Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1)

by Simon J. Townley

  Joseph scanned the article. There was nothing in there about Middleton being dropped because his sales were weak. Nothing about the books being atrocious into the bargain. No, it was all about how Arthur Middleton had rejected his publishers and embraced the new world. “I was wrong,” he proclaimed. “Publishers are no longer needed. Get rid of these middlemen.”

  Joseph discarded the paper scornfully back onto Tony’s desk. “Same old whingeing. People will see through that soon enough. Middleton’s history. Put him out of your mind. We’ll not be troubled by his like again.”

  “He criticises our contracts,” Tony said. “Openly.”

  “More whining. Writers. It’s all they know. Forget it, look lively, time for an early lunch. Got the Leatherby thing at two.”

  “I hate funerals.”

  “It’s necessary. Solidarity and all that. It would be bad form if we didn’t go.”

  “You don’t think he’ll be there do you?”

  “Middleton? Never. He wouldn’t dare, not after this.” He gestured angrily towards the newspaper. “He won’t come within a mile of the place.” Joseph Haslam puffed out his chest. “I’ll guarantee it. In fact, I’ll stake my life on it.”

  Chapter Five

  Babylon

  Capgras stared at the spartan walls of the police station waiting room. Did coppers hate these places as much as everyone else? Did it grind down their souls? Or didn’t they notice?

  The door into the inner sanctum of the station swung open. He recognised the policewoman. She had been at the offices the day he found Joanne. It had been only two weeks, yet it felt as if half a lifetime had passed.

  The WPC nodded in recognition. She held the door open but didn’t once look him in the eye, though she thanked him for coming, her voice purged of emotion. She led him to a room with three chairs, a table, no window. No recording equipment. No lawyers. Informal, she said.

  She gestured for him to sit. “We’ll start in a moment.” She sat down, folded her hands and stared a folder of paperwork.

  Capgras fought back memories of interview rooms, stern faces and hard questions. Times of fear and stress when he had been powerless under the grinding stone.

  The door behind him opened. A plain clothes detective strode in, the usual type – burly six foot two, a rugby player by the look of him, with crew-cut brown hair. He straddled a chair and gave his name as detective constable Graham Lock. “You’re looking smart, Mr Capgras.”

  “I’m going to a funeral.”

  “Joanne Leatherby?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “We won’t keep you long. A formality, a few questions. You didn’t move anything that morning?”

  “Only Joanne. I cut her down. In case…”. In case she’d been alive. The words sounded absurd.

  “Nothing else? On the desk? The floor?”

  “I picked up a book, while I was waiting.” That sounded weird. “Not to read. It was in the waste bin. I must have kicked it over getting her down. Does this mean you’re investigating? You don’t think this is suicide?”

  The detective pointedly ignored his question. “Did you see a mobile phone?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “It didn’t ring?”

  “Not that I heard. Is it missing?”

  The woman kept scribbling notes though he had said nothing worth writing down.

  “One thing we were wondering, why were you there, that morning?”

  “To discuss my book, then go together to see a commissioning editor. There’s a deal on the table. Or there was. Not now, I guess.” He had no reason to kill her, in other words. Make that clear, just in case there was suspicion of foul play.

  “The thing is, there’s no record of a meeting scheduled, and she wasn’t due to work that day.”

  Tom paused, remembering the stubbornness of the woman on reception, how she insisted there was nothing in the calendar. But she must be wrong. “She emailed me, the day before. Said it was important. She sounded confident about a deal. Maybe she forgot to put it in her diary.”

  “Or to tell anyone?”

  “It happens.”

  “You have those emails? We could see them if we needed to?”

  “Sure.” They were on his computer. And his phone. He considered offering it as proof but they might be tempted to take it away, search through every last scrap of data on there. Or hand it over to GCHQ. “Are you treating Joanne’s death as suspicious?”

  “Just being thorough,” the detective said.

  Coppers were the masters of being noncommittal. Should he say anything? “When I arrived I heard the rope creaking. I looked in the room and her body was swinging as though she hadn’t have been there long.”

  “A breeze perhaps,” Lock said.

  “Then there was the woman, the cleaner.”

  “We have no record of her.”

  “She let me in, held the door open.”

  “There was no one else there? In the other offices?”

  “The place was empty, I’m sure of that. But that cleaner, she might have seen something.”

  The coppers glanced at each other. He ignored it.

  He paused. “Joanne wasn’t the type, for suicide.”

  “They never are, believe me,” Lock said. “Friends and family are always shocked.”

  “All the same, there was something wrong about that room.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know.” He stared at the ceiling. “The knot was so well tied as if she’d practiced for hours. Or done it a hundred times. Where did she learn that?”

  “From a book, perhaps? Was there anyone else there in the building? On the stairs? Anything that seemed out of place?”

  Other than Capgras himself: he could hear them thinking it. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Did they believe him about the meeting?

  “When you called it in,” the woman said, “you told the control room it looked suspicious.”

  “Her bag was on the floor, tipped over. And the waste paper basket, the book.”

  “But you saw no one, other than this cleaning lady?”

