The Circle

by Peter Lovesey

  THE CIRCLE

  * * *

  By the same author

  WOBBLE TO DEATH

  THE DETECTIVE WORE SILK DRAWERS

  ABRACADAVER

  MAD HATTER'S HOLIDAY

  INVITATION TO A DYNAMITE PARTY

  A CASE OF SPIRITS

  SWING, SWING TOGETHER

  WAXWORK

  THE FALSE INSPECTOR DEW

  KEYSTONE

  ROUGH CIDER

  BERTIE AND THE TINMAN

  ON THE EDGE

  BERTIE AND THE SEVEN BODIES

  BERTIE AND THE CRIME OF PASSION

  THE LAST DETECTIVE

  DIAMOND SOLITAIRE

  THE SUMMONS

  BLOODHOUNDS

  UPON A DARK NIGHT

  THE VAULT

  THE REAPER

  DIAMOND DUST

  THE HOUSE SITTER

  Short stories

  BUTCHERS AND OTHER STORIES OF CRIME

  THE CRIME OF MISS OYSTER BROWN AND OTHER STORIES

  DO NOT EXCEED THE STATED DOSE

  THE SEDGEMOOR STRANGLER AND OTHER STORIES OF CRIME

  THE CIRCLE

  * * *

  Peter Lovesey

  Copyright © 2005 by Peter Lovesey

  All rights reserved.

  First published in Great Britain in 2005

  by Little, Brown and Company

  Published in the United States in 2005 by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lovesey, Peter.

  The circle / Peter Lovesey.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-56947-432-X

  EAN 978-1-56947-432-7

  1. Authorship-Societies, etc.-Fiction. 2.

  Authors-Crimes against-Fiction. 3. Chichester

  (England)-Fiction. 4. Truck drivers-Fiction. 5.

  Arson-Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6062.086C57 2005

  823'.914-dc22 2004066015

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A Note from the Writer

  Shock horror! I had almost finished this book when I discovered that the Chichester Writers' Circle really exists. The shredder beckoned, but I took a deep breath and asked to attend a meeting and explain. After hearing a couple of chapters they were kind enough to say I should go ahead with publication. None of the characters in these pages resembles a member of the real circle or, thank heaven, shares any of their names. So I count my blessings, and wish the Chichester Circle continuing success and a future untarnished by anything of the sort that I imagined here.

  I must also declare my links with other circles. I first heard about them from a remarkable and inspiring fellow-writer, Joan Moules. Over the years Joan has founded several circles that grew rapidly thanks to her enthusiasm. Through her I got to know the Warminster Circle, and, later, the Selsey Circle, and made lasting friendships with many of the members. I trust that they will accept this book as the total fiction it is, but also as an affectionate tribute to circle members everywhere, and, most of all, to Joan.

  P.L,

  Describe a circle, stroke its back and it turns vicious.

  Eugene Ionesco, The Bald Prima Donna (1950)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  1

  All writing is a process of elimination.

  Martha Albrand, quoted in Twentieth Century Crime Mystery Authors, ed. J. Reilly (1980)

  The night of the first murder.

  In a cottage on the Selsey Road the central heating had cooled and the floorboards were creaking. Alone and wheezing in his bedroom, Edgar Blacker stirred, turned over, took a few shallow breaths and settled into a dream of bestsellers and huge profits. He was a publisher.

  Downstairs, the flap on the letterbox opened and a plastic hose was pushed through. Liquid trickled from it onto the fitted carpet. The hose was withdrawn. The flap closed.

  Seconds after, it was pushed open again. A piece of cloth saturated with fuel was forced through. More oily rags came after it. They made a small heap.

  One cloth reeking of petrol hung from the letterbox. No attempt was made to push it through. There was the faint sound of a match being struck. The cloth fizzed into flame, dropped on the other rags and they ignited at once. Two parcels of page proofs were lying beside the door ready for posting. The flame touched them and they caught fire.

  In the next phase of his dream, Blacker was lunching with J. K. Rowling, the creator of Harry Potter. She'd asked for a salad. For himself he'd ordered the best item on the menu: fillet steak flambé. He believed he could smell it being cooked.

  The bookshelves lining two walls were perfect tinder. This cottage was stuffed with inflammable material. Even the filing cabinets were made of teak. The flames made green tongues of fire as they reacted with the cloth and the glue of the book bindings. In seconds, the shelves caught and glowed. Soon the wood was hissing.

  It took a while for the fire to reach the small oak staircase at the far end of the living room but when it did the polish on the handrail burned green and yellow. The whole structure was soon ablaze. Deadly fumes were funnelled upstairs. Smoke is usually the killer in house fires. And there were no smoke alarms in this old building.

  Edgar Blacker didn't get to close the deal with J. K. Rowling. He inhaled various gases, including carbon monoxide, and was called away to keep an appointment with the Chairman in the sky.

  2

  The compulsion to make rhymes was born in me. For those sated readers of my work who wish ardently that I would stop, the future looks dark indeed.

