Miles Taylor is one of those perpetual schoolboys with floppy blond hair but is probably in his early thirties. His voice is posh enough to set Harbinder’s teeth on edge but he does seem genuinely upset when he says, ‘This is such an awful thing. We’re all shattered.’ Harbinder thinks of the silently typing figures. It doesn’t seem like a place that’s been touched by tragedy but she supposes that life must go on. Reading books, correcting spelling mistakes, whatever they do in publishing companies.
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ says Harbinder. ‘I know it must be a difficult time for you. Were you close to Dex?’
‘In a way,’ says Miles, pushing his hair back. ‘I hadn’t been his editor that long. I was a fan though. It was partly why I came to Seventh Seal, to work with Dex.’
‘Who was his editor before you?’
‘Betty Champion. She was a legend in publishing, a great character. She was with Dex from the beginning. He wrote stand-alones at first. It was Betty who had the idea for the Tod France series and the rest is history. She and Dex were very close.’
‘Is Betty still around?’
‘No, sadly she died a few years ago. A real shock to everyone. I was Betty’s assistant and I was promoted to work on the last three books.’
‘Did you get on well with Dex?’ asks Harbinder.
‘Yes, very well. Dex was easy to work with. He never missed a deadline and he actually seemed to enjoy being edited. Unlike some writers.’ He smiles but Harbinder is not sure what ‘being edited’ means. She’s not sure that she likes the sound of it.
‘When did you last see Dex?’ asks Neil.
‘He came into the offices last week to celebrate High Rise Murder going to number one. He seemed in fine form.’
‘Did Dex ever mention the name Peggy Smith to you?’
‘The old lady who used to help with the books?’
‘Yes. Did you ever meet her?’
‘Just once. Dex took me to meet her, we had coffee at a nice little place on the seafront. She was a great character.’
‘Was that the only time you met her?’
‘Yes, but we used to correspond. I sent her postcards and proof copies of books I thought she’d like.’
‘Was this from you?’ Harbinder shows him a photograph of the card she found in Peggy’s desk.
‘Yes,’ says Miles. ‘Peggy was a great admirer of George Orwell.’
‘On the back it says, “For Peggy, Love and thanks always. M.” ’
‘Well, I was grateful to her.’ Is it Harbinder’s imagination or does Miles sound slightly defensive? ‘She was a great support to Dex.’
‘Did Peggy write to you?’ The letters in the desk are all from someone called ‘Joan’. The writing is tiny and almost indecipherable. Harbinder has sent them to a handwriting expert.
‘Sometimes,’ says Miles. ‘She used to recommend crime novels that I might not have read. Golden-age classics, mostly.’
Golden age. That rings a bell. Dex’s voice, ‘I don’t read much golden-age stuff.’
‘Did Peggy ever recommend books by Sheila Atkins?’ asks Harbinder.
Now Miles does look surprised. He rubs his head again. ‘Yes. How did you know? One of Peggy’s last letters mentioned Sheila Atkins.’
‘Was it a book called Thank Heaven Fasting?’
‘Yes.’ Miles’s hair is standing up in a crest now. ‘I think it was.’
‘Was it a letter or an email from Peggy?’
‘A letter. She was old-fashioned like that.’ Harbinder, remembering the desk with its neat cubbyholes, can believe this.
‘Do you still have the letter?’ she asks.
‘No, I’m afraid not. I recycle everything.’
‘Can you remember what was in it?’
‘Just the usual, asking how I was and so forth. Then she asked if I’d read that book. Thank Heaven Fasting.’
‘And had you?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. People always expect editors to have read everything but I’m frightfully ignorant in some ways. Peggy was definitely better read than me.’
Miles says that he is ‘frightfully ignorant’ in a way only utilised by people who actually think that they are very clever. Harbinder doesn’t want to tell him about the significance of the Atkins book just yet. She tries to signal this silently to Neil who nods and changes the subject.
‘Peggy was a friend of Dex’s mother,’ he says. ‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No,’ says Miles. ‘She died before my time. Sadly.’
‘Apparently Peggy used to help Dex come up with murders,’ says Neil. ‘Does that make sense to you?’
