The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair: A Novel

by Joël Dicker

“We’re searching for a car like yours that may be involved in this case.

  “A Monte Carlo?”

  “Yes.”

  Two officers searched the car and the luggage. They found nothing suspicious, and Chief Pratt allowed Harry to move on. As Harry was leaving, the chief said to him: “I would ask you not to leave the area. Just a precaution, of course.” The car radio kept repeating Nola’s description. “A young white girl, five foot two, one hundred pounds, long blond hair, green eyes, wearing a red dress and a gold necklace with the name Nola engraved on it.”

  • • •

  She was not at Goose Cove: not inside the house, on the deck, or on the beach. She was nowhere to be found. He called her name. He didn’t care if anyone heard him. He paced up and down the beach, out of his mind. He searched the house for a letter, a note. But there was nothing. He began to panic. Why had she left home, if not to meet him?

  No longer knowing what to do, he went to Clark’s. That was where he learned that Mrs. Cooper had seen Nola covered in blood before being found dead herself. He could not believe it. Why had he allowed her to walk to the motel on her own? He should have gone to meet her in Somerset. He walked across town until he reached the Kellergans’ house, which was surrounded by police cars, and listened to people’s conversations in an attempt to understand. When he got back to Goose Cove later that morning, he sat on the deck with a pair of binoculars and bread for the seagulls. And waited. She had gotten lost. She would come back. He surveyed the beach through the binoculars. He kept on waiting. Until nightfall.

  13

  THE STORM

  “THE DANGER OF BOOKS, Marcus, is that sometimes you lose control of them. When you are published, the thing that you have written in such solitary fashion suddenly escapes from your hands and enters the realm of the public. This is a moment of great danger; you must keep control of the situation at all times. It is disastrous to lose control of your own book.”

  EXTRACTS FROM THE

  MAJOR EAST COAST NEWSPAPERS

  July 10, 2008

  From the New York Times

  MARCUS GOLDMAN PREPARES TO LIFT THE VEIL ON THE HARRY QUEBERT CASE

  The rumor that the writer Marcus Goldman was preparing a book on Harry Quebert has been widespread for a few days among publishing circles in New York City. Now it has been confirmed by actual pages from the work in question, which were sent to major national newspapers last night. The book recounts Mr. Goldman’s own methodical investigation into the events that led to the murder of fifteen-year-old Nola Kellergan, who disappeared on August 30, 1975, in Somerset, New Hampshire, and whose body was found buried on the property of Harry Quebert near Somerset on June 12, 2008.

  The rights to Mr. Goldman’s book were acquired for $3 million by the New York publishing house Schmid and Hanson. The firm’s CEO, Roy Barnaski, who refused to comment, nevertheless revealed that the book is to be published this fall under the title The Harry Quebert Affair.

  From the Concord Herald

  THE REVELATIONS OF MARCUS GOLDMAN

  [ . . . ] Goldman, a close friend of Harry Quebert, who was his professor at Burrows College, describes recent events in Somerset from the inside. His account begins with discovery of the relationship between Quebert and the young Nola Kellergan, age fifteen at the time.

  “In the spring of 2008, about a year and a half after I had become the new star of American literature, something happened that I decided to bury deep in my memory. I discovered that my college professor Harry Quebert—sixty-seven years old and one of the most respected writers in the country—had been romantically involved with a fifteen-year-old girl when he was thirty-four. This happened during the summer of 1975.”

  From the Washington Post

  MARCUS GOLDMAN’S BOMBSHELL

  [ . . . ] As his investigation proceeds, Goldman seems to go from discovery to discovery. He notes in particular that Nola Kellergan was repeatedly beaten. Her friendship and closeness with Harry Quebert gave her a stability she had never known before, allowing her to dream of a better life.

  From the Boston Globe

  THE SCANDALOUS LIFE OF YOUNG NOLA KELLERGAN

  Marcus Goldman uncovers evidence that, until now, was unknown to the press.

  She was a sex object for E.S., a powerful businessman from Concord, who sent his chauffeur to fetch her as if she were fresh meat. Half woman, half child, at the mercies of the fantasies of the men of Somerset, she also became the prey of the local police chief, who forced her to perform fellatio on him—that same police chief whose responsibility it would be to lead the search for her after she disappeared.

  AND THAT IS HOW I lost control of a book that did not even exist yet.

  In the early hours of the morning on Thursday, July 10, I discovered the sensational headlines in the press. Snippets of what I had written were spread over the front pages of all the national newspapers, but with the sentences abridged and taken out of context. My theories had become despicable assertions; my suppositions, proven facts; my reflections, vile value judgments. My work had been dismembered, my ideas pillaged, my thoughts violated. Goldman, a writer in remission struggling to find his way back from the terror of the blank page, had been killed.

  As the town of Somerset slowly awoke in a state of shock, its inhabitants read and reread the articles in the newspapers. The house landline rang constantly, while some angry people came to knock at my door in search of explanations. I had to choose between facing up to them or hiding: I decided to face up to them. At ten o’clock I downed two double whiskeys and went to Clark’s.

