Open Your Eyes

by Paula Daly

  ‘Not so much any more; I’ve moved on to other themes in my work. But I’m sure I could ask around. I’m sure if you know something then I could find out if there’s any weight to it. What do you know?’

  ‘Not what,’ I said. ‘Who. The prisoner’s name is Ryan Toonen. But, Frankie, you have to be discreet. If you sense anything, anything at all, then you have to back off. These people are dangerous. Ryan’s a nasty little scrote of a man, and he’s connected. He promised his friends on the outside would be very pissed off if I continued trying to find out who hurt Leon … But I think there’s got to be a link. You know, someone who’s linked to both Leon and Ryan Toonen? Someone who knew both of them? That’s what I need to know. That’s what I need you to find out.’

  Frankie didn’t hesitate. He told me he’d do it.

  He reckoned he could do so without raising questions. He trusted those men; he’d known them for years. Most had been in prison, but there was one in particular, one who still had friends in Walton. He seemed to make it his business to keep abreast of what was going on inside, Frankie said, and Frankie assured me he knew how to be discreet.

  He told me we’d meet again soon. And I felt something release within me. Something begin to uncoil that had been holding me rigid for months. This was the answer and I cursed myself for not thinking of it sooner. Frankie could find out who had done this to Leon. And it would all be over.

  He hugged me goodbye. Apologized again, for misreading the signals, and told me he’d give it his best.

  And then, just before he left, he said this: ‘You know what the sensible answer is to your financial predicament, Jane?’

  And I told him I didn’t.

  ‘You need to finish the book yourself.’

  ‘But I can’t finish the book,’ I said.

  ‘You can. Publishers wet themselves over stories like this. Bestselling author has head injury and dictates novels to his wife.’

  ‘Leon can’t dictate his novels, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that, do they? Pretend he can. Pretend Leon’s guiding you and telling you what to write … The press will lap it up and the story’ll go global. Far better than some ghostwriter doing it anonymously, and no one knowing a thing about it. You do it, Jane. You’re more than capable … To be honest,’ he said, shrugging on his overcoat, ‘I think you’d do a rather excellent job. Do it. Why the hell not?’

  36

  So I did. I wrote the novel.

  Frankie had a meeting with his criminal associates, who assured him they’d find out what they could on Ryan Toonen, while I set to, rereading Leon’s manuscript, gathering his handwritten notes, and I made a start on finishing the thing. I read it twice, a red pen in my hand, making notes in the margins, and tried to come to some understanding as to why he was having such difficulty getting to the end. It was the same format, the same basic idea, every single time. Someone was doing something bad and DS Clement had to stop them. But the baddie was no idiot and he would plant lots of obstacles in DS Clement’s way. Not exactly rocket science.

  And yet, remarkably hard to pull off if you didn’t know what you were doing.

  But Leon did know what he was doing. That was what didn’t add up here. He would outline each novel meticulously, so he didn’t reach the end of a manuscript and not know how to finish it. He lived in fear of not knowing what to write, so he planned his novels until he knew exactly what to write at every turn.

  Question was: Why hadn’t it worked for him this time?

  I went over his outline. The story was clear. Easy to understand. It worked just fine. The ending came to a surprising and inevitable conclusion, just as Aristotle said it should. What made you stop, Leon? What made this process so impossible for you that you got us into debt?

  ‘I honestly don’t remember, Jane,’ he answered, when I asked him about it.

  I’d reached a point of agitation. Where nothing I was looking at made any sense and so I went to him. ‘What was going on in your head when you were writing this?’ But he had absolutely no recollection.

  I told him not to stress about it. That I’d find a way forward. ‘I thought perhaps there might be something in there …’ and I tapped his forehead gently. ‘I thought you might be able to show me a way to get started. I don’t want to run into the same problems you did.’

  Leon stared at his outline. ‘It’s like a foreign language.’ He handed it back to me. ‘I don’t remember who I was, Jane.’

  ‘I know.’

  He gazed at me for an extended moment and his face was unreadable. I wondered if he was weighing up if he actually wanted to know who he was before this happened to him.

  He took a step towards me. ‘Can I hold you?’ he asked quietly.

  I was taken aback, but I nodded.

  ‘Is this OK?’ he said, cocooning me with his arms.

  And I told him it was.

  He brushed his lips against my cheek.

  ‘Is this OK too?’ he asked.

  And I told him that was OK too.

  Christmas was approaching, but over the next few days every spare moment I had was spent in the attic. And, slowly, slowly I was beginning to make headway. I explained to Leon I thought I might have a real shot at this working, that the more I wrote, the closer I got to the end, the more I could see the manuscript coming together. He listened to me reading aloud from my work and began willing me to succeed. He brought me tea and hot buttered toast and told me I could do it. And as each day went by, I started to really believe it.

  A few times, I considered getting in touch with Leon’s editor: telling her what I was doing, asking for feedback along the way, but I was too terrified.

  What if she rejected the plan?

  I had no writing credits to my name and as far as she knew I was a housewife who liked to dabble in some women’s fiction. What if she told me to step away from Leon’s manuscript? That I had no business interfering with his work?

