Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  She stood up restlessly, and the draught of her movement caught a scrap of paper that had lodged under the computer, sending it spiralling to the ground. She bent to pick it up. It was Gary Myers’s address, that she’d scribbled down when talking to Archie Duncan. She stood for several minutes looking down at it, while her heart set up a steady beating. Was he responsible for harming Gus? There was only one way to find out.

  Before she could change her mind, she switched off the computer, slipped on her coat and went to collect the car. There was no saying whether Gary Myers would be home at this time of day, but if he was not, she would wait for him. This cat-and-mouse game had gone on long enough, and at the very least, the fifty-minute drive to Stokely would help pass the time.

  Rona hadn’t given much thought to Gary Myers’s home, but she hadn’t envisaged a neat, semi-detached house on the outskirts of town. It seemed he wasn’t as lost in drug-related depravity as she’d been led to expect. She drew up a few houses down on the opposite side of the road, and took stock.

  The house was freshly painted, the windows clean and demurely net-curtained. The front garden, though small, had a neatly clipped hedge and a lawn that had had what was probably its first cut of the season. Furthermore, a small car stood in the driveway. Was he home, or – a new thought – was there a Mrs Myers?

  Her eyes fell to the clock on the dashboard in time to see the hands move the last fraction towards twelve noon. With accelerated heartbeat, she took out her mobile and punched in the vet’s number.

  ‘Springfield Veterinary Centre,’ said a bright voice in her ear.

  ‘This is Rona Parish,’ she said aridly. ‘I’m ringing to enquire about our dog, Gus. We brought him in this morning.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’

  A whispered consultation took place in the background, while Rona’s blood drummed in her ears. Please, please, please.

  ‘Ms Parish? Mr Standing says there’s nothing definite to report, but Gus is holding his own, which is a good sign.’

  Not good enough. ‘When – when can I ring again?’

  ‘You could try during evening surgery, between five and seven.’

  ‘Let me give you my mobile number, in case there’s any news before that.’

  The receptionist patiently took it down. ‘He’s in good hands,’ she said sympathetically, before ringing off.

  Her eyes on the innocuous little house across the road, Rona phoned Max. He answered immediately.

  ‘I’ve just been on to the vet,’ she began.

  ‘Me too. Seems we’ll be kept in suspense a bit longer. Like to come over for a bite of lunch?’

  She felt a stab of guilt. ‘I can’t, Max, I’m – in Stokely.’

  ‘Good God! What are you doing there?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But if you hear any more, phone me on my mobile, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. See you.’

  No point in delaying further. With a dry mouth, Rona got out of the car, locked it, and walked across the road. As she approached, she could see daffodils in neat rows lining the front path. Between their yellow battalions she walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  A voice from inside called, ‘I’ll get it!’ and the next minute, Rona found herself face to face with a small woman in an apron, who regarded her with a pleasant if interrogative smile.

  Another surprise; the woman was at least fifty, possibly more.

  ‘Mrs Myers?’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m – looking for Gary Myers.’ Her quest was becoming increasingly bizarre.

  ‘My son,’ said the woman. He lived with his parents? ‘He’s at work at the moment,’ she was continuing, ‘but I’m expecting him back any time for his dinner. Would you like to wait?’

  Rona said numbly, ‘Thank you. My car’s outside, I’ll—’

  ‘No need for that, I’m sure,’ Mrs Myers declared, opening the door wider. ‘Any friend of Gary’s is welcome; come inside.’ And before Rona could reply, she called over her shoulder, ‘George! A young lady to see Gary.’

  Rona said quickly, ‘I should explain – I’m not really a friend – I’ve never met him. I just—’

  ‘But you want to see him, don’t you? Then come inside, dear; he won’t be long.’

  Feeling like an infiltrator, Rona allowed herself to be shown into the front room. A savoury smell of cooking permeated it, overlaying the scent from a bowl of home-grown hyacinths on a table. Beside the bowl stood a framed photograph of a pale, fair-haired boy in his teens, smiling self-consciously at the camera. Was this the dodgy, shifty-eyed Gary?

