Inspector Zhang Goes To Harrogate

by Stephen Leather

  INSPECTOR ZHANG GOES TO HARROGATE

  By Stephen Leather

  ****

  Inspector Zhang climbed out of the taxi and held the door open for his wife. “It’s lovely,” said Mrs Zhang. “As pretty as the picture in the brochure.” They were standing outside The Mallard Hotel in Harrogate. They had taken the train up from London and caught the taxi at the station. The driver was a man in his sixties with a flat cap and an accent that Inspector Zhang had great trouble understanding. The driver went to the boot and took out their suitcases, pocketed Inspector Zhang’s ten pound note and drove off.

  “I can’t believe we’re really here,” said Inspector Zhang. The hotel was built of local Yorkshire stone and covered with ivy; two three-storey wings either side of a columned entrance.

  “It’s like a dream, isn’t it?” said his wife. Inspector Zhang nodded in agreement. The hotel was truly beautiful and unlike anything in their native Singapore.

  “It is the best birthday present ever,” said Inspector Zhang. “I can’t believe you arranged it all without me knowing. I didn’t realise what a secretive wife I have.”

  “I wanted to do something special for you,” said Mrs Zhang, “something you would never forget.”

  Inspector Zhang smiled at her. “Well you’ve achieved your objective,” he said.

  “Oh my goodness, what’s that?” said Mrs Zhang, pointing to the driveway.

  Inspector Zhang turned to look. There was a white painted outline of a body on the Tarmac. He chuckled. “It’s a mystery writers’ convention,” he said. ‘It’s a joke.”

  “I’m not sure the outline of a dead body is a laughing matter,” said Mrs Zhang.

  “I doubt that there are many real murders here in Harrogate,” said Inspector Zhang, picking up their cases. They walked up the stairs to the reception where an efficient young woman in a black suit checked them in. On the opposite side of the room three tables had been lined up and several young women were standing behind them wearing black t-shirts with the words “Harrogate Mystery Writers’ Convention”.

  On the walls were posters of best-selling mystery writers, and Inspector Zhang recognised many of the names including Val McDermid, Peter Robinson, and Jo Nesbo. The convention was a coming together of some of the best mystery writers in the world and Inspector Zhang had always dreamed of one day attending. His wife had booked Business Class tickets on Singapore Airlines, hotels in London and Harrogate, and gotten him tickets to the convention without once letting slip what she had done. She had presented the tickets to him on his birthday a week earlier and he had almost fallen off his chair at the breakfast table. He looked over at his wife and for the thousandth time felt the urge to hug her and tell her how much he loved her. She caught him smiling at her. “What?” she said.

  “I just want to thank you for the best birthday present I have ever been given,” he said.

  She blushed and averted her eyes. He was about to take her in his arms when the receptionist handed him his room key and pointed at the staircase. Inspector Zhang thanked her, slid the key into his pocket and picked up the suitcases. “I should register now, before we go up,” he said, and he carried the cases over to a table above which was a large poster that read “Welcome To The Harrogate Mystery Writers’ Convention”. A blonde woman with lipstick Inspector Zhang thought was a little too red took the tickets from him, asked them to sign their names on a list on a clipboard, and handed over two nametags and two large black carrier bags. “The nametags allow you admittance to all our events,” she said. “Except for the murder mystery lunch tomorrow.”

  “Oh that’s all right, we have tickets for that,” said Mrs Zhang.

  Inspector Zhang gave the nametags and the bags to his wife, picked up the cases and together they went upstairs. Their room was in the left wing of the hotel, overlooking the lawns at the front. Inspector Zhang put down the cases and looked around the room thoughtfully. ‘It is quaint,’ he said. “Just as I imagined.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Mrs Zhang. She put the two carrier bags on the bed and went through to the bathroom. “Oh my goodness, come and look at this,” she said. Inspector Zhang joined her in the large, airy bathroom. Against the wall was a massive cast iron bath with clawed legs and above it, hanging from the ceiling, was a large shower head the size of a dinner plate. A shower curtain hung from a stainless steel rail. It could be drawn all the way around the bath to stop water spraying over the tiled floor. “Have you ever seen a bath like that?” said Mrs Zhang. “It must be a hundred years old.”