  Noel Coward, foreword to The Lyrics of Noel Coward (1965)

  Bob Naylor never said much about his rhymes. The world he moved in didn't go in for rhyming, and on the one night in the pub he'd confessed to being 'a bit of a poet on the quiet' he'd had the reaction you get if you say you're a cross-dresser. No one ever spoke of it after that. You don't mess with a man as powerful as Bob. But he continued to play with words, enjoying the challenge of making them rhyme in ways that amused him. Rhyming was more fun than watching television or sitting in front of a computer. He could do it in bed, in the bathroom or while driving his Parcel Force van.

  One Friday night when he was making faint moaning sounds, trying to nail a word he was sure must exist, his daughter Sue looked up from her computer and said, 'Dad, have you ever thought of joining a circle?'

  'Come again?'

  'A writers' circle. There's one here in Chichester. I've just found the website. Says they meet at the New Park Centre on Tuesday evenings.'

  'Never heard of it'

  'You have now. Come and look while it's on the screen.'

  He got up and stood beside her just to show interest. It was a change from the chat rooms she spent most of her evenings visiting.

  Welcome to the Chichester Writers' Circle

  Whatever your interest in writing, you are gu
aranteed enrichment and support if you join our circle. We are creative people who enjoy words, working in poetry, fiction and non-fiction, and our interests range from fantasy to family history, from the theatre to the scene of the crime. We meet on the second Tuesday of each month at the New Park Centre and it's very friendly. Since joining the circle we have all become published writers, because what is publication if it is not making publicly known? Sample our work by clicking on all or any of the following. Then make a date in your diary. We are looking out for you.

  • Extract from Passion Fruit, a romantic novel, by Desiree Eliot

  • First chapter of The Sussex Witchcraft Trials, by Naomi Green

  • Unsolved. A sample case. By Maurice McDade

  • Two erotic poems by Thomasine O'Loughlin

  • Madrigor: The Coming of the Warrior, by Zach Beale

  • The Snows of Yesteryear, a sample chapter, by Amelia Snow

  • Tips for the Twenty-First Century, by Jessie Warmington-Smith

  • Showing Prize Marrows, by Basil Green

  • My Meeting with Sir Larry, by Tudor Thomas

  'Do you want me to click on one of them?' Sue asked.

  Sod that for a lark. 'No thanks, love. Kind of you to mention it'

  'A writers' circle might be just the thing for you.'

  'Like Alcoholics Anonymous?'

  'Don't be like that'

  'They'll be serious writers. It's not for oiks like me.'

  'Have it your way. But you ought to get out more.'

  This from a fourteen-year-old.

  In his van on the M3 next day he composed a few lines. 'Circle' is not a word that rhymes with much, but Bob liked a challenge.

  Let's see if the jerk'll

  Join a circle

  His loving daughter said

  But the jerk gave ferk all

  For the circle

  He was horribly low-bred

  That summed up Bob and his writing. He was the son of a plumber and a barmaid who had parted when he was seven. With young Bob in tow, his mother had gone through at least ten cheap addresses and almost as many men. He'd failed all his exams and left school at sixteen. The only thing he'd ever passed was a driving test. He'd never read anything by Shakespeare or Dickens. Didn't look at the arts programmes on TV. Didn't drink wine or borrow books from the library. The books in the house belonged to Sue, or her mother Maggie, who'd died of leukaemia three years ago. Three years, one month and two days.

  Rhymes helped him fill the times when everything went quiet.

  'They'll be know-alls,' he said that evening.

  Sue looked up from her homework. 'Excuse me?'

  'That writers' circle. Teachers and such. I'd be way out of my depth.'

  'I thought you'd put it out of your head.'

  'I have. I was telling you why.'

  'Oh sure.' Sue looked down again. It wasn't the homework that made her smile.

  He didn't mention the circle for two weeks, but that was par for the course. He always began with 'no way' and got more positive by stages. In his fertile imagination he was facing every hazard, the pointy-heads with university degrees who could quote Shakespeare, the old ducks in twinsets who could spell anything, the crossword solvers and the English teachers. He could picture himself reading out his rhymes, stuttering and sweating and losing his place and swearing and seeing the shocked faces around the table. Mayhem was going on in his head. When he'd faced every horror he could imagine, he would decide that, after all, it couldn't be that bad.

  'Do you think they allow smoking?'

  'Probably,' Sue said.

  'I can't see it.'

  'I expect they have a coffee break.'

  'Maybe. What do they do at these meetings, do you reckon? Write stuff?'

  She flicked her hair back. 'Why ask me?'

  'And read it to each other?'

  'Go along and find out.'

  'You're joking.'

  The following Tuesday at six forty-five he parked in front of the New Park Centre and watched who went in. New Park was also a cinema and they were showing a sexy French film, so it was difficult to tell who was part of the writers' circle, except that some of them came with bags and briefcases. Why would you need a briefcase for a sex flick? He hadn't brought a briefcase. If he went in at all he was damn sure he wouldn't be reading out his rhymes.

  A youngish guy with a rucksack crossed the car park and went in. Long hair, earring, sweatshirt and jeans. Looks human, Bob thought. Not a schoolteacher or a professor. Give it a go, mate. He opened the car door and got out. If I don't like the look of the punters, he told himself, I can say I'm in the wrong room, looking for the film.

