The Circle ihmi-1

by Peter Lovesey

  'So how was it, Dad?'

  'The circle? Better than I thought.'

  'Will you go again?'

  'Tomorrow.'

  'That's quick.'

  'Yeah, but we've got a murder mystery to solve. A real-life one.'

  'Get away!'

  For someone credited with good sense, Naomi was behaving strangely. It was the next evening and she was cycling out from Chichester in the fading light, pedalling strongly, a strange intensity in her dark eyes.

  The burnt-out cottage that had belonged to Edgar Blacker was a sad sight on the Selsey Road, south of the town. Fire investigators from the police, fire service and insurers had sifted through the charred remains and agreed that the seat of the fire had been the hallway. Arson, using some accelerant, was the only explanation. The pattern of burning had been photographed, filmed and mapped. Scene-of-crime officers had collected what evidence they could and council workmen had boarded up the window spaces and doorways. Each means of entry was sealed with police tape. Notices warned that trespassers would be prosecuted. In time, a coroner's jury would be bussed out here to inspect the scene. And if anyone was charged with the crime, teams of lawyers would want to see inside.

  None of this was going to stop Naomi. She was the free spirit who had called Blacker a toadying sharpie at the writers' circle. She was wearing her gardening clothes: a light windcheater, jeans and desert boots. In the basket attached to her handlebars was a flashlight, a powerful one. Her backpack contained a pair of gardening gloves, some tools she thought might be helpful and her handbag — which went everywhere with her.

  She propped her bike against a tree and moved around the building, using the beam to pick out details of the fire damage. Anything of interest was noted on a small pad. The damage downstairs was extensive. Burn marks above the windows showed where the flames had leapt out after the glass shattered. She wasn't so sure what to expect upstairs. The gabled window of the bedroom where Blacker had died was scorched outside because the thatch around it had ignited, but there was no certainty that the fire had raged so fiercely inside.

  After circling the cottage she shone the flashlight into the garden shed at the rear and was pleased to discover a lightweight metal ladder. Typical, she thought, as she went in. The police have been to all this trouble boarding up the place and then forgotten to remove the most obvious aid to an intruder.

  She stepped outside and took a long look across the field to pick a moment when there was a gap in the traffic. Then she dragged the ladder up the garden path and propped it against the back of the building where she wouldn't be seen from the road. Although all the windows were boarded up, parts of the roof were covered only by a tarpaulin lashed to what was left of the beams. If she could get up there and loosen the ties she'd have a very good view of the bedroom.

  The cottage was constructed with this single room as a kind of attic under the pitch of the roof. There was a small landing and nothing else. The bathroom was downstairs.

  She put the flashlight in her backpack. She wasn't used to climbing ladders, so she mounted this one with caution. At the top she gripped the highest rung with one hand and tried loosening the tarpaulin with the other, but she wasn't strong enough. By pressing her knees and thighs against the ladder she made herself more secure, freed both hands and untied the first knot.

  In a few minutes she was able to lift a section of the tarpaulin and shine her lamp into the bedroom. The worst of the damage was from water. A mattress was still on the bed and bookshelves beside it, the books now misshapen and stained. The fitted wardrobe stood open and some of the dead man's suits could be seen hanging inside, their shape gone, a green mould growing on the fabric.

  She pointed the flashlight down the wall she was looking over. A chair stood against it, directly below her. She came to a quick decision, hooked the lamp over the top of the ladder, climbed up a couple of rungs and got one leg over the tie beam at the top and then the other. It was a short drop to the chair. She managed it without mishap.

  Some people might have been spooked by entering a room where someone had been asphyxiated. Not Naomi. Opening drawers and cupboards, she listed what was inside and made diagrams. She felt in the pockets of all the jackets, but the only things she found were a soggy cloakroom ticket, a pack of three condoms, marked 'extra safe', and a toothpick, none of which she kept.

