“I’m glad I came, too.” The wind blew her hair across her face and she shook her head to clear it from her eyes. “So is this going to be in the book?”
Slater studied her with amused eyes. “Do you want it to be?”
She held his look for several seconds and then shook her head. “No.”
“Okay then.” He looked up at the sail. “The wind’s changing, turn to port, just a bit.” She turned the wheel and Slater nodded approvingly. “You’ve really got the hang of it.”
Jenny took a deep breath. “Actually I’m feeling a bit queasy.” She rubbed her stomach and took another deep breath.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon. It’ll help.”
Jenny tried that for a few minutes, but then she didn’t feel any better. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe we should go back.”
“Why don’t you go below and lie down while I take her in?”
“You don’t mind?”
“Don’t be silly, you go down below and chill.”
Jenny nodded. “Thanks.” He helped her through the hatch and she went unsteadily down the stairs. Slater turned the wheel and pointed the yacht towards the marina.
CHAPTER 20
Slater tied up the yacht and then climbed back on to the deck and went down through the hatch. Jenny was lying across the bed. Asleep. He sat down on the bed next to her and brushed her hair from her face. “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up.”
She stirred in her sleep but he had to shake her gently to wake her up. “What?” she murmured.
“Time to wake up,” he said.
She sat up and ran her hands through her hair. “I still feel a bit sick,” she said.
“Do you want some water?”
She shook her head. “Bathroom,” she said.
He held her up and guided her to the head. She splashed water on her face while Slater fetched a bottle of water from the fridge. She took several gulps. “Better?” he asked.
She nodded. “I guess I still haven’t got my sea legs,” she said. She picked up a hairbrush and brushed her hair. She stopped and looked at the bracelet on her wrist. “Oh no, I’ve lost my charm.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “At least you didn’t throw up.”
She held up her left arm. “No, one of my charms has dropped off. A cat.”
“I’ll check the bed,” said Slater. Jenny splashed more water on her face, toweled herself dry, and then went into the main cabin. Slater came out of the sleeping area. “No sign of it,” he said. “I hope it didn’t come off while you were on the bike. When did you see it last?”
“I put it on first thing this morning and I’m sure it was there then.”
“I’ll keep looking for it,” said Slater. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“You won’t,” she said. “You’ve been drinking. You might be okay handling a yacht with alcohol but you’re not driving me through Manhattan on a motorbike.”
“Quite right,” he said. “I’ll call you a cab.”
He picked up his cell phone, ordered a cab and walked her to the marina entrance. The office, shop and workshop had closed for the night and he waited with her until a yellow cab arrived.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said, and took a thumbdrive from his pocket. It was in the shape of a hotdog, complete with mustard and ketchup.
“What is it with you and fast food thumbdrives,” she said.
“It’s The Bestseller,” he said. “I want you to read it.”
“Am I in it?”
“You’re mentioned in passing. Most of the students on the course are.”
“And what about today? Will that go in the book?”
“Are you worried about Grose?”
Jenny’s face fell. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“But that is the reason, isn’t it? You don’t want him to know you were on the boat with me.”
“I just want what we did today to be personal, between the two of us,” she said. “I don’t want you reading it out to the whole class.”
“I won’t,” said Slater. “I promise.” He opened the rear door of the taxi and she climbed in. “See you in class tomorrow,” he said, and closed the door.
He waved with his left hand as the taxi pulled away from the marina. As the cab turned onto the main road he held out his left hand and slowly opened it. Sitting on the palm was a small gold charm. A cat.
CHAPTER 21
Jenny paid the driver, climbed out of the cab and put her hand in her bag for her keys. “Jenny? Where the hell have you been?”
She looked around. Grose was standing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the front door of her building. “Dudley. What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said.
“How long have you been here?”
“Half an hour,” he said. “Where were you?”
“I was having drinks with some of the girls,” she said. “Over on the east side,” she added, knowing that he’d be wondering why she’d come back in a cab.
“You didn’t answer your cell.”
“Battery’s dead,” she said. “You know me, Dudley, I’m always forgetting to charge it.” That was a lie, she’d switched the phone off when she’d gone on board Slater’s yacht and forgotten to switch it back on.
“Well, you’re here now,” he said. He looked at his watch. “But I can’t stay long.
She took out her keys and let them into the building and they walked up the stairs together. “Did you have a good time?” he asked.
“It was okay,” she said. “I left early, I wasn’t feeling so good.”
They arrived at her floor and she opened the door to her flat. She put her laptop bag on her desk and then went to get a bottle of wine from the fridge. Grose flopped down onto the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. He sighed.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jenny, picking up two glasses and pouring wine into them.
“That bastard Slater got a lawyer to call the Head of Faculty.”
Jenny stopped in her tracks. “He did what?”
