by L. C. Tyler
‘And?’
‘And that means he probably did show up wherever he was supposed to be. It’s just that none of us knows where that is. Though there’s another thing that’s slightly odd, now I think about it.’
‘What?’
‘Well, Emma says Crispin cleared off to his mistress. But on New Year’s Eve he was clearly trying to pick girls up at the club.’
‘That’s Crispin for you.’
‘So, had he dumped this new woman too?’
‘Could be.’
‘In which case, she might not be too happy with him either?’
‘Lots of women weren’t.’
‘That’s what worries me. I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t report Crispin missing ourselves. Let’s see if the police can trace him.’
‘You just said he’s probably alive and well.’
That was true. I had said that. But what if I was wrong? A writer is last seen staggering drunkenly across a car park. Then he vanishes and fails to answer any calls or respond to voicemails. How many days was it now?
‘You could be right,’ I said. ‘But even so …’
‘Maybe hold off another twenty-four hours? We could look a bit stupid if he did show up. It probably counts as wasting police time or something.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘But—’
‘Anyway,’ said Henry, ‘you’re meant to be concentrating on what I did, not on Crispin. Tell me again about Didling Green. Where exactly did you search?’
I described my investigations as best I could to somebody who said they had no knowledge of the area.
‘I think I should go and take a look myself,’ said Henry.
‘I thought the whole point of sending me was so that you didn’t have to?’ I was aware of a note of irritation in my voice. There was again an implication in Henry’s proposal that I was not a competent investigator, that I was wasting Henry’s precious time. But I’d done my best. It wasn’t my fault that he hadn’t left a body up there.
‘Best to be thorough,’ he said.
I tried not to show my annoyance more than I had to. ‘I’ll lend you my map, if you like.’
‘I have satnav, Ethelred. It’s you that I need – to show me where you looked and where you didn’t.’
‘You’ll find it from what I’ve told you.’
‘I’d be really grateful if you’d come along too. Really grateful. And it would be good if you could drive me.’
I looked into his eyes to see if I could discern what form that gratitude might take. He was certainly anxious that I helped him. So maybe …
‘Bring a stick,’ I said.
I arranged with Henry we should go the following day. To be quite honest, I’d pretty much given up on the idea that I might get any recognition of my selfless acts on his behalf.
But I was wrong.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
From the journal of Elsie Thirkettle
5 January. I’ve just had a long conversation with Ethelred about Emma Vynall. Why didn’t I realise before? Some people might describe Ethelred as an unreliable narrator, but I prefer the term ‘liar’. From the moment I first told him that Crispin had it in for him, I could tell that he knew there might be a good reason for it. He just took her back to her room and left her with a chaste kiss on the cheek, did he? Yeah, right. I’d noticed something in Ethelred’s manner in West Wittering over lunch – a sort of jauntiness that comes over him whenever, usually against my advice, he has allowed himself to become ensnared by some predatory female. And he couldn’t wait to get over to Brighton. That he failed to follow it through and stay the night – well, that was Ethelred all over. Letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would’ like the poor cat in the adage.
Though Emma claimed that Crispin didn’t give a toss, I wasn’t so sure. The fact that he allowed himself to go off with anyone he fancied didn’t mean that he extended that right to Emma. That isn’t the way that men like Crispin think. If Crispin imagined the two of them had been up to something, it would more than explain why he took to Amazon as Thrillseeker and rubbished each of Ethelred’s books in turn.
But it doesn’t help at all in understanding why Crispin has disappeared. Or why Henry Holiday has commissioned Ethelred, the most incompetent amateur detective in England, to investigate New Year’s Eve on his behalf.
Unless Ethelred actually knows far more about things than he is letting on. He wasn’t entirely honest with me about his relations with Emma Vynall. And he certainly knows something about the Mary Devlin Jones plagiarism business that he hasn’t told me yet.
This needs thinking about.
Sunday the 6th. At the present rate I’ll have used up this diary by July, so I’d better not do anything interesting from August onwards.
Still, something fairly interesting has just happened. I went down to the local newsagents as usual on Sunday morning and bought a copy of the Sunday Times. I’d worked my way through the Style section, which seemed to be predicting that nice clothes would be designed this year mainly with tall, thin, attractive people in mind. Of course, I keep myself pretty fit just thinking about going on a diet, and I always reckon if you pay your gym subscription promptly, you are morally entitled to the occasional bar of chocolate. So I lingered over the section on this season’s pencil skirts. I did however eventually turn to the book reviews, just in case there was a stinking review for somebody I didn’t like. And there it was. Half a page by Henry Holiday devoted entirely to Ethelred’s oeuvre. I now copy some of it down for posterity to read:
The Buckford series by Peter Fielding (one of the three names that Ethelred Tressider writes under) is one of the most highly regarded in the genre. Praised for their accuracy and attention to detail, the books have an international following and have drawn praise from readers and critics alike. Those who only know the Buckford books are, however, missing a rare treat. The mediaeval series (written as J. R. Elliott) are amongst the finest historical works being written today. They are universally acclaimed as crime novels of the highest literary merit.