  “It is a copy, I’m sure,” said Inspector Zhang. “But it is impressive.”

  Mrs Zhang went back into the bedroom and emptied one of the carrier bags. There were half a dozen books, a brochure for the convention, a map of Harrogate, a bar of chocolate, and a pair of black handcuffs.” She laughed and held up the handcuffs. “What on earth are these for?”

  “They’re handcuffs.”

  “I can see that,” she said. “Why are they giving us handcuffs?”

  Inspector Zhang took them from her and examined a small label on one of the cuffs. “It’s a promotional device,” he said, “publicising a book.” He raised his eyebrows. “Held To Ransom by Sean Hyde. I didn’t realise he had a new book out.”

  “It’s here,” said Mrs Zhang, holding up one of the hardbacks.

  Inspector Zhang took it from her and flicked through it. “Excellent,” he said. “This can be my bedtime reading.”

  “Well I hope we haven’t come all this way just so you can read in bed,” said Mrs Zhang coyly.

  Inspector Zhang chuckled and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. Mrs Zhang looked away, a little flustered, and picked up the convention brochure. “Oh, he’s talking on the next panel,” she said.

  “Mr Hyde?”

  Mrs Zhang nodded and gave him the brochure. “You should go,” she said. She nodded at the book he was holding. “You should get him to sign it for you.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I think the jet-lag is catching up on me. I’ll have a bath and a nap and then I’ll be ready for the evening events.”

  Inspector Zhang kissed his wife on the cheek and headed downstairs. Most of the convention events took place in the ballroom of the hotel. Two girls in convention t-shirts were closing the doors as he arrived but they smiled and allowed him to slip inside. There were more than a thousand people sitting in rows facing a stage on which there were already five people seated in armchairs.

  Inspector Zhang spotted an empty chair about ten rows from the front and he made his way to it. Just as he sat down, the man sitting in the middle chair on the stage began his introduction. He was a well known local TV presenter and the panel was to discuss the changing face of publishing, especially the way in which eBooks had taken a larger share of the market. Sean Hyde was on the panel, along with a horror writer Inspector Zhang had never heard of. His name was Sebastian Battersby and he had a purple and green mohawk haircut that gave him the look of a peacock.

  There was an agent on the panel, a jovial man in his fifties, and a middle-aged woman who represented a major publishing firm.

  Inspector Zhang wasn’t a fan of eBooks. He had toyed with the idea of buying a Kindle but had decided against it. He loved the feel of books, and their smell. He liked to be able to sit and look at his overflowing bookshelves though he appreciated the convenience of a device that allowed him to have hundreds of books available at the press of a button.

  Inspector Zhang was a big fan of Sean Hyde’s mysteries, but he hadn’t realised he was also a very successful eBook publisher. He had sold almost a million eBooks that year, a
fact which the rest of the panel clearly resented. The key to his success, according to the TV presenter, was that he sold his eBooks cheaply – much cheaper than a regular paperback – and marketed and promoted them aggressively.

  The discussion very quickly turned into a spirited argument, with the three other panellists arguing that Mr Hyde was devaluing books by selling them so cheaply. Mr Hyde argued his case well, suggesting that agents and publishers needed to adapt to the new technologies that were revolutionising publishing and that writers like Mr Battersby had to understand that publishing was now all about the readers and that writers had to supply well-written books at the right price. Badly-written over-priced books were doomed to fail, said Mr Hyde, at which Mr Battersby sat back, folded his arms and glared at Mr Hyde with undisguised hostility.

  “You’re killing publishing for everyone, you bastard!”

  Everyone turned to see who had shouted the abuse. A middle-aged man in green cargo pants and a blue polo-shirt was walking towards the stage, his arm outstretched as he pointed at Mr Hyde.