“He got a lawyer to call Kellaway. Threatened the university with a lawsuit if I didn’t allow him to attend classes. Kellaway called me into her office and said that Slater has to be allowed to continue. Bitch didn’t give me a choice. No argument, no discussion.” He sat forward and put his head in his hands. “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“Oh Dudley, I’m sorry,” she said, and sat down next to him.
“I hate this job,” said Grose. “I’m not cut out to be a teacher.”
She gave him one of the wine glasses. “What about that agent? Has he called?”
“Not yet,” said Grose, He sipped his wine.
“You really should think about doing an eBook,” she said.
“Oh my God, you and your Kindle,” sighed Grose.
“It’s not just the Kindle. There are loads of eReaders out there. Sony’s got one and so do Barnes & Noble and you can read books on laptops and phones.”
“Honey, holding a book and turning the pages is part of the reading experience. It’s tactile.”
“I’m not saying you should stop writing books, but why don’t you think of doing something just as an eBook. No agents, no publishers, you do it yourself. Please say you’ll think about it.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Now you’re humoring me.”
“No. I’ll think about it.”
“People are selling millions, Dudley. Literally millions.”
“Is that what you think writing is all about, Jenny? The money? Am I losing you to the dark side?”
She giggled and put a hand up to cover her mouth.
Grose looked at his watch. “I’m going to have to go.”
“Please stay,” she said. “I’ll cook.”
Grose drained his glass and put it on the coffee table. “I can’t honey. Maybe on Friday.” He stood up. “I’ll hopefully be in a better mood by then.” He sighed. “I
did tell Kellaway that Slater has to start work on a new book and she said she’d talk to him. So hopefully we’ll have heard the last of The Bestseller.”
CHAPTER 22
Dan Robinson was a big man. He was at least six feet six inches tall with a squarish head and hands the size of shovels. He was reading from his laptop, bent over it and squinting as he read his story out loud. He’d been a construction worker for almost twenty years but had injured his back in an accident and was hoping to earn a living from his writing. It was, Grose knew, the worst possible reason to write. Very few writers made enough from their work to support themselves. The average writer earned a third less than the average worker and the majority of writers earned less than ten thousand dollars a year. Anyone who set out to write to make money was almost certainly doomed to failure. Writers had to write because they wanted to write, was how Grose looked at it. If money and fame came, all well and good. But writing fiction because you wanted to make a fortune was as futile as taking guitar lessons because you wanted to be a rock star.
Yes, there were exceptions, there were writers who sat down to write their way out of poverty. But for every successful writer there were thousands more who struggled along effectively working for less than minimum wage. Grose was pretty sure that was what lay ahead of Robinson, but he forced himself to smile encouragingly as the man read out his work in progress.
Robinson had a soft, gentle voice that was at odds with his appearance. “Her heart pounded and she melted into his arms.” He read. “She would give herself to this man, she decided. She would bear his children, she would take care of him, she would die with him. He looked down at her, and kissed her softly on her forehead. She closed her eyes and sighed and she felt his soft lips kiss her again. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I always will.” She moaned softly and stroked the back of his neck, then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she pressed her lips against his and kissed him, finally realizing that he was the man for her, and that he always had been.”
Robinson sat back and exhaled, then looked around. Several of the women in the class began to clap and Robinson’s cheeks flushed.
“Dan, that was excellent. Really good. It’s coming along.” That’s what Grose said but that wasn’t what he thought. It was melodramatic claptrap, the sort of romantic nonsense that his wife enjoyed reading, the literary equivalent of candy floss. “Does anyone else have any thoughts?”
The class spent the next ten minutes offering Robinson advice none of which was remotely critical. Robinson studiously took notes of their comments and thanked everyone for their advice. It was a pointless exercise, Grose knew. Writing, real writing, had to come from the heart, from the soul. Great books weren’t written by committee.
Adrian Slater was sitting at the back of the class. He hadn’t said a word for three days, just sat there with his impenetrable RayBans making notes. Or drawing cartoons. Grose didn’t know which and didn’t care. He hadn’t been able to force Slater off the course but the Head of Faculty couldn’t force Grose to interact with the man. And she couldn’t force him to pass Slater. It gave Grose some small satisfaction to know that it didn’t matter how many hours Slater spent in class, he was still going to fail.
Grose looked at his watch. There was still twenty minutes to go. He put on his spectacles and looked around the class. “Well, who else is ready to share their work with us?” Perhaps something this time without vampires or love-struck maidens or talking dogs.”
Stan Naghdi raised his hand but Grose pointedly ignored him. He really didn’t want to listen to Naghdi’s attempt at science fiction again. He looked towards the back of his class and his stomach lurched when he saw Slater get to his feet, holding a sheath of papers. “I have something I’d like to share with the class, Doctor Grose,” he said.
Grose’s jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was for Slater to read out his work, even Naghdi’s Star Trek rip-off would be preferable. But if he refused to allow Slater to participate there was a good chance that he, or his lawyer, would complain to the Head of Faculty. Grose slowly removed his glasses. “Go ahead, Mr Slater,” he said, wearily.
