by RB Banfield
“No, I live in the city. I’ll be going back home next week.”
“I can send it back here first thing tomorrow,” he said, before heading down to the dining room to get ready for the evening meal, ignoring her trying to tell him to just throw the pages away since she had no interest in ever looking at them again.
Dan’s night was sleepless. After arriving home at two in the morning he tried to sleep but then had to get up and start reading Sophie’s story. He found the style and storyline worse than Max’s, but that was because he had expected too much. When he finally crept back into bed without waking Sam, he fell asleep quickly but his dreams were of yet more of Sophie’s story. When he woke up a mere two hours later he had trouble remembering what was real and what came from his own imagination. He arrived at the office before anyone else in his shift and began to read it again, if anything but to remember what wasn’t in his dream.
Gregory Retter came in, in the lumbering way he always walked. The oldest of the detectives, he was a perennially lazy man, widely known as having the worst record for any detective in the city’s history. But he was a nice guy and he had several old friends amongst the brass, so no one really minded his work record so long as he had no important cases. When he heard him, Dan looked up with a start. Then he started yelling at him.
“One’s writing about the other, who’s writing about them! One is writing about the other writing. Can you believe that? They’re both writing!”
“You do what?” Gregory asked, not expecting to encounter hostility at such an early hour and it baffled at him. He went to take a look at the collection of papers on Dan’s desk and scratched his head when he saw how much of a mess it all was.
“This girl Sophie Trent,” Dan explained in a calmer voice, “she’s writing a novel about a man called Max Marshall. And in her story Max is writing a story. Problem is, Max Marshall is writing a story about a girl named Sophie Trent, who is writing a story. They’re both doing this at the same time. Something supernatural’s going on here, I’m telling you. This is way out of my league. This is like that Pink Floyd album matching with that film Gone With The Wind. Some things no one can explain.”
“You’ve been working on a novel in your spare time, Dan?” Greg asked, not paying too much attention to the pages because he was worried that he might have to read it for him. There were not many things he had learned in his life, but reading drafts from aspiring unpublished novelists was one that he knew to avoid.
“This is the work of two suspects in the Gendry murder.”
“They both trying to put the blame on the other? No kidding?” Greg asked as he reluctantly picked up a page and tried to make head or tale of it. “What’s their stories about?”
“Which ones? The real ones or the …”
“The ones in the story. You said they were stories in their stories?”
“The girl is writing about the guy, who is writing about her. And they are writing about them writing.”
“So, they know they’re writing about each other?”
“No, I didn’t say that. The characters in their books, they’re also writing.”
“That’s what I’m asking. You are saying they have both written stories about each other writing a story? And in these stories they have more stories?”
“I guess I am saying that, yeah. That’s making me feel dizzy.”
“Meaning there’s four stories going on? Or is it a continuous thing, into infinity? One writes about the other writing, who’s writing about them writing, and so on, and on.”
“Thinking about that is where my brain starts to go real fuzzy.”
“I knew that when you said about Dark Side of the Moon. The film you mean is The Wizard of Oz.”
“It is? Well, I never checked it out myself, see if it’s true or not.” Dan sat back in his chair and put his hands over his face. The change of thought was not doing him any good.
“Yeah, I did,” chuckled Greg. “Helps if you’re drunk, if you want to see any connection between them. I don’t know what they’re thinking; Floyd fans, that is. Or your suspects, for that matter.”
“You don’t believe in supernatural phenomenon?”
“Only on the sporting field,” Greg said as he placed the page back down on the desk and went to fill up his coffee cup. “Especially when I’ve got my pay check in any way involved with it. If I’ve got money riding on a team, the other team gets some strong supernatural forces to conspire to rob me. My advice is, just throw what you got there all into one of those files that forever sit on the bottom of a dark cabinet and chalk it up as one of those unexplained paranormal oddities. That’s my advice, and at this time of the morning, you’re lucky it’s for free.”
“Can’t do that. Can’t just go dropping it. They’re both describing my murder case.”
“Your case? Wasn’t the Gendry murder Dale’s? Wasn’t that hit-and-run?”
“‘Could’ve’ Moore put it on me.”
“Then arrest them, the authors. Both of them. Put them in the hole and beat it out of them. Sounds like one of them knows something they shouldn’t. Or maybe they both do.”
“Arrest them for what? Bad writing?”
“One of them knows something, and probably both of them do. They got together and thought they were real clever.”
“Need something more than that. Need a hook.”
“Tell you what: I’ll help you.”
“How are you thinking of helping me?”
“For a start, look for any similarities in their stories. That’ll show they conspired.”
Dan stopped and realised. “You know, you’re right. I did notice something.” He grabbed some pages and was disappointed to see how out of order they were. “To do that I’ll have to read through them both again.”
“I’ll give it a read, if you want.”
“Hands off. No offence, Gregory, but it’s up to me to get to the bottom of it. Tell you what: you want to help? Go get some breakfast for me. Make it two. I couldn’t be more hungry.”