  “You’re a liar, you’re a cheat, you sell crap to people who are too stupid to know what they’re buying.” The man whirled around and shouted at the audience. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He wants everyone to get their books for free. He’s killing publishing, killing it for everyone.”

  Mr Hyde stood up and held up his hands. “I have to apologise for the interruption, ladies and gentleman. Mr Dumbleton here is my resident stalker. When he isn’t screaming abuse at me in public he’s hounding me on Twitter and various blogs.”

  “Your books are shit!” shouted the man. “People only buy them because they’re cheap!” Two young men in convention t-shirts walked up behind him. One of them reached for Dumbleton’s arm but he shook him away, his face contorted into a savage snarl.

  “People have a choice,” said Mr Hyde. “They can get my eBooks for less than the price of a cup of coffee, or they can pay seven quid for one of your awful paperbacks. The fact that you sell so few shows that they are choosing not to buy yours. That’s not my fault. You need to write better books.”

  “I’m a better writer than you’ll ever be!” shouted Mr Dumbleton.

  “If that’s true, why did you sell fewer than a thousand books last year?” said Mr Hyde calmly. “For every paperback you sell, I sell a thousand eBooks. ”

  Mr Dumbleton jabbed his finger at Mr Hyde. “I’ll kill you, Hyde! I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

  The two convention workers put their hands on Dumbleton’s shoulders. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled, then turned and stormed out of the hall.

  Mr Hyde sat down and smiled at the TV presenter. “Now where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” he said. The audience burst into applause.

  The rest of the session went smoothly, though it was clear that the rest of the panel resented Mr Hyde’s views on the future of publishing. When the session came to a close, the TV presenter thanked everyone and announced that Mr Hyde and Mr Battersby would be signing copies in the temporary bookshop that had been set up in a room outside along the corridor.

  There was a long queue of people waiting to get their books signed and Inspector Zhang joined it. Most people seemed to want Mr Hyde’s signature and Sebastian Battersby was sitting back in his chair, toying with his unused pen.

  It took Inspector Zhang fifteen minutes to reach the front of the queue. He held out his book and Mr Hyde smiled up at him. “Who shall I make it out to?” asked Mr Hyde.

  “To Inspector Zhang. I am a huge fan. I have been for years.”

  “That’s good to hear, Inspector Zhang. So you are a policeman? From Hong Kong?”

  “From Singapore. I am a Detective Inspector with the Singapore Police Force.”

  Mr Hyde signed the book with a flourish and handed it back. “And you came all the way to Harrogate for the conference?”

  “I am a huge fan of mysteries, I have been ever since I was a child,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Well you’re certainly in the right job,” said Mr Hyde.

  “Sadly not,” said Inspector Zhang. “There are very few mysteries in Singapore. That’s not to say low crime means no crime, but generally there are few surprises.” He took, the book from Mr Hyde and thanked him. “I have to ask, what happened at the panel, does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

  “Archibald Dumbleton, the idiot who screamed at me? He’s a bit of a stalker, I’m afraid. It’s not the first time he’s threatened me,” said Mr Hyde.

  “Why is he so angry at you?”

  Mr Hyde shrugged. “He’s a spectacularly unsuccessful writer,” he said. “The advent of eBooks has changed the business of publishing. Some writers are adapting and some are struggling. Dumbleton is struggling. I sold a million eBooks last year. Dumbleton sold fewer than three thousand paperbacks. With sales that low it’s only a matter of time before his publisher drops him. He knows that so he’s taking his resentment out on me.”

  “And he’s said he wants to kill you before?’

  “That’s the first time he’s made a death threat, but he’s made all sorts of allegations online. He’s called me a paedophile, a cyber-bully, a fraud. He tweets about me several dozen times a day, he’s written to my publisher, my agent, my accountant. He’s published personal details about my home and my family on-line.” Mr Hyde shrugged. “I think he’s got mental problems.”

  “What about talking to the police?”

  Mr Hyde chuckled. “I don’t know what the police are like in Singapore, but here in the UK bullied best-selling authors are a low priority.”