The class fell silent and the students at the front, including Jenny, twisted around to get a better look at Slater. He cleared his throat, and began to read.
“I've worked out where to bury the victim's body parts. Good places, places where they'll never be found by accident. And I've put together the clues, just like a treasure hunt. Now all I need is the victim.”
Grose sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d made his mind up just to let Slater get on with it. He was going to be failing the course anyway.
“The key now is to find the victim, and follow her. So lately I’ve been practicing because it’s not easy to follow people. Not one on one. The professionals, the FBI and the cops and the DEA and the CIA, they use teams. Six or more. That’s how many you need to follow someone. Ideally you need people on foot and a couple of cars. The best way by far is to have a GPS on the target or the target’s car, but that’s not something I’m going to be able to do.”
Grose sighed and shook his head.
“I need to hone my skills. I need to learn how to follow someone without them knowing. It’s a skill, the skill of a predator and it’s a skill I’m starting to learn. That’s one of the reasons I’ve chosen New York. It’s the most populous city in the world. It’s a funny word, populous. It means there are a lot of people. About twenty million. But it’s a city of individuals. Of strangers. Most of them are so wrapped up in their own little lives that they don’t pay attention to what’s going on around them. As they walk around they talk on their cell phones, listen to their MP-3 players, or are just lost in their own thoughts. They tend not to look at strangers because strangers might be a threat and threats are best ignored. Eye contact can lead to confrontation and in New York confrontation can lead to death. So everyone hurries around, protected by their own bubble of indifference.”
Grose looked at his watch and sighed again. “Is there much more of this, Mr Slater?”
Slater ignored him and continued to read. “I’ve already found a girl who I think will be perfect. So I followed her to her apartment in Chelsea, not far from the Garment District. I did it on foot, twice, following her at a distance. I followed her right to the door and she never knew. I spent time outside the building, getting to know the area. And that’s when I saw her lover, paying her a visit. Her lover’s an older man, old enough to be her father.”
Grose stiffened and Jenny turned around to look at him, her mouth open in horror.
“So then I got to thinking, maybe I’d follow the lover. I wanted to see how good my tailing skills were. Could I follow her lover home? What could I discover about her lover’s home life. It was a challenge and if there’s one thing that a predator relishes, it’s a challenge. So I waited outside and followed him when he left. I kept well back and followed him to Penn Station and saw which train he boarded. The second evening I was already at the station with a ticket and I got on the train with him. He was reading a book and didn’t look up once but even if he had he wouldn’t have seen me because I was in the next car. I saw which station he got off at but I stayed on the train and got off at the next station and headed back to Manhattan. On the third day I was waiting at the station on my motorbike. Black leathers and a full face helmet. But again he wasn’t looking around so he didn’t give me a second glance.”
Slater stopped and looked at Grose as if daring him to comment. Grose knew that there was nothing he could say that would stop what was about to happen. Slater sneered and continued to read.
“He waited outside the station for almost ten minutes. He wasn’t happy at being kept waiting, I could see that. Paced up and down. Kept looking at his watch. Eventually a white SUV pulled up. One of those Korean models. There was a woman driving. His wife, I guess. He got in and kissed her and off they went. I followed them. Not difficult on a bike, the trick was to stay far en
ough away that she wouldn’t see me. But then most people rarely use their mirrors on quiet roads. They listen to their music or talk on the phone or get lost in their thoughts. Cars are the biggest bubbles going.
“They drove for about twenty minutes and stopped in front of a pretty colonial house, pale green with a steep pitched roof, two chimneys and a wide porch with a swing seat on it. They parked outside and I watched as they went in. I sat and waited. I guess they had dinner or drinks or something because the lights stayed on downstairs until just before eleven thirty when they went off and a light went on in one of the bedroom windows.”
Grose stood up. “I think that’s probably enough, Mr Slater, don’t you?”
“I was just getting into my stride,” said Slater. He held up the sheets of paper. “I’ve quite a bit to go.” He smiled. “I’m sure the Head of Faculty would want me to continue, don’t you?”
Grose stared stonily at Slater as he sat down. He waved for Slater to continue.
“I waited until the bedroom light had been off for half an hour and then I took a walk around the house. There’s very little crime in upstate New York and people don’t always lock their doors. This guy didn’t anyway. The kitchen door wasn’t locked or bolted and I went inside. There’s nothing like the feeling of sneaking into someone else’s home, especially when they’re upstairs asleep. You get to move through their territory, touch their most treasured possessions, to root through their secrets. The house was full of books. Books everywhere. Mainly cheap romances, the sort with bare-chested men holding big-bosomed women with doe-like eyes. I guess that’s what the wife reads. I’m guessing she doesn’t have much romance in her life so she looks for it in fiction.”
Grose got to his feet again. This time he walked purposefully towards Slater. “You think this is funny, Slater?” he shouted. “You think you get away with threatening me like this?”
Slater grinned but didn’t say anything.
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