Miles smiles. ‘He did once say that it’s hard to find new ways of killing people.’
Once again, Harbinder thinks of the handwritten note. Do help me, darling. I’ve got to give Miles the rough draft next week. Had Dex tried to conceal the extent of Peggy’s involvement from his editor?
‘Peggy died recently,’ says Harbinder. ‘It’s possible that there’s a link with Dex’s death.’
The smile vanishes. ‘Oh my God,’ says Miles. His hand shakes as he drinks his herbal tea.
Harbinder presses on. ‘Do you know if Dex ever received any threatening messages?’ she says. ‘Any emails from fans that seemed a bit odd?’
‘His personal assistant would know more about that,’ says Miles. ‘But, as far as I know, Dex’s fans loved him. There’s going to be real sadness in the book community.’
Miles says ‘the book community’ as if it’s an actual place. Is there really a world where people care so much about books that they write to the authors and consider them friends? Harbinder thinks about the audience in Chichester on Friday, the expressions on people’s faces when they queued up for Dex’s signature. Those readers will definitely be sad today.
‘Do you edit J. D. Monroe’s books?’ asks Harbinder.
‘Julie?’ Miles seems to brighten. ‘Yes, she’s a real sweetie. She had a huge hit with her first one, You Made Me Do It.’
‘What about the others? Aren’t they as successful?’
Miles looks slightly uncomfortable. ‘Sometimes, when a writer’s had a huge hit with their debut, it’s hard to recreate the same success with the others.’
‘J. D. Monroe also seems to have known Peggy Smith,’ says Harbinder. ‘She credits her in the acknowledgements. “PS: for PS”. ’
‘Really?’ says Miles. ‘I suppose Dex must have introduced them.’
‘Do you know what help Peggy gave J. D. Monroe?’
‘I imagine it was a similar thing. Coming up with ideas for murders.’ Miles laughs, then looks guilty. ‘Julie’s a lovely lady. I can imagine that she wouldn’t find it easy to kill off her characters.’
‘What about Lance Foster?’ says Neil. ‘Is he one of your authors?’
Now Miles does look surprised. He rears back in his chair.
‘Lance? He used to be published by Cassowary but they were bought out by Seventh Seal. Then Seventh Seal were bought out too. That’s what publishing is like sometimes, big fish eating smaller fish only to be swallowed by a whale.’
Miles smiles to show this is a joke but Harbinder wonders where he comes in the feeding chain. Is he a small fish in a big pool?
‘So, did you ever work with Lance Foster?’ she asks.
‘No,’ says Miles. ‘He’s technically one of my authors but I’ve never worked with him. He’s only written one book.’
Harbinder looks at her notes. ‘Laocoön.’ She’s not quite sure how to pronounce it.
‘Yes. It’s very literary, not to everyone’s taste, but it was very well reviewed, longlisted for the Booker.’ Miles brings his chair back with a thump. ‘Did Lance know Peggy too?’
‘Well, he credits her in the book. Something in Latin.’
‘That sounds like Lance.’ Something tells Harbinder that Lance, unlike Julie, is not a real sweetie.
‘Thank you,’ says Harbinder. ‘Could we speak to Dex’s publicist now?’
* * *
PIPPA SINCLAIR-LEWIS is a surprise. From her name, Harbinder imagined a twenty-something beauty with swishy hair and a trust account. But Pippa seems to be in her mid-sixties, with grey, close-cropped hair and sensible shoes. She sits opposite them and gives them a no-nonsense look behind gold-rimmed spectacles that don’t entirely hide red-rimmed eyes.
‘I worked with Dex for fifteen years,’ she says, ‘so this is a bit of a shock.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Harbinder. ‘This must be very difficult for you.’
‘People are saying that he was murdered,’ says Pippa. ‘Is that true?’
‘There are suspicious circumstances,’ says Harbinder. ‘That’s all we can say.’ A bullet to the head, she thinks. Suspicious in anyone’s book. Especially one written by Dex Challoner.
Harbinder asks about the Chichester event and Penny says that it was part of a publicity tour to promote the new book. ‘It’s not a particularly big venue but it was near to home and Dex wanted to do it. He’s a very good speaker. I mean, he was . . . God, I just can’t get my head around it.’