  Inside, he strolled past the queue at the box office and went towards a door on the left, the only way to go if you weren't there for the film. A blonde in her forties was ahead. She glanced back to check that he wasn't anyone she knew. Deep-set blue eyes and the hint of a smile. Then she stopped, turned round and said, 'Are you a writer?'

  Bob cleared his throat. 'Me?'

  'It's the writers' circle in here.'

  She didn't sound highbrow, and she was pretty in a way that younger women can't be, with creases that promised to be laughter lines asking to be exercised.

  'Thought I might look in,' he said. 'See what you get up to.'

  'Nothing we can get arrested for, more's the pity, but you're welcome to check. I'm Thomasine O'Loughlin, by the way.'

  Fancy handle, he thought, but she seemed like a real person. He followed her into the meeting room where a long table and chairs were set up and nobody was seated yet. Two groups were in conversation. A man in a bow tie was holding forth in a carrying voice.

  'No better, no better at all.'

  Sounds like a line from Shakespeare, Bob thought. Should I look as if I've heard it before?

  'He doesn't know,' the voice went on, as if reading his mind.'I tell you, he doesn't have a clue.'

  If this is how they treat visitors, Bob thought, I'm off.

  'He put me on some new stuff that sends me to sleep in the afternoons. I'll be back to see him in a day or two - if I can stay awake long enough to make another appointment.'

  Smiles all round, even from Bob.

  Thomasine was beckoning. 'Come and meet the chair.'

  'Why? Is it special?'

  'Chairman.'

  'Ah.'

  The chair wasn't the man with the medical problem. He was in the group at the far end. Catching Thomasine's eye, he stepped forward, a fiftyish guy in a sweater and cords who looked as if he would be more comfortable in a suit. His hair was thick and dark, too dark to be natural. The eyebrows probably were the genuine thing. They popped up. 'A new member?'

  Bob tightened inside. The accent was top drawer. 'Just visiting.'

  'A friend of yours, Tommy?'

  Thomasine laughed. 'That's quick. We met outside the door.'

  'Maurice McDade,' the chair said, gripping Bob's hand. 'Do you write?'

  'Only a beginner.' Bob gave his name.

  'We're all beginners in a sense,' Maurice McDade said. His speech came in bursts with overlong pauses, making him sound excited when the words came. 'The circle only came into being last year. You'd think a town this size would have had one for ages. Nobody took the first step.'

  Thomasine said, 'Maurice set it up with the help of two others, Naomi and Dagmar.'

  Names so posh that Bob checked where the exit was.

  'We're still small,' Maurice said. 'Eleven if they all come. Like a cricket team. How did you hear about us? A recommendation?'

  'The website.'

  'Splendid. Miss Snow designed that. She'll be so encouraged. We'd better make a start.' He clapped his hands. 'Calling all writers. High time we put our feet under the table.'

  Bob watched them find seats. Six women and five men, or six if he included himself. Average age, mid-fifties. One bow tie, five pairs of specs, a hearing aid and a wig. But also a blonde of about twenty who might have strayed in e
xpecting to see the film.

  'Before we begin, I'll introduce our visitor, Bob Naylor,' Maurice said. 'He's only taking a look at us this week. If we play our cards right, we could be up to twelve soon.'

  Bob summoned a grin. He was to the left of a woman in her forties, hair streaked with silver, who had to be the secretary, already writing down the chairman's remarks. On his other side was the young guy with the earring.

  Maurice spoke again. 'For Bob's benefit, I'll repeat my mantra, familiar to most of you by now. This isn't a talk-shop. We're here because we are creative people and we're not afraid to read out what we produce. This way, we are all -what are we?'

  A couple of them spoke together. 'Published writers.'

  'Exactly, for what is publication but making publicly known? Writing is about communication, so we're not afraid to have our efforts discussed by the others. Any writer should welcome the input of his peers.'

  Sounds a pompous prat, but he's doing his best, Bob thought. Give him a chance.

  The minutes of the last meeting were handed round by Miss Snow, the grey-haired secretary. Maurice asked if there were any matters arising and Bob thought of a rhyme.

  Who fancies Miss Snow?

  Anyone fantasising?

  What's that down below -

  A matter arising?

  Cut it out, Naylor, he told himself. This may be the place for one of your rhymes, but no way is it the time.

  The man with the bow tie spoke from the other end. He'd found what he called a solecism in the minutes. Miss Snow glared at him.

  'And what is that?'

  'The misuse of a word.' There was a hint of central Europe in his accent.

  'I know what a solecism is,' Miss Snow said. 'I'm asking where it is in the minutes.'

  'The foot of page one. "The circle was fulsome in its praise of Mr Blacker's talk." Fulsome is a pejorative word meaning disgusting by excess. Your meaning, in effect, is that we lavished so much praise on Mr Blacker that it made him look foolish.'

  Give me strength, Bob thought. How do I get out of here?

  'I thought he lavished too much praise on us,' one bold woman said.'I had him down as a toadying sharpie, telling us we all had it in us to write a bestseller.'