“You haven’t had breakfast yet?”
“Yeah, but that was an hour ago, nearly.”
Dan was trying to explain his newest theory to Benny Taylor, who wasn’t getting it. They were having an early lunch in a small sandwich place before the usual lunchtime crowd came invading. Benny was amazed at how many pies Dan was making his way through. It didn’t matter how hot they were, or if the steak and cheese had too many gristly bits, or the cheese in the mince and cheese was too strong. All he needed was a large dab of ketchup on the top and he was away. It was easy for anyone to notice how fat his face was looking lately, but Benny was too smart to say anything. Such comments needed to wait until other police were within hearing range, for better effect.
“Something ties Sophie to Max,” Dan pondered, not noticing that he spat some small pieces of pastry, “and that something has a name, which is Craigfield. And somehow that leads to Longbottom. Who this Craigfield is, I don’t know. The only one in our records is a Craigfield Johnson, but I can’t track him down. How odd is that, that we can’t track him down?”
“If you can’t prove it, then forget it,” said Benny. “Do yourself a favour and forget it ever existed. No Craigfield, no book, no granddaughter in Gendry, no Max writing about her. Can you do that?”
“The killer of Longbottom would want me to, sure.”
“You can’t go saying that. You can’t get personal with this job. You know that, right? Soon as you start dwelling too much on the details, then you’re too wrapped up in it, and before you know it you’re believing all kinds of crazy theories.”
“Too late, I’m already in too deep. You can’t just say, ‘No murder,’ and it goes away. You know that as well as I do. They’re laughing at me.”
“Who’s laughing at you?” Benny asked, thinking someone had joked about his weight problem and he missed it.
“Sophie, Max, Craigfield; all three. What kind of a name is Craigfield anyway? He sh
ould be arrested just for that. Why can’t we find him? What’s that all about? We can find anyone, but not this guy?”
Benny sat back in his chair and looked at his watch.
“We can be sure Craigfield and Max have a history,” Dan continued, ignoring Benny’s disinterest. “Just place a nice bet on that one. That’s done. Home and hosed. By a length. What we don’t know is the connection of Sophie and Craigfield—heck, that name’s bugging me. I’m calling him Johnson from now on.”
“If that’s the same Craigfield Johnson, and if that’s his real surname,” Benny smirked.
“And we don’t know the connection to Longbottom,” Dan continued. It wasn’t that he was ignoring Benny, it was more that he was on a roll. He loved being on a roll, when his mind could put all the pieces together and he could throw out the distractions and false leads and realise the criminal in the crowd. “It’s there. I can smell it, you know? It’s there. Staring me in the face and I just can’t see it. It’s laughing at me; all smug, thinking it won’t be seen. This is not going to beat me. You know it’s not going to beat me. Craigfield can hide from our computer—Johnson can hide, I mean, but he can’t hide from me.”
“You don’t think you might need a break on this one?” Benny asked, now concerned for his friend.
The waitress walked up with a fresh coffee pot and asked if they wanted refills. Dan most certainly did. And three more pies. His roll needed to be fuelled.
He had them in his world now. They were far away from the light fiction of their books, from their cosy little apartments, their folksy little town, their typewriters and computers. Now they were in Dan’s two interrogation rooms; Sophie in one and Max in another and neither knew the other were there. That was how he started, and he would work his questions to find the truth. At the exact right time they would realise the other was in the neighbouring room, and they had heard the exact same questions. Dan could tell them whatever he wanted. They said that. They said this. Why do you think that is, Sophie? Say, Max, why did Sophie say that about you? It was especially pleasing that both had come in under the guise of helping their case, so neither had a lawyer.
Sophie was the first to face Dan’s questions. He started mild and polite, as was his norm, and then build up the anger. In truth, what was harder than hiding his real emotions was the fight to not think about his hunger. It was not very intimidating to grill a suspect while eating the ham and lettuce roll that he had hidden in his inside jacket pocket.
“Tell me about the guy in your story,” Dan said to Sophie with an inquiring tone. He was standing near to the only table in the room. Sophie was sitting with her arms resting on the table. Her hands were clasped and fingers fidgeted. Near to her was a large white file with no name on it but full of papers. It was untouched and Max guessed that she thought it was her story.
“Max Marshall,” he said again. “Can you tell me about him?”
“You’ve been reading my story? I’m flattered, of course, but confused as to why you would want to. It’s just a rough draft, and I probably wasn’t going to do much else with it anyway. Now, I’m certainly not. I told you to keep it, or throw it away, or whatever. I’m certainly not going to use it, not now.”
“But you do know Max? How well do you know him?”
“Of course I don’t know him. He’s just a character in my story.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about him, the real Max, I mean. His wife Jill? Got that pretty close. His friend Craigfield? Like you knew him too. Tell me about Craigfield.”
“These are just characters in my book, as I’ve explained. They’re not real and they’re not meant to be real. I don’t know any of them personally, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Are you suggesting that? I told you, I just used the name, and I‘m sorry he turned out to be real.”
