheap telly. Ignorant bastards. Not that I’m complaining, but I thought it best not to take any more chances; not with my life’s work. Can’t have anyone touching your life’s work, can you?” He looked meaningfully at Miller. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. Miller, go right in.” He flicked on the light switch and held open the door.
“Is this really necessary?”
“I think so. Please, Mr. Miller. I keep the room at a stable temperature and we’re letting in far too much heat.”
Miller entered the darkened room, the air chillier, the low-wattage bulb doing little to beat back the deeper shadows. He was confronted on all sides by walls of books that reached from floor to ceiling. Carl closed the door softly and the room was plunged into a little more gloom, the light from the hall shut out.
“By all means, have a closer look at them, Mr. Miller. Or should I call you Gavin? Surnames seem so formal, don’t you think, especially as we’re starting to get to know each other better? But before you touch them I insist you wear a pair of these cotton gloves.” He slipped his own fingers into a pair.
“Look, Carl, let’s stop this fooling around, shall we, and get down to what I came here for?”
“Sit down,” Carl demanded firmly. “Please.”
Miller hesitated and then slumped sullenly into an armchair. Let the little bastard have his fun while he can, he thought. Just keep calm. Everything’s gonna be OK. Don’t let him spook you; he knows nothing.
“Can I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee? You look like you could do with something stronger, but of course you’re driving. What will it be?”
“I’m not thirsty,” Miller returned. Pause. “Thank you.”
“Mother used to live on tea. She said it helped a mind relax. I’m a coffee man myself. I have recently acquired rather a taste for freshly ground coffee, none of that granule rubbish. I regret I have too many expensive habits of late, though I guess that wouldn’t bother you so much as someone like me, would it? A man of your standing. Reputation.”
“I get by.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but I wish I could get by like you do. It’s hardly the same
thing, is it?”
“I’ve worked hard for what I’ve got.”
He held up a hand. “I’ve no doubt, Gavin, no doubt at all. You see, I’ve worked hard as well. I’ve worked extremely hard, day in, day out, slogging away for years in the hope that there will be an eventual reward. But the truth is there has been no reward. I still have no money, I have little respect and the future looks like more of the same. You do understand, don’t you?”
“There are professional people you can talk to about this,” Miller said, failing to hide his contempt.
Carl smiled thinly, turned and opened a cabinet door, taking out a book and holding it up for Miller to see. “A thing of beauty, don’t you think? Books have always been my weakness, as you probably know already. They give me such a thrill merely to hold them, especially one such as this. Because this, you might say, is very much a jewel in my crown. Conan Doyle’s ‘A Study in Scarlet’. Some collectors would kill for a copy of this, Holmes’ first outing, in book form, that is. I could bore you with facts, but I’ll refrain. Of course, the first book by an author – in this case the first of a series – is generally the best, coming as it does fresh from an enthusiastic mind, full of ideas, unbounded energy, a mind with something to prove. That not so, Gavin? I guess you had something to prove as well, eh?”
“What’s your point, Carl?”
“I think you know my point well enough. But we’ll continue, if you so desire.” He returned the book to its former position, closing and locking the door on it. “I have your first novel, of course; I have them all, as you know, and each and every one of them kindly signed by yourself. But my favorite is the first. Your debut. ‘Eilean Mor’. But not only is it a favorite of mine, it was a favorite of the critics and public alike. An instant bestseller, the medieval character of Stephen de Bailleul already becoming a part of our literary folklore. You must be justifiably proud of yourself, Gavin, to have your creation stand alongside Holmes or Bond, so much a part of the public psyche that people flock to Bailleul Country to see exactly where he fits into the fabric of their history.”
“I don’t need a lecture on my own work, Carl.”
“No, of course you don’t. But think of it, a creation of your mind that has such power, almost as if the character really lived. To be able to do that, well, it’s a gift, a truly wonderful gift. And isn’t it true, that like Conan Doyle with Holmes you have also tried to kill off Bailleul? But they won’t let you, will they? You and he have become inseparable, no matter how much you hate writing about him.”
“He’s very much dead now,” Miller returned with the faintest of smiles. “In spite of what people like you think, I am his creator, I gave him life, I gave him death. End of story. End of Bailleul. I have other, far more satisfying projects to concentrate on.”
“But the fact remains that your success is built upon the Bailleul foundation.”
“I cannot deny that. He gave me my first break.”
“And at its best it is a very shaky foundation, wouldn’t you agree?”
Miller’s heart lurched. He rose as if in sudden response to it, his cheeks and neck flushing red. ‘This is ridiculous, Carl. I’m leaving,” he said, flustered.
“I don’t think so, Gavin. Not just yet.” He felt a rush of excitement as Miller froze, the hunter finally having the quarry in his sights. All that remained was to squeeze the trigger and this noble beast would collapse into a heap before him. But it was a shame to spoil it, to corrupt the moment, as it was just too exquisite to allow it to end. Hemmingway would have been proud of him, though. “You know as well as I what all this is about. Don’t try and play ignorant. Let’s say, quite simply, that the first Bailleul was hardly yours, was it?”
Miller shook his head, aware that his breathing was becoming quicker, more shallow, but he couldn’t get it under control. “That’s plainly ludicrous!” he retorted.