  Still attached to the wall facing the wardrobe was a framed photo of a much younger Blacker with a blond man, grinning inanely, their arms draped over each other. They held cans in their hands, so it was probably some lads' night out, but they weren't in the T-shirts that were standard wear on such occasions. They were in suit trousers and the shirts with heavy stripes that were essential wear for young executives at one time. As she was lifting the picture off its hook the cardboard backing fell out and the frame disintegrated. No fault of hers, she decided, slipping out the photo. She popped it into her backpack. It would soon have fallen off the wall anyway.

  Nothing else was worth bothering about. The thrillers and science fiction beside the bed were unusable. The socks and underclothes in the chest of drawers were heavy with damp. She opened the bedroom door and looked into a burnt-out ruin black as sin, with only stumps where the stairs had been. To take one step on what remained of the landing would have been madness. The smell of burnt wood was overpowering. She closed the door and prepared to leave.

  Leave?

  She had not foreseen that the only way out would be by standing on the chair and climbing up the wall to where the ladder was. It had been simple letting herself down, but the reverse was more than she could manage. Standing on top of the chair back she could only just get her fingers over the beam she'd dropped from. An Olympic gymnast would have found it a trial. She looked around for something taller to stand on. The chest of drawers, like the wardrobe, was a built-in fixture. The bed was too heavy to move. She struggled with the mattress and dragged it off the bed, but it was so wet she couldn't shift it to the wall.

  'Stupid,' she said. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.'

  She was trapped. The window was boarded up and the door led into a black void. The cottage was isolated and surrounded with notices telling people to keep out. To shout for help would be useless. Unless she thought of something, there would be a second death in this bedroom.

  4

  Times have changed since a certain author was executed for murdering his publisher. They say that when the author was on the scaffold he said goodbye to the minister and to the reporters and then he saw some publishers sitting in the front row below, and to them he did not say goodbye. He said instead, 'I'll see you later.

  ' J. M. Barrie, speech at Aldine Club, New York, 5 November 1896

  To everyone's relief, Maurice McDade was sitting in the pub, a wide smile across his face, when they arrived that evening. All the members who had been there the previous night turned up except for Naomi; a fine show of solidarity.

  Tudor — the one who had practically had Maurice stitched up — was the first to clap a hand on his shoulder and say, 'Good to see you, boyo. We knew you had nothing to hide.'

  'So what happened?' Anton asked, when they all had their drinks.

  'A few crossed wires, that's all,' Maurice said. 'They thought they had something on me. Well, I might as well tell you, since it's bound to come out. Edgar Blacker and I had a thumping great row on the day of his death. He told me the production costs of my book had spiralled and he needed five thousand pounds. If it wasn't forthcoming he'd be forced to back down on his agreement to publish.'

  Miss Snow said, 'Extraordinary.'

  Basil said, 'Oh, my hat.'

  Zach said, 'What a wanker.'

  'Naturally I was devastated,' Maurice went on. 'He was supposed to pay me some money. The advance — and it wasn't much of one anyway — was due to be paid on the day of publication, which was only days away. I'd done a lot of extra work on the script at his request and he hadn't paid me anything. I told him straight that
I didn't have that money to spare, and anyway it wasn't in the contract that I'd pay anything. He said if that was my attitude he had no choice but to pull the book. I was speechless. He didn't even say he was sorry.'

  'This was the day someone torched his cottage?' Tudor said.

  'The morning after he talked to the circle. He called me up and asked me to come and see him without a hint as to what it was about. I've toiled away at this bloody book, if you'll excuse me, ladies, for years. I really believed it was about to get into print at last. I say it myself, and it's true, that book is worthy of publication.'

  'We all know that,' Tudor said. 'You've read the best bits to us.'

  'Did you stick one on him?' Zach asked.

  'We had an exchange of views. There wasn't a fight, if that's what you mean. I'm not a violent person.'

  'Lord, no,' Miss Snow said.

  'I told him what I thought of him in no uncertain terms. I don't think I've ever been so angry.'

  'But you didn't torch the cottage?' Tudor said.

  'Of course not!'

  'How did the police get onto you?'

  'They won't say.'