  As I walked past the restaurant’s main window, I felt the eyes of the regulars staring daggers at me. I sat at table 17, heart pounding, and Jenny, looking furious, rushed over to me to tell me that I was the lowest of the low. I thought she was going to throw the contents of the coffeepot in my face.

  “So you came here just to make money out of our suffering?” she exploded. “Just so you could write filth about us?”

  She had tears in her eyes. I tried to calm her: “Jenny, you know that’s not true. Those notes should never have been published.”

  “But did you really write that crap?”

  “I admit that those phrases, taken out of context, seem appalling.”

  “But did you write them?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There is no but, Marcus!”

  “I can promise you I never meant to cause any harm to anyone.”

  “You didn’t mean to cause any harm? Shall I quote your masterpiece to you?” She unfolded a newspaper. “Look, here it is: ‘Jenny Quinn, the waitress at Clark’s, fell in love with Harry at first sight . . .’ Is that how you define me? As a waitress, as a slutty serving wench drooling with lust every time she thinks about Harry?”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “But that’s what you wrote, for God’s sake! It’s printed in every newspaper in this goddamn country! Everybody is going to read that! My friends, my family, my husband.”

  Jenny was screaming. The other customers watched in silence. To let things cool down, I decided to leave, so I went to the library, hoping to find an ally in Ernie Pinkas, as he was the most likely to understand how words badly used could end in disaster. But he was not particularly happy to see me either.

  “So, it’s the great Goldman,” he said when he saw me. “Have you come to look for more insults to write about our town?”

  “I’m appalled by this leak, Ernie.”

  “Appalled? Give me a break. Everyone is talking about your book. You’re the number one news item. You should be happy. Anyway, I hope you did well with all the information I gave you. Marcus Goldman, the omnipotent god of Somerset—Marcus, who turns up here and says to me: ‘I need to know this, I need to know that.’ Never a word of thanks, as if this were all perfectly normal, as if I were just the servant of the great Marcus Goldman. You k
now what I did this weekend? I’m seventy-five years old, and every other Sunday I have to work at the supermarket in Montburry to make ends meet. I collect carts from the parking lot, and I return them to the entrance of the store. I know there’s no glory in it, I know I’m not famous like you, but I deserve a crumb of respect, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Bullshit. You’re not sorry at all. You didn’t know because you’re not interested. You’ve never shown any interest in anyone in Somerset. All you care about is being famous. But fame has a downside!”

  “I am genuinely sorry, Ernie. Why don’t we go get some lunch?”

  “I don’t want lunch! I want you to leave me in peace! I have books to put away. Books are important. You are nothing.”

  I went back to Goose Cove to hide out. Marcus Goldman, adopted son of Somerset, had, without meaning to, betrayed his own family. I called Douglas and asked him to publish a denial.

  “A denial of what? All the newspapers did was summarize what you wrote. It’ll be published in two months anyway.”

  “The newspapers twisted everything! Nothing they printed corresponds to my book.”

  “Come on—don’t make a big deal of this. You need to concentrate on your writing. That’s what matters. You don’t have much time. I hope you haven’t forgotten that three days ago you signed a three-million-dollar contract to write a book in seven weeks.”

  “I know! I know! But that doesn’t mean it has to be garbage.”

  “A book written in a few weeks is a book written in a few weeks.”

  “That’s how long it took Harry to write The Origin of Evil.”

  “Harry is Harry, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “He’s a truly great writer.”

  “Oh, thanks very much. And what am I?”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. You are a—how can I put this?—a modern writer. People like you because you’re young and dynamic. And hip. That’s what you are—a hip writer. Nobody expects you to win the Pulitzer Prize; they like your books because they’re cool, they’re entertaining, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Is that really what you think? That I’m an entertaining writer?”

  “That’s not what I said, Marc. But you must be aware that some of your popularity comes from your being young and good-looking.”

  “Good-looking? Are you serious?”

  “Come on, Marc, you convey a certain image. As I told you, you’re cool. Everybody likes you. You’re like a good friend, a mysterious lover, the ideal son-in-law, all wrapped up in one friendly package. That’s why The Harry Quebert Affair will be such a big success. Think about how crazy this is—your book doesn’t even exist yet, but people are fighting over it already. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “The Harry Quebert Affair?”

  “That’s the title of the book.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wrote it yourself in your notes.”

  “It was a provisional title. I made that perfectly clear: provisional title. Pro-vi-sion-al. Ever heard of it? It’s an adjective meaning not definitive, temporary.”

  “Didn’t Barnaski tell you? The marketing department thinks the title is perfect. They decided that last night. There was an emergency meeting due to the leak. They decided they ought to use it as a marketing tool, and they launched the advertising campaign this morning. I thought you knew. Go look on online.”

  “You thought I knew? For fuck’s sake, Doug, you’re my agent! You shouldn’t think, you should act. You should make sure I know everything that’s happening with my book, goddamn it!”

  I hung up in a rage and went to check my computer. The first page of the Schmid and Hanson Web site was devoted to my book. There was a big color photograph of me and some black-and-white pictures of Somerset, along with these words:

  THE HARRY QUEBERT AFFAIR

  Marcus Goldman’s account of the disappearance of Nola Kellergan

  Coming this fall

  Preorder your copy now!