‘I was there,’ says Harbinder. ‘He was very good. Very interesting.’
‘You were there?’ says Pippa, rather rudely surprised. ‘Why?’
‘I live nearby,’ says Harbinder. ‘And I like crime novels.’ Well, she likes horror, which is almost the same thing.
‘Have you read any of Dex’s books?’ asks Pippa.
‘No,’ says Harbinder. ‘But I’d like to.’
‘I’ll send you the first one in the post,’ says Pippa. This seems very generous until the publicist spoils it by adding, ‘We’ve just done a reprint with the new cover and we’ve got too many copies hanging round.’
‘I talked to Dex a few days ago,’ says Harbinder. ‘We were investigating another suspicious death, someone Dex knew quite well. Have you ever heard of a woman called Peggy Smith?’
She expects Pippa to shake her head impatiently but, instead, the publicist smiles, changing her face completely. ‘The murder consultant? Yes, I knew about her. I even met her once. I went down to Shoreham to see Dex and we took Peggy and Weronika out to lunch. The stories they told!’
‘Murder consultant? Is that how Dex introduced her?’
‘Yes. It was a joke between them. Dex even had some business cards made up for Peggy. It was because she was so good at thinking of gruesome ways for characters to die.’
‘Do you know why she was so good at that?’
‘Dex said something about her being an ex-contract-killer but I assumed that was a joke. Weronika had a fairly colourful past too. She was in the Polish resistance when she was only a teenager. I imagine that she saw some terrible things.’
‘Dex told me that his mother was called the schoolgirl assassin.’
Pippa looks at Harbinder oddly. ‘When did he tell you that?’
‘After the Chichester event. We went for a drink.’
‘He didn’t mention it to me. I always text him after an event, if I can’t be there in person.’
‘Maybe he didn’t think it was important,’ says Neil, soothingly. But it was important, thinks Harbinder. A few hours after the conversation in the pub, Dex had been murdered.
‘What’ll happen now?’ she asks, really wanting to know. ‘Do you work with lots of other authors?’
‘Yes,’ says Pippa. ‘But Dex was my biggest author and, anyway, it’s about time I retired. I’m getting out of touch. There are all these new young publicists and marketeers now, mad keen on building social media profiles and the like. They’ve got a new person here called Dakota who has all these crazy ideas for mail-outs and publicity stunts. Nothing as simple as telling people about the book.’
So Pippa Sinclair-Lewis’s career ends with Dex’s death, thinks Harbinder. She wonders what it will mean for Dex’s agent.
* * *
JELLI WALKER-THOMPSON’S OFFICE is in Covent Garden. Neil says that it’s only a few stops away on the Tube but Harbinder suggests that they walk. ‘The carbon monoxide fumes will probably kill us,’ says Neil, but he agrees fairly readily. And it is a pleasant walk, along the Embankment then across the Strand and up towards Covent Garden. The river is sparkling and there are still tables outside cafés and restaurants. There are many more homeless people than Harbinder remembers though. This is a problem even in Shoreham. Harbinder always tries to direct people towards hostels but she knows that there are many reasons why rough sleepers can’t use them; you need ID, for one thing. It feels wrong to walk past mattresses and carboard boxes that constitute people’s homes. Neil doesn’t seem to notice. He’s probably concentrating on his daily step count.
The agency is called Walker and Hutchance. It’s above a solicitor’s office and reached by a concealed door in an alleyway. Inside, there are enough books to satisfy Neil’s library-loving soul: books on every table, piled three deep on the stairs. Books even constitute the coffee table in Jelli Walker-Thompson’s office.
‘It’s my TBR pile,’ she says.
‘TBR?’ says Neil.
‘To be read. If I’m ever killed, my TBR pile will be the murder weapon. Sorry, that’s in terrible taste. Bad news takes me that way sometimes.’
This is a surprise and so is Jelli Walker-Thompson. She’s black, for one thing, and Harbinder has already noted that people of colour are rather thin on the ground in the publishing world. Jelli is also comparatively young to have her name in gold letters above a business in Covent Garden. She tells them that she didn’t take ‘the conventional route’ into publishing.