  'Someone must have seen you. Was there anyone around when you were there?'

  'At the cottage? No.'

  'The cottage?' Anton said. 'He ran the business from a cottage?'

  'Yes. We spoke in the living room where he has his desk.' He spread his hands. 'That's about it.'

  'You convinced the police you're innocent?'

  'I hope so. They gave me quite a grilling. About three hours. It was getting on for midnight when I got home last night. I felt drained.'

  'Don't they have any theory as to the killer?' Anton asked.

  'I was the theory. I guess the subject of my book made them suspicious.'

  'Well, it would.'

  Bob spoke up. You'll have to write another chapter now.'

  Everyone laughed and it eased the tension.

  'Incidentally,' Maurice said, 'some of you may be called in for questioning.'

  This announcement went down like garlic bread in Transylvania. Miss Snow knocked over her lemon shandy and there was a short interval while they mopped up.

  'Whatever would they want to question us for?' Anton asked.

  'Surely they don't regard any of us as suspects?' Dagmar said.

  'They're taking a lot of interest in us,' Maurice said.

  'In what way?'

  'They questioned me closely about the evening he came to speak to us, wanting to know if anyone spoke to him afterwards.'

  You could almost hear the memories ratcheting through the events of that evening.

  'Several of us did,' Tudor said. 'It was a heaven-sent opportunity. A friendly publisher in our midst, for Christ's sake! You don't let him get away without testing the water. I don't mind telling you I talked to him about my autobiography.'

  'Don't tell me. Tell the police,' Maurice said, winding Tudor up a little. His sense of relief was making him mischievous. 'They're the ones who are looking for suspects.'

  Tudor fell for it, eyes bulging. 'Telling him about my book doesn't make me a suspect'

  'What did he say?'

  'Well, if you want to know, he wasn't very encouraging. He said it needed a lot of work.'

  'There you are, then. That's your motive.'

  'My what?'

  'Your motive for killing him. He tells you your life story isn't worth publishing. That's a slap in the face.'

  'A kick in the goolies,' Zach said.

  'I wasn't pleased, I admit.'

  Miss Snow said, 'But it doesn't make Tudor a murderer.'

  'We know he wouldn't kill anyone, but do the police?'

  Tudor, red-faced, said, 'Why focus on me? Any of you could be a suspect.'

  'Except Bob,' Thomasine said. 'He wasn't here.'

  'Thanks,' Bob said.

  Now Basil was alarmed.'I had no reason to kill Edgar Blacker. He led me to believe my gardening articles might be collected into a book.'

  'Couldn't have read them,' Tudor said.

  This could get ugly. Maurice slipped into his role as chair. 'Listen, all of you, we're getting a little over-excited and I think the fault is mine. The police didn't actually say they are thinking of any of you as suspects.'

  'Witnesses, more like?' Dagmar suggested.

  'We witnessed nothing,' Thomasine said. 'We weren't there when his house went up in flames.'

  'Nobody was there, apparently.'

  'Except the killer.'

  Maurice nodded. 'Speaking from all my experience studying unsolved murders, this one is a brute. It was done at night when no one was around. The killer simply stuffed some oily rags through the front door and put a match to them. There's no DNA, no ballistics, no fingerprints. I expect the body was just a charred piece of meat.'

  'Don't!' Dagmar said.

  'They identify them from the teeth.'

  Miss Snow took in a sharp breath.

  'And all his personal papers will have gone up with the cottage,' Anton said. 'They won't have an address book to help them, or bank statements.'

  'Are they certain the fire was deliberate?' Miss Snow asked.

  'That's beyond doubt. They have fire experts who can tell you where it started. In this case, it was obvious.'

  'So have any of you ever thought of writing a whodunnit?' Tudor asked, recovering his bounce. 'This looks like a golden opportunity.'

  'Don't,' Dagmar said. 'This is serious.'

  'A serious whodunnit.'

  'You're trivialising something tragic and disturbing.'

  'I sn't that what crime writing is all about?'

  'He's winding you up, dear,' Thomasine told Dagmar.