  I would just have to present it to her when it was done, when it was as good as I could make it. And I would present it with only Leon’s name on the front. (Although Frankie Ridonikis correctly pointed out that if two names went on there, we’d get double the tax allowance.)

  Of course, there was another option.

  I could choose to never tell.

  To never come clean.

  Sometimes, I found myself fantasizing about writing Leon’s novels for years to come, no one ever knowing that I was the brains behind the whole operation.

  But I was getting carried away.

  I needed to focus on the novel in front of me. Even if it wasn’t exactly up to par, his publishers were still contractually obliged to pay the next part of the advance upon delivery. Which for Leon’s books usually meant an instalment of around thirty thousand pounds. Something we really needed. If things worked out the way I hoped, I could clear the debt we owed to Charlie instead of just the nominal interest I was covering right now.

  It started to rain and I checked my word count. I’d set myself the target of one thousand words per day. Today’s target was short by 260; I couldn’t seem to get the last few words out. I began scrolling through the Mail Online. I was procrastinating. A soap actress had lost seventy pounds in weight and was promoting her new exercise DVD; another actress had been left with huge bald patches after her hair was torn away from her head by the weight of her hair extensions; the bookies had now slashed the odds on a white Christmas, as we were in for a sustained blast of Arctic air.

  I scrolled down further and that’s when I saw it.

  ‘AUTHOR FOUND DEAD NAMED’.

  I clicked on the story and moved closer to the screen.

  Alistair Armitage (53), pictured left, has been named as the man found dead at the base of an apartment building in MediaCity, Salford, yesterday. Mr Armitage was the author of two novels and lived with his mother, Shelly Armitage, in the waterfront flat. It is believed that Mrs Armitage was not home at the time and Greater Manchester Po
lice are appealing for witnesses. Neighbours claim Mr Armitage was a quiet man who kept himself to himself and are shocked by the news. Touching tributes have been left for Mr Armitage on Facebook, and on the author’s blog page.

  My heart began to pound.

  I scanned the rest of the story looking for those telltale words: the police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the death, meaning Alistair Armitage had taken his own life.

  Those words weren’t there.

  Which meant Alistair had been thrown to his death.

  Which meant he had been murdered.

  37

  Alistair had told me not to contact him again. He’d said he feared for his safety and I’d dismissed him as being paranoid. I scanned his Facebook page. There were reams of messages from readers. His blog, too, was full of messages of condolence. People were beginning to speculate about why someone would want to kill this gentle soul, who’d brought so much reading pleasure to many.

  I stared at the screen. The words blurred.

  My hands shook.

  Had Alistair died because of something I’d done?

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I felt unsafe.

  I scrolled through the Daily Mail article again. Alistair’s apartment was on the sixth floor. The report was worded in such a way as to avoid saying he fell to his death, intimating it had been no accident, that he’d been pushed. I imagined Alistair’s fear in that moment. Imagined what went through his head as he was forced on to his balcony.

  At the end of the article was a number. ‘Did you know Alistair Armitage? Do you have information? Call our team in confidence.’

  My hand hovered over the phone.

  Did I owe it to Alistair Armitage to disclose what I knew?

  No. These were just scandal-hungry journalists. What good would it do? It was too late for Alistair now anyway. Whoever he was living in fear of had already got to him.

  I turned the phone over in my hand. But perhaps I could find out more about what had happened to him.

  I could always hang up at any time.

  I typed the number in and it rang twice before being answered. ‘Rhoda Farley,’ said the voice at the other end. There was background noise, street traffic.

  ‘Yes,’ I stammered, ‘I’m calling to talk to someone about a story in today’s Mail?’

  ‘Can I take your name?’

  ‘Jane Campbell. It’s about the man who fell from his apartment building?’

  ‘Mr Armitage, yes. You’re through to the right person. You can talk to me. Hold on a sec though while I get off the road. I can barely hear you.’

  I heard her footsteps quicken and then the loud whoosh-whoosh of an automatic door opening and then closing.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Sorry about that. I was between buildings. Were you a friend of Mr Armitage’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly. And then: ‘Actually, no. No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘OK.’

  She didn’t sound put off by my indecisiveness.

  ‘He wasn’t a friend,’ I said, ‘but I’d corresponded with him recently. Really, I’m calling because …’ I exhaled, pausing for a moment to organize my thoughts. ‘To be honest, I don’t really know why I’m calling.’

  ‘Why don’t you begin by telling me how you knew Alistair?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘My husband is an author and he knew Alistair.’

  ‘So they were friends?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  This wasn’t going as I’d hoped. I was backing myself into a corner.

  ‘I’m covering the story,’ she said, ‘but it seems Alistair was rather a private individual and it’s proving difficult to find out much about him. What can you tell me? What kind of person was he? Would your husband be available for an interview? I could travel to—’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘No, that won’t be possible.’

  I cursed myself for calling. What had I been hoping to achieve? Did I really think they were going to tell me anything? That’s not how these things worked. Rhoda Farley would be skilled in the art of information retrieval; she would not be spilling her guts on what she knew about Alistair’s death.

  I’d been stupid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to her, ‘I really don’t know anything. I shouldn’t have called.’