  A tall, thin man in a cardigan came into the room, holding out a horny hand. ‘George Myers. I hear you’ve come to see Gary. Mother hopes you’ll excuse her, but she has the dinner to see to.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rona murmured, ‘I haven’t timed this very well. Perhaps I should come back after he’s eaten?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. Would you like a drop of sherry while you’re waiting?’

  Feeling even more uncomfortable but considering it the easier option, Rona accepted, taking the glass with a murmur of thanks. How would this pleasant, friendly couple feel when the purpose of her visit was revealed?

  She had taken only a sip of it when they heard the front door open and a voice called, ‘I’m back!’

  ‘In here, Gar,’ Mr Myers directed.

  A figure appeared in the doorway, and across the room, Rona and Gary Myers surveyed each other for the first time. Although the photograph had prepared her to some extent, his appearance was nothing like her pre-formed impression. Of medium height, he was wearing cords and a jacket, underneath which she could see a shirt and tie. He had pale, slightly protuberant eyes, a long nose like his father, and a receding chin. A weak face rather than a vicious one. Was this really the man who’d been harassing her?

  ‘This young lady has come to see you,’ his father said into the silence. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ And as his son moved slowly into the room, he went out, closing the door behind him.

  Rona hastily put down her glass of sherry. ‘I didn’t mean to come under false pretences,’ she said. ‘My name is Rona Parish.’

  His face paled still further, giving it a blanched look that made her wonder if he were about to faint. He moistened his lips. I advise you not to beard him in his den, Archie Duncan had said. But here, in this normal little house, with his parents just down the hall . . .?

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘I – want to speak to you about Theo Harvey.’

  A muscle jerked at the corner of his eye. ‘The writer, you mean? Never met him.’

  Rona held his pale gaze, and after a minute his eyes dropped. ‘I’ve just come from Spindlebury,’ she said.

  ‘All right,’ Myers said jerkily. ‘I saw him in the pub there once or twice. No big deal, is it?’

  ‘I’m writing his biography, and—’

  ‘I know you are. I saw it in the paper.’

  So that explained his initial reaction.

  ‘—and I think you could help me with several things that are puzzling me.’

  ‘How could I?’ he burst out. ‘I know nothing! I’ve been through all this with the police. I was miles away when he died.’

  ‘But you were with him earlier that evening. Arguing. You didn’t just know him from the pub, did you? Look, if you’ve really nothing to hide, what harm is there in talking to me?’

  He flushed and looked away – proof that there was something – something, she was sure, that had a direct bearing on Theo’s state of mind during the last months of his life.

  ‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he repeated stubbornly.

  Hating herself, Rona said, ‘Do your parents know about this?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘No, a question. I don’t go in for blackmail. Do you?’

  For a moment longer he held her gaze. Then his s
houlders sagged. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘You had something on him, hadn’t you? Something that made him uneasy and nervous when you were around.’

  ‘He deserved to be,’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘It’s a long story. Anyway, I don’t see—’

  There was a tap on the door, and George Myers put his head round it. ‘Mother says would you like to stay for dinner, miss?’

  Rona flushed. ‘That’s very kind of her, but I wouldn’t dream of—’

  Surprising her, Gary Myers took hold of her arm. ‘We have to go out, Dad. Tell Ma I’m sorry, I can’t stop for dinner. I’ll see you later.’

  And, brushing past his father in the doorway, he pulled Rona down the hall and out of the front door.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘I don’t know, but we can’t talk there.’

  ‘My car’s over the road—’

  He shook his head. ‘We both need to eat. There’s a Pizza Place round the corner. That OK?’

  She nodded, aware of a feeling of total unreality as they walked quickly down the tree-lined street. How had this inoffensive-seeming man aroused such antipathy – in Keith Bromsgrove, in the men at the pub, in the police?