Carl’s features hardened. “Oh, don’t worry; I’m not disputing the validity of the remainder. You can have all those under your belt. But the first, the best, the one that brought Bailleul to life, well, that’s very much open to debate. In fact, there is no debate. It wasn’t your novel, was it?”
“Ludicrous!” Miller reiterated, but with less conviction in his tone, sitting back down when he felt his legs giving way.
Bang! Carl watched as Miller’s crumpled form sagged back into the armchair. Carl put his finger to his chin and stared at the wall speculatively. “Imagine it if you can, someone discovers that Holmes was not the creation of Conan Doyle, what might that do to his reputation? Or that Bond did not belong to Fleming but to another, an unknown. Think of the literary bomb blast that would cause. I would hate to be caught in the fallout, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re crazy, Carl. As crazy as those you work with in Overton Hall. What’s more, if you insist on pursuing this course then we’ll see what the courts have to say about it. Don’t forget, I have the money to be able to see this through. You have neither the funds nor the evidence to back up this pathetic, flimsy accusation. You’ll be seen for what you are, a sleazy opportunist.”
“Fire away, Gavin. Fire away. I don’t mind. Your big guns mean jack shit to me. Evidence? I have evidence? Funds? I’ll show what I have to any national newspaper and I’ll get all the backing I need.”
Miller squirmed uneasily in his seat, but his face remained calm. “You’re bluffing,” he said.
Carl shrugged, unconcerned. “Read the manuscript yet? I doubt you’d have destroyed it without first taking a peek at it.”
“Not all the way. It’s as garbled as the others. I take it you have, in spite of your assurances.”
“What do you take me for, an imbecile? Course I’ve read it. I have a copy of it. I have copies of them all. I have the originals, too. Things you’ve not even clapped eyes on, Gavin. Very revealing things.”
“So what do they prove? I know where they came from. They’d hardly stand up in a court of law, would they?”
“Can you risk that? You don’t know what I have.”
“Like I said, you’re bluffing.”
“Look, I’m not really a bad man, Gavin. I’m just an ordinary guy with a shitty job that pays crap. All I want is a little understanding.” Carl’s eyes were wide with expectation and he had to turn away from Miller to disguise an uncontrollable grin.
“What you’re talking about is blackmail.”
“Please, Gavin,” said Carl, holding up his hands and twisting his features into mock disgust, “that’s an insult. Blackmail’s illegal. I just need a little help from you, that’s all.”
“Financial help, I take it,” Miller spat, his eyes narrowing. “You’re a scheming little bastard, Carl, that’s all. Don’t pretend you’re something better.”
“And were you as nasty with Mrs. Randolf? Did you ever accuse her of blackmail?” He was delighted with Miller’s reaction, albeit subtle jumping of the jaw muscles. “How do you justify the vast amounts she’s taken from you? Helping out a friend? You see, I’ve been doing some checking up of my own, and, surprisingly, Mrs. Randolf has never been in any financial situation that qualifies her as capable of paying Overton Hall fees like she’s been doing all these years. Far from it, as you know. Not unless, of course, she has someone like wealthy Gavin Miller to pay them on her behalf. But why would he do that, I ask myself? It’s been a small fortune over the years. What would make a man fork out so much to keep such an imbecile in such comfort? Two things, I surmised, were powerful enough. Friendship and fear. Or perhaps a bit of both. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“You’re clutching at straws, Carl.”
“Am I really?” His brows dropped and he moved closer to Miller, bending down to him so that their faces were mere inches away from each other. “Enough of this,” he began evenly. “I’m tired of it. Don’t take me lightly, Gavin, you’ll regret it, believe me. But – and I guess it’s because I’m a Gemini – I have another side to me. I’m also a very generous man. I’m giving you a little
breathing space. I want you to go home, finish reading the manuscript. Let’s see if you come to the same conclusions as I have. Then maybe we’ll get back together when you’re more amenable, discuss a few arrangements. Because, as you’ll find out, there’s more to this than pure plagiarism, as bad as that is. Things start to get really serious when murder’s involved.”
* * * *
28
Sunday
I didn’t see Max for twenty years.
Say it fast and it doesn’t sound so bad. But twenty years… Where did all those intervening years go?
Twenty years and then I came here to Eilean Mor.
If only I knew then that I would never leave…
The bay, shaped a little like one of those two-pronged prosthetic claws, took some of the sting out of the storm-tossed sea, but the swells were still strong enough to cause the boat to buck uncertainly.
The pilot manoeuvred the boat alongside the wood and concrete jetty, and at any moment I was sure the waves would carry us into it, smashing the wooden sides to a pulp and plunging us both into the frigid sea. Not a pleasant thought, as it brought to mind a certain freezing canal and reminded me that I still couldn’t swim. I glanced at the pilot, but he looked right through me with eyes of blue ice, totally unconcerned, the wind whipping around his face and causing his already sodden hair to lick out like streamers. His granite expression never faltered, even when a particularly strong gust shoved us with alarming speed towards the jetty. He skillfully brought the tiny craft under control, however, and then motioned at me with a red hand to jump across the small divide to a metal ladder. I frowned, thinking he must be joking, that he must surely be going to pull alongside and tie her up first, but his face didn’t possess a single humorous muscle, I decided.
Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller Page 24