  ‘Mrs Campbell,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You said your husband is an author. Would that be Leon Campbell? The crime author?’

  I didn’t answer.

  She took my silence as an affirmation. ‘You’re probably going to want to speak to an ex-colleague of mine,’ she said. ‘Giles Beatty over at the Guardian … I know he tried to contact your husband many times. I think it would really be in your interest to speak to him. You’re on a mobile right now, yes?’

  I told her I was.

  ‘Well, I’ve got your number stored. I’ll text you Giles’s information in the next couple of minutes. Do call him, Mrs Campbell. It’s important.’

  And she hung up.

  I knew who Giles Beatty was. We bought the Guardian each Saturday, so I was familiar with his work. He was one of those exposé types who dealt with weird goings-on on the fringes of society – a lesser-known Louis Theroux or Jon Ronson.

  What did he want with Leon?

  I looked at my phone. Two minutes had passed since Rhoda Farley had ended the call. Still no message. She said Giles Beatty had tried to contact Leon. Many times. But Leon had never mentioned it. And I’d not been aware of Giles Beatty attempting to make contact since Leon’s brain injury – when I’d been managing his inbox.

  I logged on to Leon’s Microsoft account and typed Giles Beatty’s name in the search section of his email.

  Nothing.

  So I typed in ‘the Guardian’.

  Same. Nothing.

  I got up. Stuck my head out of the room, and shouted, ‘Eden?’ down the stairs. ‘Eden, are you busy?’

  Eden appeared, looking at me quizzically.

  ‘I’m trying to retrieve some old emails,’ I said to him, ‘but I don’t know how to go about it.’

  ‘Have you tried in the search box?’

  ‘Done that.’

  ‘Have they been deleted?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Eden moved towards the computer and sat down. ‘You use Microsoft, don’t you?’

  I nodded.

  He opened up a new window. Into Google he typed: ‘How to retrieve deleted emails on Outlook’.

  And an information box popped up with: ‘Here’s how to recover items from the Recoverable Items folder’.

  ‘As easy as that?’ I said to Eden and he smiled.

  ‘Get with the times, Auntie Jane … So, just follow the instructions and you should get them back easily enough. Or do you want me to do it for you?’

  ‘Can you do it? I’m looking for some messages from a guy called Giles Beatty.’

  Eden typed like he was playing keyboard in a rock band. Hard and fast. Seconds later I had eighteen emails. The last of which was sent just before Leon’s attack. It was labelled: ‘URGENT. DO NOT IGNORE.’

  I waited until Eden was downstairs and I clicked on it.

  Dear Leon

  I must urge you to respond to my messages. As you’re aware, I’ve made repeated attempts since May of last year to get your side of the story and I’m afraid time is running out. Here is my mobile number again, if you would prefer to do this over the phone: 07898 143679.

  All I’m trying to do is present a balanced view of events, but I can’t guarantee how you’ll come out of this career-wise if you continue to stay silent on the matter.

  Giles Beatty

  I stared at the message.

  What had Leon done that was so bad Giles Beatty wanted to write a story about him?

  There could only be one thing.

  I called the number.

  38

  ‘Sock puppetry,’ said Giles Beatty, as if
this explained everything.

  I adjusted the phone at my ear. ‘Sock puppetry?’ I replied, wrong-footed, confused. ‘As in—’

  ‘As in Leon was sabotaging a rival author’s career,’ he said. ‘As in he was leaving fake reviews on sites such as Amazon, Goodreads, Waterstones, etc., so that his rival’s sales took a hit, whereas his own sales increased because of the number of positive reviews he’d been leaving for himself.’

  I’d heard the term before. Sock puppetry was mentioned often amongst the writing community with utter disdain. They hated anyone who didn’t play fair.

  ‘You’re telling me Leon was actually doing this?’ I said. ‘Leon was leaving bad reviews for other authors and positive reviews for himself?’ It seemed very far-fetched.

  ‘I’m telling you exactly that, yes,’ he replied.

  ‘But what’s the point of it all?’ I asked, still not getting the full relevance.

  Giles Beatty sighed. ‘The point, Mrs Campbell, is that sock puppetry really does affect sales in a big way. Take Amazon for example: their algorithms are linked to review activity. So, the more good reviews a book gets, the more exposure Amazon will give that book, and as a result, the sales go up … It’s anything but a pointless activity.’

  I was trying to take this in.

  Leon had manipulated reviews to increase his own sales, and tried to reduce the sales of others. Had this been why Alistair Armitage had heckled Leon at events? Had Leon not only stolen his manuscript, but been wrecking his book sales as well?

  I’d heard about desperate authors buying reviews before. Apparently, you could buy a bundle of five-star reviews for a few quid. But this was more personal. This was—

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t it be obvious that the bad reviews were all coming from the same person? I mean, if Leon really had been sabotaging someone else’s books, then wouldn’t it be obvious that all the bad reviews were from him?’

  ‘Not at all. Authors who partake in this kind of sabotage set up many accounts. They go at it with real tenacity. They have numerous aliases and can really affect how well a book does … If a book had over fifty single-star reviews would you buy it?’