  As they sat facing each other across the small table, she said spontaneously, ‘You’re not at all as I imagined.’

  His mouth twitched. ‘You were expecting a drug-crazed maniac?’

  ‘Well – something like that.’

  ‘I admit I laid it on a bit up there – old clothes, hang-dog expression – though we genuinely were going through a bad patch; I’d been made redundant from the bank and Dad had had to take early retirement. And OK, I was using a bit at the time; money was tight, and the odd spot of cannabis helped. Mostly, though, I hoped my disreputable appearance would put the fear of God into Harvey.’

  ‘Why should you want to do that?’

  ‘I told you, it’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  Gary was silent for a long time, turning his fork over and over on the table. Their pizzas, large as dinner plates, were laid in front of them, shining with oil and tomato and anchovy and black olives, and still he didn’t speak. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his fork.

  ‘At school, I had a best mate called Greg Nelson. He was the nearest thing to a brother I ever had. While I changed my mind weekly about what I wanted to be – airline pilot, explorer, spaceman – all Greg ever wanted was to be a writer. And he was good. He won all the prizes at school, and came first in a kids’ poetry competition in the local rag.

  ‘When we left school, we got jobs in the same bank, but he spent all his evenings and weekends writing. Eventually I got him to send something to a publisher. It wasn’t accepted, but he had a letter back saying he had promise, and if he could become a bit more “disciplined”, he might be in with a chance. We weren’t sure what that meant, but a few days later I saw an ad in the paper for a writers’ correspondence course, so I cut it out, and the next time I saw him, at a jazz concert, I showed it to him.’

  His face clouded and he stopped eating. Rona felt a prickling in her palms, and her heart set up a slow, heavy thumping.

  ‘Did he apply for it?’ she prompted urgently.

  Gary continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘But that same night, his life fell apart. A fire broke out at his home and they were all trapped in it – his parents and his young brother and sister. He should have been there himself – that was what bugged him, that he’d escaped – but after the concert he slept over at our place.’

  He looked up at her, his eyes dark with pain. ‘It destroyed him. He lost everything: his family, his home, and all his possessions – absolutely everything he had. He was quite literally destitute. He’d no other relatives, and my folks took him in. It was a bad time all round. He went rapidly downhill, drinking, taking drugs, and we just couldn’t pull him out of it. Counselling had been arranged for him, but he never showed up, and steadily refused all offers of help. Like he was trying to punish himself for not dying with his family.’

  ‘What happened next?’ Rona asked to break the silence.

  Gary sighed and returned to his pizza. ‘A miracle, I suppose you might say. Ma was taking his jacket to the cleaner’s – the one he’d worn the night of the concert – and when emptying the pockets, she found the ad for the course. It seemed a godsend, a means of giving him a sense of purpose again. He took a lot of persuading; but then his old love of writing came to the surface, and he began to regard it as a challenge. So he signed on, and was allotted a personal tutor.’

  ‘Ben Abbott,’ Rona whispered. It had to be.

  Gary’s head snapped up. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘A bit. Go on.’

  ‘Well, he became obsessed with it, and with writing generally – talked of nothing else. The stuff he wrote, though, made pretty hairy reading; all about psychopaths and serial killers and mutilation. Lord knows what the tutor made of it. Still, I reckoned as long as it was helping him, that was all that mattered. He was still at our place, and his light used to stay on late into the night. I remember Dad saying thank God for computers; the clatter of a typewriter at all hours would have driven him mad. It did strike me they must be working him pretty hard, but I never dreamed he was writing a book at the same time. I didn’t cotton on to that till he’d finished the second one.’

  Rona pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. ‘He showed them to you?’

  ‘He probably wouldn’t have, but one day when I went to his room they were on the table, and he let me read them. They just about blew my mind – strong, powerful stuff, still dark and disturbing, but – well, I’m no literary expert, but I thought they were brilliant. I said he should send them to Mr Abbott, but he’d finished his course by then and didn’t think he’d be interested. Anyway, eventually he did send them in, with a covering note.’