  No one. Nothing. Only an old woman with no motive and not strong enough to hang Joanne from a beam in her own office against her will. She would have been there hoovering reception, more likely than not. If she knew Joanne was in early, she’d have stayed out of her office. There was nothing there worth chasing.

  The detective pushed his chair back. This was over. “Be sure to tell us if you remember anything that seems important.”

  “You’re burying this?”

  The WPC raised an eyebrow. She had a point. It was an unfortunate turn of phrase for a man who made his living with words.

  “Thanks for your help,” said the DC.

  “You want those emails?”

  “Hang onto them. We’ll let you know. The coroner, perhaps.”

  It was going straight to inquest. A done deal. Suicide. Case closed. There was no mileage in protesting. Yet he longed to look at their notes, to see the case files. Had forensic found anything? Had they carried out any forensics? Or questioned anyone?

  The detective held out a piece of paper. “Is that the right address?”

  “That’s where you’ll find me.”

  Lock got to his feet. They were finished with him. He should say something, but what? Did he imagine it all? Probably. She hung herself. It happens. Who knows why? Let it be. He had no business interfering.

  Lock hurried away grasping paperwork and the WPC escorted Capgras, wordlessly, back to the waiting room. A woman sat in one corner, a child on her lap and a look of terror on her face. A youth of around nineteen loitered restlessly near the desk. There was no sign of anyone on duty.

  Capgras strode past them heading for the autumn rain, relieved to be out of the oppressive police station. He waved down a black cab, asked for St James’s in Highgate and offered the driver a generous tip if he could get him to the church on time.

  “Wedding?” />
  “Funeral.”

  “Don’t want to be late for one of those,” mumbled the cabbie.

  Or early, Tom thought. Part of him didn’t want to go at all. But he’d force himself, this once, out of respect for Joanne. He should show his face. It couldn’t hurt. And besides….

  Hannah would be there.

  Chapter Six

  A Preface to Murder

  Capgras woke with a jolt as the woman next to him jabbed her elbow into his side. She shot him a sidelong glance, conspiratorial and amused. “Stay awake,” she whispered.

  She wasn’t there when he sat down. She couldn’t have been. He’d have noticed – no doubt about it. She had the bearing of a forties film star and dark eyes that spoke of mysterious islands set in a diamond sea. Had he slumped onto her shoulder? “Snoring?”

  She shook her head almost imperceptibly and turned to face the front as if entranced by the proceedings.

  Tom sat on the back row of pews in a church packed with the great and good of the publishing world. At the front of the long aisle, standing at the lectern, one of Joanne Leatherby’s most successful clients was giving a eulogy.

  Capgras glanced at his watch. “How long has he been going?”

  “Five minutes,” she whispered. “Feels like more.”

  “Who is he?”

  She gave him another of those sidelong glances. “Arthur Middleton, crime writer.”

  He knew the name. How? Then it came to him: Joanne’s office, the book dropped into the waste bin. The one with the inscription. “His stuff any good?”

  “Not any more.”

  “They sell?”

  “Enough.” She sat up straighter, as though pretending to listen to the man droning about his friendship with the deceased.

  Capgras furtively surveyed the woman. She was a few years older than him. Maybe thirty-five? Handsome, attractive. Not beautiful, she was too striking for that. There was something exotic about her face. Was it the shape of her eyes?

  From the front of the church Middleton expounded on the many ways Joanne had helped his career through three different agencies, always with the same publishing house, talking more about himself than her. Explaining, to a congregation of authors, publishers and agents, how the book-world worked.

  Capgras wasn’t the only one bored and fidgeting. A low hubbub of whispering simmered towards a boil. Even the vicar appeared to be drifting off.

  “She will be sorely missed, and always loved by everyone who knew her,” Middleton declared with a flourish. He waited, as if expecting applause. None came and he waddled from the pulpit, unsteady on his feet in a confined space.

  The vicar announced a hymn and as the organ droned into life the woman next to him leaned closer. “You must be Capgras.” She held out her hand. “Kiera Roche.”

  The name meant nothing. Should he know her?

  “A writer,” she whispered, as if reading his thoughts. Or the lines on his forehead.

  “One of Joanne’s?”

  She nodded. “Are you going to the interment? It’s a short walk.”

  “Where?”

  “Highgate.”

  Joanne must have had influential friends or family with connections. And money. Highgate was more than simply a graveyard – it was a destination, a tourist attraction, an architectural jewel and a wildlife experience rolled into one. Home to the remains of everyone from Karl Marx to Charles Dickens. And all this, thanks to years of neglect during which trees roots had writhed and twisted around the tombstones as if trying to embrace or entwine the dead. Tom had never been. There were tourist trips most days, but like the majority of Londoners he never got around to doing those things. Being buried at Highgate was rare. And expensive too, he suspected.

  The hymn died away, but the organ kept playing and stout men with serious expressions marched up the aisle, took hold of the coffin and hoisted it onto their shoulders. Capgras waited while the church emptied from the front. He watched the faces as they passed, some tear stained, others haggard, staring at the floor. As Middleton shuffled through he glanced towards Kiera, then the eyes flicked away with no sign of acknowledgement. What did that look mean? Were they rival authors, competing for the best deals?