Universally? Henry wasn’t counting Thrillseeker, then. And it continued in this vein paragraph after paragraph. There was occasionally a vagueness to Henry’s literary criticism, suggesting that with some of the books he might have just read the blurb on the back of the cover or maybe just got the title off Amazon and winged it from that point on. Every now and then he spelt the name of one of the characters wrong because he couldn’t be arsed to flick open the book and check. Still, you couldn’t fault his sycophancy. His general position was that Ethelred could do no wrong. Even the romantic novels, which Ethelred hasn’t dabbled in for a couple of years at least, came in for their share of adulation. And those really are crap.
Time to phone Ethelred, then.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘It’s eleven o’clock, Elsie,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m up.’
‘It’s Sunday,’ she pointed out.
‘When you’re a writer it makes very little difference,’ I said. ‘One day is much like another.’
‘The thickness of newspapers varies, though. Have you seen the Sunday Times?’
‘Henry’s piece? Yes, it’s very good.’
‘Good? It reads like a Nobel Prize citation.’
‘If you say so. He said he’d give me a good review if I helped him. Virtue is occasionally rewarded.’
‘But you haven’t helped him,’ said Elsie. ‘You’ve farted about and failed to get Emma Vynall to sleep with you. That’s worth a cursory mention in “Recent Paperback Releases”. If you’d rescued his daughter and her cute little puppy from a gang of flesh-eating zombies, I can see that he might owe you one – but this would be a bit over the top even then. Do you know, Ethelred, I’ve spent my life trying to bribe and blackmail critics. The best I ever got out of blackmail was “another interesting book from this strangely neglected author”. When I read the review, I was that close to telling his boyfriend what I’d caught him doing.’
‘Well, it was kind of you to threaten a critic on my behalf,’ I said.
‘Oh, good grief, I wouldn’t have wasted perfectly good blackmail on one of your books,’ said Elsie.
‘So, you are ruling out that Henry might genuinely like my work?’ I asked with all the sarcasm I could muster.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am. There is something very, very odd about the whole piece. People will know it’s overdone.’
‘Will they?’
‘If they’ve read your books, yes. Though obviously that will be only a tiny minority of Sunday Times readers.’
‘I thought Henry had some fairly insightful things to say. He says that Sergeant Fairfax’s interest in church architecture gives him greater depth.’
‘Except it doesn’t really, does it? It just gives you a chance to spend days in the British Library reading up on Norman fonts, when you should be typing out another five thousand words. Saying he’s interested in church history is really a bit like saying his shoes are brown or he likes Abba. You know a bit more about him but not enough to actually like him.’
‘You don’t like Sergeant Fairfax?’ I asked.
‘Is he supposed to be likeable?’
‘I’d always hoped so,’ I said.
‘He’s a tedious, middle-aged alcoholic, who smokes fifty a day and grunts at his colleagues when they wish him good morning. Even in Book One his workmates were looking forward to the day he retired. Since then he’s trodden on the toes of pretty much every one of them.’
‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t loveable.’
‘Yes it does.’
‘DC Wendy Hobbins likes him.’
‘She’s fictional, Ethelred. You can make her like anything. Anyway, I’ve always thought that her admiration for Fairfax was completely improbable. She’s a lot younger than he is. She’s good company. She’s attractive in a bookish sort of way. It’s difficult to see why you think she would go for somebody like Fairfax, other than to pander to some middle-aged male fantasy that this sort of thing ever happens. Are you actually trying to build her up into a genuine love interest or something?’
‘Maybe,’ I said guardedly. It was in fact central to the plot of the next book but I hadn’t yet told Elsie.
‘Fairfax is just a lonely, middle-aged man,’ said Elsie. ‘Things don’t work out like that for lonely, middle-aged men. It’s their lot in life to be lonely and middle-aged. They don’t get beautiful young women throwing themselves at their feet.’
‘Don’t they?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you for that clarification,’ I said.
‘I didn’t mean you, of course,’ said Elsie.
‘It hadn’t occurred to me until this moment that you did,’ I said.
‘Obviously you are a bit middle-aged … and you’re a man … and …’
There was a pause, which I initially took to be embarrassment on Elsie’s part, but she proved, in fact, to be opening a packet of biscuits.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘These wrappings are really tricky. The first one’s all broken.’
There was another pause. Then a crunching noise.
‘The fourth one’s fine. What were you saying?’
‘We were just talking about the plot of my next book. DC Hobbins gets moved to another police force and Fairfax drowns himself in a Norman font.’
‘Would there be enough water for that?’
‘It was a joke,’ I said.
‘It’s a good plot, though. Are you working on that today?’
‘I’m driving over to Didling Green again,’ I said. ‘Henry thinks I’m not doing a thorough job. He’s checking my work for accuracy. How about you?’