  Another silence, and Rona saw to her consternation that his eyes had filled with tears. ‘Then fate dealt him another of its crappy blows,’ he said savagely. ‘He was knocked down in the fog, and died in hospital.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Rona exclaimed involuntarily.

  ‘Yes. Well, we all went through hell for a while, and it was months before I remembered the manuscripts and realized there’d been no reply from his tutor. So I wrote to the school, first to tell them of Greg’s death, and then to ask if they had his books. But they didn’t know anything about them, and Mr Abbott had left some time before. They’d no forwarding address, either, as all their correspondence with him had been via the box number where Greg sent his stuff, here in Stokely. So I wrote to him there, but the letter came back saying the facility had been closed.’

  Tense and scarcely breathing, Rona waited for him to continue, her mind racing.

  ‘So I dropped it. Told myself his writing had helped him, which had been the object of the exercise, and now he was gone, the books didn’t matter anyway.’

  ‘Until?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gary said heavily. ‘“Until.” I’d heard all the hoo-ha about Harvey’s fantastic books – you could hardly miss it – but it had all washed over me until I came across an old Sunday supplement at the dentist, with an extract from The Raptor in it. And when I glanced at it – well, it shook me rigid, didn’t it, because I’d read it before, almost word for word. I couldn’t believe it – thought it was precognition or something. He’d changed the title, which is why I’d not cottoned on sooner; Greg called it The Condor Conspiracy, but it was the same book, all right. I got it out of the library together with the earlier one, and they were pretty much exactly as he’d written them. God, how I wished I still had the manuscripts! So I set out to find this guy and ask him what the hell he was playing at, and how a famous author like him had got hold of Greg’s books. The paper said something about his “hideaway” near Spindlebury where he did his writing, so it was easy to track him down. I collared him at the pub
one night. He just – came apart. Made no attempt to deny it. Well, he couldn’t; I’d caught him on the hop.’

  Rona said unsteadily, ‘Let’s get this straight: you’re saying categorically that Theo Harvey didn’t write The Raptor?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying,’ Gary answered harshly. ‘Nor Dark Moon Rising.’

  ‘And you say he admitted it?’

  ‘He’d no choice.’

  ‘Did he offer any explanation?’

  ‘Oh, he tried to get round me with a sob story. Said he’d had a tragedy in his life a year or two back and hadn’t been able to write since, and it was killing him. He’d been working for the writing school under a pseudonym, for obvious reasons, but he resigned from it at the time of the “tragedy”, and it was yonks later that he came across the parcel of Greg’s books, which he’d not even opened. He was going to throw them out, but he flicked through them and got hooked. Give him his due, he phoned the school, only to be told that Greg was dead and had no living relatives, so he reckoned he was hurting no one by pinching them – to tide him over, he said, until “the muse” came back.’

  ‘So you blackmailed him,’ Rona said flatly. It was not a question.

  Gary flushed. ‘Do you think I’d have used my own name up there if I was going to do that? The money was his idea. I told him I was going to make it public, and quick as a flash he offered me cash to keep quiet. As I said, money was tight at the time, but even so I was never comfortable with it – it felt like I was selling Greg down the river. I made it clear it was only a holding measure, to give him time to decide how to handle it, and I was cagey about accepting too much – it’d look odd if I was suddenly flush. In all, it was only a few thousand. God knows he could afford it.’

  ‘It didn’t show up on his bank statements.’

  Gary smiled wryly. ‘It wouldn’t; it was from an account in the name of Ben Abbott, at a different bank. They weren’t obliged to produce it unless the police asked for it – which they didn’t, not knowing anything about it – but it was all perfectly legal.’

  Rona digested that. ‘So what were you arguing about the night he died, and why were you in the village?’