  Not lovers, surely. He was twenty years older – at least – fat, pompous and self-important. Not her type. Not in a million years. Yet love was strange and people stranger.

  As the crowd shuffled out of the churchyard and onto the pavement, Capgras lost sight of Kiera. As he looked over his right shoulder, wondering where she had gone, an arm slipped through his and took hold. “You don’t mind,” said the woman in a long black coat and black hat. “You look young and strong enough to help an old lady.”

  He slowed his pace. She gripped his arm. “These pavements are treacherous at my age. I’m Evelyn.” Her eyes sparkled at him from out of a round face framed by wisps of white hair.

  “Tom,” he said.

  “Tom Capgras. I know who you are – the terrier of fleet street.”

  “Is that what they call me?”

  “I’ve heard it used.”

  “Then you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Best way to deal with a man, in my experience.” Her face turned from a glinting smile to a conspiratorial grimace. “I need your help. Joanne needs your help.”

  “It’s a bit late, for her at least. Even the prayers have been said.”

  “You really are as cynical as they say.”

  “And who are ‘they’?”

  She tilted her head to the side, refusing to answer the question.

  They walked together in the crowd of mourners. “How did you know Joanne?” he asked.

  “My name is Evelyn Vronsky. You should have heard of me if you’ve done your research.”

  “Sorry, you have me there. We can’t research everything you know. There’s only so much time.”

  “I gave Joanne her first job in publishing. And she came with me when I founded my own agency. Fifteen years she worked for me. We were close.”

  “Are you still…?”

  “Retired. I can’t help you with your book.”

  Tom suspected that wasn’t strictly true, but he stayed quiet and kept walking.

  “But you could help me. And yes, there’s a way you could help Joanne.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve spoken to the police?”

  Tom grunted.

  Evelyn sighed. “They think it’s suicide?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “Except you and me. And perhaps one or two others.”

  Tom’s back straightened infinitesimally. “What makes you believe that?”

  “For my part, I knew Joanne.”

  “But who would want to kill her? And why?”

  “That’s what you have to find out.”

  “Not my job. I’m no detective. Talk to the police.”

  “I have. They’re not interested. Honestly, they seem convinced that we’re all upset, that the chattering classes can’t bear tragedy so close to home. They have a lot to deal with, I suppose.” Evelyn looked over her shoulder, checking she wasn’t overheard. She dropped her voice to barely a whisper. “Joanne was murdered. I know it and you do too. You owe it to her to get to the truth. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  “For the newspapers. There’s a difference. And I investigate corruption, wrong-doing, abuse of power. Not murders.”

  “It’s all the same. It’s that terrier indefatigability that counts.” She gripped his arm as though by way of encouragement. “Promise me you’ll help.”

  “I don’t have the time.”

  “We’ll pay you, a modest amount. Plus expenses.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Never you mind.” She slipped a business card into the pocket of his suit. “Contact me at any time.”

  Up ahead, the front of the line of mourners had reached the gates to the cemetery. Tom checked his tie was straight, pulling at the tight collar, unaccustomed
to having a top button done up. “Even if I did take your case, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” The amused sparkle was back in her eyes. “Start here, with these people. The ones that knew her. This wasn’t a random killing. It wasn’t crime bosses, or secret agents working for the state. Though you’d love that.” She flashed a knowing smile.

  A uniformed official held the gate open for them to pass through. Evelyn, he noticed, went out of her way to thank him, though most here barely saw the man.

  She tugged on Tom’s arm, bringing him to a stop. The other mourners surged around them like an incoming tide. “Joanne Leatherby was murdered,” Evelyn hissed into his ear. “And if I know anything, the killer is here, now. It’s your job to find the evidence. We’ll pay you five hundred pounds a day, Mr Capgras. You need the money. And we expect results. Quickly.” She let go of his arm and walked away, giving him no chance to refuse or to turn down the cash.

  The mourners trooped across the cemetery towards the plot where Joanne’s remains would be returned to the dust and dirt. Capgras trudged after them, his eyes alert and scanning the crowd. Was the old woman right, was there a killer here? Unmasking them would be a challenge. And she'd done her research on him – he did need the money, badly. But he was no detective. Why him? There must be professionals for this kind of thing. He should refuse, but there was Joanne to think about. She deserved justice. Because somewhere in this sea of black stood a murderer, pretending to mourn. Hypocrisy, deceit and double dealing among the privileged elite. That was hard to resist. If Joanne was killed, her suicide faked, then there was a tale behind it all. Unravelling that would lead him deep into the bowels of the London book-world.

  Would it make a fitting final chapter for his non-fiction masterpiece? It couldn’t hurt to ask around, to dig a little, and see what he unearthed.

  The men from the undertakers ushered the crowds back so that close family had more room to grieve. The process of lowering Joanne’s mortal remains into a muddy hole in the ground had attracted an unfeasibly large throng of mourners. How many were here out of curiosity, for the novelty of a burial in such an historic, graveyard? How many were taking mental notes, already planning, one day, to write it into a scene?