‘I need to go to the shop for some more biscuits,’ said Elsie. ‘I’m about to run out completely. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
The review was, however, only the first surprise of the morning.
I receive so few texts that it took a moment or two to identify the buzzing noise that announced the arrival of a message. I located my phone and tapped on the Messages icon. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said.
The new message was from Crispin Vynall.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As I read the message a wave of relief flooded over me.
Hi. I think that there may be some concern that I haven’t been in contact lately. This is just to let you know that all is well but I can’t tell you where I am at present, except that I am nolonger in England. Sorry to be a bit mysterious. All will be revealed in due course, as they say. In the meantime, please tell nobody about this text unless you have to. Crispin.
Then, almost immediately, the relief started to trickle away into the metaphorical sands and very real doubt set in. Anyone could send a message and sign it Crispin. And why was Crispin sending the message to me anyway? Surely he would contact Henry or even Emma. I would be way down the list, after many other, much closer friends, his agent, his editor, his publicist, his builder … There would be dozens of people for whom this information would be more important. Unless he knew I was looking for him. I checked the mobile number that the message had come from. It was unfamiliar to me. But I had Crispin’s number on my phone from when Henry had tried to contact him. It was relatively quick work to scroll back through the calls. I had just verified the number as being Crispin’s when Henry showed up in person.
‘I’ve heard from Crispin,’ I said, as Henry got out of his Jaguar. ‘Just a text. He says he’s out of the country and not to worry.’
‘A text?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s really him?’
I read out the number. Henry immediately took out his own smartphone and ran through his address book, as if unwilling again to accept my word that the job had been done properly.
‘That’s Crispin’s mobile, all right,’ said Henry. ‘So, whoever I may have killed, it wasn’t Crispin.’
‘So, it certainly sounds as if Crispin really is alive,’ I said. ‘But why is he texting me? I mean, how does he even know I’m aware he’s missing?’
‘I agree it’s slightly odd, but the message does seem to be genuine – I mean, it’s from his phone. It sounds like Crispin.’
‘I’m also not sure why I have to keep anything a secret. Why contact me at all if I can’t let anyone know? You don’t suppose that somebody else could have got hold of his phone?’
‘A complete stranger? But how would they have known to contact you? I doubt you’re in his phone book. It’s more likely that it is actually Crispin. Perhaps Emma told him you had been looking for him?’
‘Yes, of course. Actually, that’s almost certainly it.’
‘Well, it’s a good job you didn’t tell the police he was missing,’ said Henry. ‘It sounds as if he’s just gone off somewhere, after all.’
We both thought about that for a bit, then Henry said: ‘OK. We have to assume he’s alive. But I still have no idea what happened on New Year’s Eve and I’d still like us to go and take a look at Didling Green as arranged.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Thank you, by the way, for that write-up in the Sunday Times. It’s a while since I’ve had a review there at all. I’m really grateful.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Henry.
‘I hadn’t realised you had read so many of my books,’ I said.
‘Life is full of surprises,’ he said.
‘But you genuinely liked them?’
‘You read the review.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
I paused to see if he would expand on this.
‘Thank you,’ I said eventually.
‘My pleasure,’ he repeated.
We got into the car.
It was raining again. I peered through the misty windscreen and checked the traffic in both directions before pulling onto Rookwood Road. My foot pressed down on the accelerator and we were soon out of West Wittering and on our way north to the Downs.
‘Why do you keep looking in the rear-view mirror?’ asked Henry. From his position i
n the passenger seat he couldn’t easily see the road behind. He half-turned, constricted by the seat belt, then slumped back again.
‘I was just checking whether anyone is following us,’ I said. ‘You remember that death threat?’
‘Of course. But it didn’t seem very serious. I’m not sure it even said specifically that you were to be killed.’
‘I suppose not. It was clearly intended just to frighten me off the case. But whoever it was knew that I was doing some detective work on your behalf. Look, Henry, I have to admit that, at the beginning, I was pretty sceptical that anything much had happened on New Year’s Eve. But I’m beginning to wonder if somebody is out there pulling our strings – sending us haring round the county for reasons that completely escape me – unless the person concerned has killed Crispin and is trying to pin it on you and to stop me discovering the truth. In which case that text from him is certainly a fake – just another deliberately planted red herring.’
‘But who would want to kill Crispin?’
‘Lots of people, I would think, many of them women. And we know he’s attacked me on the Internet, so probably there are other writers too who’ve been sockpuppeted by him. I knew he had a talent for annoying people, but I’m only just discovering how comprehensive it was. If this were an Agatha Christie novel, they’d probably all band together to commit the crime. In real life, it would take just one of them.’
‘And where do I fit in? Why am I the one to be fingered?’
‘You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps you were both followed on New Year’s Eve. Somebody slipped something in your drink, then abducted Crispin while you were out of it, leaving Crispin dead and you with no recollection of the latter part of the evening other than a nagging feeling that something dreadful had happened.’