  Tudor said,'I was making a fair point. We're always being told that writers should make use of personal experience. Write about what you know. Here we are with a murder on our doorstep — well, on Edgar Blacker's doorstep — and what are we going to do? Pretend it didn't happen? I say we should get creative.'

  'You have to be a cold fish to write detective stories,' Miss Snow said. 'I couldn't possibly attempt one.'

  'Do a factual piece then. The strange death of a publisher. Write it up and sell it to the Bookseller.'

  'I wouldn't dream of doing any such thing.'

  'Which is why you'll never make an investigative journalist.'

  'I've no desire to be one.'

  'Someone else should do it. As a circle we can't let an opportunity like this pass us by. Zach?'

  Zach shook his head.

  'Too busy with the big novel?' Tudor said. 'What about you, Sharon? Make a name for yourself.'

  Tudor seemed to believe he had a mission to draw the pretty blonde girl into the open.

  She said, 'You're joking.'

  'And has this event done anything for you as a writer?'

  'Give me a break,' Sharon said.

  Dagmar said, 'She wants to be a fashion writer.'

  'You've got me there,' Tudor said. 'Edgar Blacker in his sports coat and cords wasn't exactly the king of the catwalks. Why not stretch a point and do a piece on the two detectives who took Maurice in? They looked — what's the word? — cool.'

  Sharon shook her head and went back to her doodling. Tudor's sharp blue eyes swivelled in search of someone else to wind up.

  Anton said, 'Murder is too crude a topic for me.'

  Tudor looked across at Basil, the gardener. 'And you're going to say it doesn't beat keeping a lawn nice. I give up.'

  Dagmar said, 'It's a question of good taste, Tudor. A man we all met has died a horrible death, and we don't wish to exploit it in any way.'

  'Pleonasm,' Anton said.

  'I beg your pardon.'

  'You can't die a death. It's a pleonasm. Either you die, or a death takes place.'

  'Somebody strangle that man before I do,' Tudor said. 'Aren't we going to get so much as a pesky poem out of this murder, then?'

  Bob, sensing that the spotlight was about to turn his way, acted quickly to d
eflect it. 'What about you, Tudor? What are you going to write?'

  'Me? Oh, I haven't decided yet. It could be another chapter in my memoirs, especially if one of you lot is the killer.'

  'That Tudor's a pain in the bum,' Thomasine said to Bob in the car park. 'He'd take over as chair if it wasn't for all the extra work.'

  'Takes all sorts,' Bob said. It isn't a good idea to take sides when you're so new.

  'Trust me, last night wasn't typical. You didn't see us at our best. I hope you'll come again.'

  'I might'

  'You didn't give anyone your address or phone number. What if we have to cancel?'

  He stalled. He was still in two minds about joining the circle. 'Because of another murder?'

  'God forbid — I didn't mean that'

  'I'm not sure I'm up for it.'

  'Up for what?' She made it sound suggestive.

  He wasn't planning to get more friendly with Thomasine. She seemed fun, but he hadn't dated a woman since Maggie died. 'The circle.'

  'Don't be like that. Give us another try. It's a great laugh sometimes. A riot. Really it is.'

  'If I can make it, then.'

  'Give me your number just in case we change the date. It's been known.'

  'I'm saying I don't want to make it official.'

  'And it won't be. I'm not on the committee.'

  With some hesitation he told her his number. 'Sometimes my job keeps me busy at nights. I'll do my best'

  'What are you in — security?'

  'A bouncer, you mean?' He smiled.

  'You're big enough.'

  He told her about the driving job. 'And what do you do?'

  'Me? I teach. . What's funny about that?'

  It was getting on for midnight. Basil was at home making a cocoa prior to retiring and beginning to wonder when his wife Naomi would return. She'd gone out earlier on the bike without telling him her plans. She'd not shown up at the pub. However, he wasn't too concerned. They didn't live in each other's pockets. She was apt to go off 'checking some facts', as she liked to put it, and it was not unusual for her to get home late fulfilled by her researches.