  “Bullshit!” hissed Sebastian Battersby. “You’re killing publishing and you’re taking us all down with you.” Mr Battersby’s face was contorted with anger and his hands had bunched into fists.

  Mr Hyde turned to look at him. “You’re just bitter because your sales are as bad as his.”

  “And whose fault is that?” said Mr Battersby. “You’re devaluing books. Once people expect to pay less than a quid for a book how are we supposed to earn a living?”

  “By selling more books,” said Mr Hyde. “By writing better books instead of the crap you’re writing now.”

  “My books aren’t crap!” shouted Mr Battersby, slamming his hands down so hard on the table that Inspector Zhang flinched and took a step backwards.

  “Come on now, Sebastian, your sales figures speak for themselves. You write horror schlock and the Great British public isn’t buying it. They wouldn’t read your stuff if you gave it away.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “So you said. The simple fact is you’ve got no future as an author, your publisher knows that and so do you. It’s time you started looking for another line of work.”

  Mr Battersby stood up, his eyes blazing. He raised his pen, holding it like a dagger, as if he was about to plunge it into Mr Hyde’s eye.

  Mr Hyde looked up at Mr Battersby and smiled tightly. “What are you going to do, Sebastian? Stab me? In front of a room full of witnesses? This isn’t a cheap horror novel. This is the real world. And despite all the murders in your books, you’re a wimp at heart.”

  Mr Battersby sneered at Mr Hyde, his hand trembling, and for a moment Inspector Zhang thought he really was about to stab the author. Then he grunted, threw the pen on the floor and stormed out.

  Mr Hyde smiled up at Inspector Zhang. “Sticks and stones,” he said. “Sometimes writers start to think they’re characters in their own story.”

  “He is very angry.”

  “He’s losing his livelihood. For years the key to being a professional writer was having a publisher. Those writers lucky enough to be selected by the publishers made money. But with eBooks a writer can sell direct to his readers. Now anyone can challenge the exclusive little club that Battersby and Dumbleton belonged to and that scares them.” He pointed with his pen at the growing line of people waiting to have their books autographed. “Anyway, I have books to sign. It’s been a pleasure talking to yo
u, Inspector Zhang. Enjoy the conference.”

  Inspector Zhang thanked him and went back to reception. He saw Mr Battersby and Mr Dumbleton standing outside the hotel, smoking cigarettes, deep in conversation.

  He went upstairs. Mrs Zhang was lying on the bed but she opened her eyes when he walked in. “How did it go?”

  “Interesting,” he said, slipping off his shoes. He held up the book. “Mr Hyde signed it for me.”

  “How lovely,” she said.

  “I thought we could have lunch and then see a few of the afternoon panels together. Val McDermid is speaking and I’d love to see her.” He took off his jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and lay down next to his wife. “But first, I think I should thank you for my wonderful birthday present.”

  He slipped his arms around her and kissed her on the back of her neck. She giggled and pressed herself against him.

  Later, Inspector Zhang had lunch with his wife and then they spent the afternoon listening to some of the best mystery writers in the world talking about their craft. They had dinner together and then spent an enjoyable evening in the hotel bar talking to mystery novel enthusiasts.

  Inspector Zhang and his wife were up early the following morning. They had breakfast, took a short walk around the town, and attended three panels discussing various aspects of mystery writing. By the time they broke for lunch Inspector Zhang had another six signed copies from authors he’d long admired.

  Lunch was a special event, billed as a Murder Mystery Meal. There were twenty tables, each hosted by a writer, and during the meal actors were to play the part of various characters involved in a murder. At the end of the meal each table was to decide who the killer was, and there would be prizes for the winners.

  The writer hosting Inspector Zhang’s table was a young woman from Scotland who had written a historical murder mystery. There were free copies of her book for everybody. As he took his place at the table, Inspector Zhang saw Sebastian Battersby at the neighbouring table, and on the other side of the room, close to the main table, he saw Archibald Dumbleton. There was no sign of Mr Hyde.