‘I was brought up in South London,’ she says. ‘Left school at sixteen. Worked as a shop assistant and care worker. Even joined the army for a while. Then I went to Cambridge as a mature student. They were keen to improve their diversity quota.’ She gives Harbinder a ‘we understand each other’ smile. Harbinder doesn’t respond. She’s not going to side with Jelli just because of the colour of her skin.
‘How long have you been Dex Challoner’s agent?’ she asks instead.
‘Five years,’ says Jelli. ‘He was with Ernest May for many years but decided to change his representation.’ Harbinder wonders if this means that Jelli somehow lured Dex away. How? she wonders.
‘How did you get on with Dex?’ asks Neil.
‘He was a nice man,’ says Jelli, as if daring them to disagree. ‘And a dream client.’
‘When did you last see him?’ asks Harbinder.
‘Last week. They gave a little reception for him at Seventh Seal. He seemed very happy.’
‘He didn’t tell you that anything was bothering him?’ says Neil. ‘No strange emails or messages?’
‘No,’ says Jelli. ‘He seemed very chipper. High Rise Murder was at number one and he was planning a new project.’
‘The next book in the series?’
‘No, he’d already written that. Murder in the Park. No, this was a stand-alone.’
Harbinder asks about Peggy Smith and Jelli says immediately, ‘Oh, yes, the old lady in the flats. Dex was fond of her, I think. She was a friend of his mother’s. He was good to his mum.’
‘Did he ever describe Peggy as a murder consultant?’ says Harbinder.
She’s not prepared for the effect of these words on the agent. Jelli has been fiddling with a roll of elastic bands on her desk. Now she drops it and it bounces slowly across the wooden floor.
‘What did you say?’
‘Did Dex ever call Peggy a murder consultant?’ repeats Harbinder, raising her eyes at Neil.
‘No,’ says Jelli. Then, collecting herself with an obvious effort, ‘It’s just . . . that was the name of Dex’s next book, the secret new project. It was going to be called The Murder Consultant.’
‘Dex was writing a book called The Murder Consultant? What was it about?’
‘I haven’t read it but I think it was about an elderly lady who solves crimes. But it wasn’t cosy, he said.’
‘Cosy?’
‘That�
�s what people sometimes call crime novels that aren’t all blood and gore. Old-fashioned books.’
‘Like Sheila Atkins?’
Jelli gives her a look that could also be described as old-fashioned. ‘Yes. Those golden-age writers are sometimes described as cosy. I wouldn’t agree myself. Some of those authors are dark as hell. Even Agatha Christie.’
Dark as hell. It’s a phrase that, in the circumstances, strikes Harbinder as singularly ill-chosen.
They don’t discuss the case on the train home because they are surrounded on all sides by jaded-looking commuters. Neil gives up his seat to a woman with grey hair who looks even fitter than him. Harbinder keeps hers, though she dreads seeing someone genuinely in need, a pregnant woman, say, even one wearing an irritating ‘Baby on board’ badge. The two people opposite are reading the Standard and the headline is ‘Bestselling Writer Found Dead’.
As the train lurches through south London, Harbinder thinks about Dex and his secret new project. Did someone kill him to prevent The Murder Consultant being written? Did the same person kill Peggy, and maybe Weronika Challoner as well? She gets out her phone and checks her messages. Does she dare have a quick game of Panda Pop? She glances at Neil but he has his headphones on and seems in another world. She’d never live it down if he saw her popping those bubbles. She checks that the sound is off but, as she does so, a text flashes up.
On our way to Aberdeen! Will keep you posted. Nx
17
Edwin
The Miners’ Arms
EDWIN MAKES A flask of coffee and some sandwiches for the journey. He knows that they’ll stop at service stations but you never know when you might need some caffeine and a ham sandwich. He’s brought a bag of mint humbugs too. He waits by the front door, so that Natalka won’t have to ring the bell. It’s very early, still dark, but there’s a freshness in the air, a sense of the town waking up. He can smell the sea and hear the waves hissing over the shingle. He shivers although he’s wearing his winter coat and a tartan scarf in honour of Scotland. He spent some very pleasant summers at the Edinburgh festival when he was with the BBC.
The Postscript Murders Page 12