  The hearing ordered by the judge following the results of the handwriting analysis was scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon. Journalists had taken over the steps of the courthouse in Concord, while television newscasters, covering the event live, rehashed the latest revelations. There was now talk of charges being dropped.

  One hour before the hearing, I called Roth to tell him I would not be at the courthouse.

  “Are you hiding, Marcus?” he taunted. “Come on, don’t be shy. This book is a blessing for everyone: Harry’ll be acquitted, your career’ll be on the upswing, and mine will get a huge boost. I’ll no longer just be Roth from Concord, I’ll be the Roth who’s mentioned in your bestseller! This book is perfectly timed, especially for you. What is it, two years since you last wrote anything?”

  “Shut up, Roth! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, cut the crap. You know as well as I do that your book’s going to be a huge hit. You’re going to tell the whole country that Harry’s a pervert. You were lacking inspiration, you didn’t know what to write, and now you’re writing a book that is a surefire success.”

  “Those pages should never have reached the newspapers.”

  “But you wrote those pages. Don’t feel guilty, though: Thanks to you, I expect to get Harry out of prison today. No doubt the judge reads the papers, so I shouldn’t have any trouble convincing him that Nola was a slut who consented fully to what she did with Harry.”

  “Don’t you dare, Roth!” I shouted.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s not what she was. And he loved her. He loved her!”

  But he had already hung up. I saw him soon afterward on my TV screen, climbing the courthouse steps with a triumphant grin plastered all over his face. Reporters thrust their microphones at him, asking if what had been written in the press was true: Had Nola Kellergan been having affairs with all the men in town? Was the investigation back to square one? He cheerfully answered yes to every question that was thrown at him.

  This was the hearing that would give Harry his freedom. In barely twenty minutes the judge rattled off the flaws in the prosecution’s case, and the whole thing fell like a bad soufflé. The main piece of evidence—the manuscript—was completely undermined as soon as it was established that the message “Good-bye, darling Nola” had not been written by Harry. The remaining pieces of evidence were blown away like feathers: Tamara Quinn’s accusations could not be backed up by any material proof, while the black Chevrolet Monte Carlo had not even been considered incriminating during the original inquiry. The investigation was nothing but a big mess, and the judge decided that, in light of the new evidence, he would release Harry Quebert on half a million dollars bail. The door was now open for charges to be dropped completely.

  This spectacular twist provoked hysteria among the journalists. Now the DA’s motives in arresting Harry were widely questioned. Had he merely been seeking a publicity boost by throwing the famous writer to the lions of public opinion? In front of the courthouse, the cameras followed the parties as they descended the steps. First came Roth, jubilantly proclaiming that by tomorrow—the deadline for posting bail—Harry would be a free man. Then came the DA, who attempted in vain to explain the logic of his investigations.

  When I’d had enough of watching these developments on television, I went out for a run. I needed to run far, to challenge my body. I needed to feel alive. I ran until I reached the small lake in Montburry, which was swarming with children and families. On the way back, not far from Goose Cove, I was passed by a fire truck, immediately followed by another and by a police car. That was when I noticed the thick, bitter smoke billowing over the tops of the pines, and I understood at once: The house was on fire. The anonymous letter writer had fina
lly carried out his threat.

  I ran faster than I had ever run before, desperately hoping to save the house that I loved so much. The firefighters were hard at work, but the huge flames were devouring the front of the house. Everything was burning. A hundred feet from the blaze, by the path, a policeman was inspecting the words painted in red on the hood of my car: Burn, Goldman, burn.

  At 10 a.m. the next day, the house was still smoldering. Most of it had been destroyed. State police forensics experts were examining the ruins, while a team of firefighters was on hand to ensure that the blaze did not start up again. The size and intensity of the flames suggested that gasoline or something similarly flammable had been poured over the porch. The fire had spread immediately. The deck and the living room had been completely destroyed, as had the kitchen. The second floor had escaped the worst of the flames, but the smoke and particularly the water had caused irreparable damage.

  I felt like a ghost, still dressed in sweat pants, sitting on the grass and contemplating the devastation. I had spent the night there. At my feet was a bag that the firefighters had managed to rescue from my bedroom: Inside were a few clothes and my laptop.

  I heard a car arrive, and a murmur among the crowd of ghouls behind me. It was Harry. He had just been freed. I had called Roth, and I knew he had told Harry about the fire. He walked toward me in silence, then sat on the grass and said, “What got into you, Marcus?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Don’t say anything. Look what you’ve done. There’s no need for words.”

  “Harry, I . . .”

  He noticed the writing scrawled on the hood of my Range Rover.

  “Your car’s not damaged?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I want you to climb in it and get the hell out of here.”

  “Harry . . .”

  “She loved me, Marcus! She loved me. And I loved her in a way I have never loved anyone else. Why did you write all that shit? Huh? You know what your problem is? You’ve never been loved. You want to write love stories, but you don’t know anything about love. I want you to leave right now. Good-bye.”