“And his wife’s name?”
“Max’s wife is named Jill?”
“You also got his profession right too. How did you manage that?”
She looked worried. “I don’t know. You say he’s famous? Maybe I heard about him once and his name stayed with me; I don’t know. Am I in trouble here? You’re not telling me there’s some law that I can’t write about people if they’re real, are you?”
“Tell me about Craigfield.”
“He’s a fictitious character in my story. Like all of them. Or are you telling me he’s real too? I can’t believe that.”
“Where did you get the name?”
“I made it up.”
“You invented the name? He’s not based on a real person? Someone you met?”
“I’ve never met anyone with that name.”
“What were your plans for this story?”
“My plans? What’s the plan of anyone who writes? I just wanted to write.”
“You don’t have a publisher or a deal? You just wanted to write a story without knowing if anyone will read it? Why would you do that?”
“A publishing deal? That’s only for actual published authors.”
“Sorry but I can’t see why anyone would want to go to that much effort if they thought no one would ever read it.”
“With that advice, no one would write anything. But you know what? I wish I hadn’t, if this is what it gets me.”
Dan left it at that, for now. He wanted her to sit and think about what she said, while he went to see his other guest. Along the way he grabbed a cream roll from the fridge, where he had placed a whole bag that morning. He was no down to two. He was partly surprised that no one else had helped themselves to any of the rolls, but that was because he did not realise how wild he was looking when he was eating them. He would have preferred to have the ham and lettuce roll that was in his pocket, but that would mean trying to conceal a cream roll, and he had learned from experience not to do that again.
Max’s room was identical to Sophie’s but he was more relaxed, leaning back in his chair and tapping at the table leg with his foot. He too had a white folder on his desk, and like Sophie, it had not been touched. Dan would need to check the video later to see if he tried to take a peek, but it looked like he had not. To leave it untouched was a sure sign of guilt. No innocent person would be able to resist looking at it when they were left alone for a good half hour, as Max was.
“How well do you know Sophie Trent?” Dan asked him as soon as he opened the door. His tone was harsher than when he was with Sophie.
“I know no one by that name,” Max said, appearing bored and not moving a muscle. “Can you tell me what I’m doing here, please, Dan?”
“You’re here to discuss your book,” Dan said as he finished off the cream roll and grabbed one of the two spare chairs. “Quite an enjoyable read it is, too.”
“My book?” Max asked with interest that gave him life. He sat forward and looked at Dan like he was one of his fans. “Which one is that you mean?”
“The one in which you’ve described the life and times of Sophie Trent. You seem to know quite a bit about her. Why is that?”
“The one I gave you? That is hardly a book. It’s no more than a draft, and ordinarily I would never let anyone see a draft. I gave it to you as an act of good will, because you seemed interested, but I had no idea you thought there was something malicious about it. Besides that, anything that’s in my books that might align to real life is pure coincidence. Surly you don’t think it’s anything else other than fiction?”
“Coincidence of the pure kind, is it? Tell me about Craigfield.”
“He is an obscure young man who befriends Sophie.”
“Sophie Trent?”
“Actually, no, I haven’t given my Sophie character a last name, and if I did, I don’t think I would give her that name. Especially now you’ve said it.”
“Why not? There something wrong with the name?”
“Not at all, but since you’ve said it, it’s kind of tarnished. And if I use it now, you can claim you helped me write my book and you’d have to have writing credit, should it ever be publishe
d. Besides, Sophie Trent must be a real person, for you to have mentioned her. Am I in some kind of trouble here? Do I need to call my lawyer?”
“Your character Craigfield, he’s based on a real person?”
Max looked uncomfortable. “My wife’s gym instructor, actually. I liked the name, that’s all.”
“Craigfield Johnson?”
“You know him, then, do you? And let me guess: you know more about him than I do, is that correct?”
“Tell me more about him.”
“The character in my book isn’t meant to be the same Craigfield who’s my wife’s gym instructor. What purpose would that serve?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”
“Listen, I can see what your problem is.”
“And what is my problem?”
“The people in my book, most of them, they are actually based on real people in Gendry. As for Craigfield, I used his name and that’s all. He’s not meant to be the same person my wife knows. Other than that, the names, everything else is entirely fictional.”
“Then you’re saying the Sophie in your book is a real person?”
“And her grandmother, and family.”
“You’ve met her? You know her?”
“The real Sophie I haven’t met, no. I have talked to many others, the minor characters, but Sophie I only heard about. I wouldn’t even know what she looks like. I did some research, but not that much detail. And if you’re trying to tell me I know Sophie Trent because I’m writing about someone who happens to be called Sophie, you are mistaken.”
“Tell me about this research you’ve done.”
“It’s called a phone. Gendry isn’t a big place and someone knows someone else, and not many people move away, so if someone new comes along, everyone’s going to hear about it sooner or later.”
“You’re saying you rang them and asked them about the people they knew in Gendry? For your story? Why would you do that, use real people, in your story? You can’t go writing about their lives without their permission, can you?”