“No one knows what works,” she said, “not really. But a best-selling crime writer who kills his agent and publisher, puts out a novel about it. The media coverage would be insane.”
Capgras drummed his fingers on his temple. A serial killer, murdering for the sake of book sales. Could he take that to the police and be taken seriously? Not when one death looked like suicide, another food poisoning and the third was in a foreign country.
The waiter arrived with their meals. Tom stared at the plate of pasta, not feeling hungry any more. Hannah watched him, waiting for a decision, ignoring the chicken salad in front of her.
Capgras mulled over his options. There was no telling what Vronsky would do, or the police. If no one believed him, there was always the newspapers. Or the web. But to do that, he had to confront Middleton with the accusations, no matter how dangerous it might be. And he’d have to do it before he told the police. He had to act. Alone.
“I’m coming with you,” Hannah said.
Was she reading minds now? Bluff it out. He shook his head. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“If you go to see Middleton.”
“Not a chance,” Capgras said. “You worked with Joanne. For all we know, you’re next on his list.” He regretted saying it, even before the words had crossed the table, but there was no taking them back.
The look on her face spoke of the fear, primal and intense. She knew the truth of it.
“Maybe not you,” he said hurriedly. “But he might strike again. We have to warn people, at the publishers, the agency. Tell the partners.”
“Tell them what? It’ll sound like madness.”
“You’ve got to be careful.” Capgras glared at her plate of salad as though it were napalm cut with arsenic. “Be on the lookout.”
“For poison? Valium? Whatever killed that blogger?”
Capgras stroked the top page of the manuscript. “He’s leaving clues. The answer must be in here. How do they die?”
“I skimmed it,” she said. “It was months ago. I can’t remember.”
Months? How long had Middleton been planning all of this? “I want you to go back to work,” Tom said. “Say nothing. Not yet.”
“Don’t.” Were her eyes watering? Her mouth quivered with fear. For him?
“I’ll be fine. It’s my job, I’ve dealt with worse than him.”
“He’s killed three people.”
She had a point. But then again, Middleton had planned those deaths. It was a whole other thing to start a fight, to stab a man with a knife, or take out a gun and pull the trigger. Did Middleton have it in him?
“If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning, call this number.” He handed her DC Lock’s business card.
“Tom, no, please.”
“Trust me.”
“Leave it to the police. It’s their job.”
He got up, put cash on the table for the meal, and picked up the manuscript. “I have to do it, for Joanne’s sake.”
It was a lie, he knew it. A bad lie. He looked away in case she saw it in his eyes. He’d pretend his motives were worthy. But he was a journo, a newspaper man. He couldn’t walk away or leave it for someone else. It was too good a story. An exclusive. Maybe even a new and better ending for own book.
“Be careful,” Hannah said, her voice a croaky whisper.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to meet him somewhere public.” It needed to be out in the open, but unexpected. How to find the man, right now, no time to lose, this minute, yet make it look like a chance meeting? There was a way…
But it meant calling an old friend…
Calling in old favours…
It was worth it…
For this story, a story so strong it would sell that book, revive his whole career…
Move it onto a new level…
It was worth it for the exclusive…
Worth the risk…
For the inside story…
Hannah held out a hand as he brushed past. He squeezed her fingers lightly and kept walking.
He didn’t look back. She wouldn’t follow him, he was sure of that.
He headed down the street, pulled the hood of his cotton tracksuit top over his head and put on his special sunglasses, the ones that scatter LED light to confuse and dazzle surveillance cameras. He slipped into the first phone shop he found. He picked up a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile and paid cash. Then he walked to the next store and bought a different sim card. He used cash again and tossed the original sim into a bin, then ducked down a side street until he was sure no cameras could see him. He leant against the wall and typed out a text message: “Can we talk? TC”.
He entered the number of Douglas Wolstencroft, his old friend from university days, paused, took a deep breath and pressed ‘send.’
Chapter Thirteen
An Old Friend
Tom Capgras loitered in the alleyway, waiting for Douglas to reply. Nothing arrived in the first five minutes, so he took a chance and pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, buried his face in a newspaper and walked until he found a bench in a park. Once there he sat hunched over the manuscript of The Profits Of My Death, surprised, as Hannah had been, at the improvement in the writing – leaner, and sharper, self-aware. Knowing, even funny at times. Did Middleton write this?
His phone buzzed. A message had arrived. A reply, from Doug: “Go away.”
Tom typed: “Lives are at stake.”
“Don’t care.”
“My life.”
“Still don’t care. I can’t talk to you. Can’t know you. Go away.”
“I’ll tell Harriette.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“This is important.”
“Bastard.”
Tom’s phone rang. “Are you at work?”
“Of course.”
Damn. “Are you allowed mobiles?”
“No. What’s this about?”
“Need to find someone. A murderer.”
“Call the police.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Need to interview him first.”
Douglas sighed loudly down the phone. “Do you have any idea how insane you are?”
“Yes. Help me anyway.” Tom gave Douglas the number of Middleton’s mobile. “Tell me where that phone is, right now.”
“We don’t have that capability.”
To be fair to Douglas, he did actually manage to say it and sound sincere. Almost. Capgras left dead air on the line. The old press trick: keep quiet, let the other man talk.
“It’ll take time,” Doug said at last. “All requests are logged. My neck is exposed here. If I’m linked to you…”
“I know, I’m a pariah.”
“A criminal, technically. Caught in possession of state secrets.”
“How is Harriette?”
Douglas hung up. Tom went back to his reading. He’d barely begun the second chapter when his phone rang once more.
“Never call again. You’ve used up your favours,” Douglas said. “And your blackmail.”
“Deal.”
“He’s at the British Museum.”
“You sure?”
“On the ground floor. By the main door. Moving towards the stairs.”
“All right, you made your point. We all feel much safer, sleeping in our beds at night, knowing you can track our grandmothers.”
“Lovely to hear from you. Go away.” Douglas snorted down the phone and the line went dead.
Tom wiped the phone down to get rid of fingerprints, tucked the manuscript under his arm and walked across the park to the road. When he reached a skip,he took out the sim card and chucked it in, then tossed the handset into the next bin he passed and kept walking in the general direction of the British Museum.
Chapter Fourteen
Looted Treasure
Capgras bounded up the steps of the British Museum, home to more looted treasure than a pirate’s boudoir. He deposited the manuscrip
t of The Profits Of My Death along with his jacket and messenger bag in the cloakroom. Then he set about finding Middleton.
He started in the obvious place: the great court at the centre of the museum. Middleton wasn’t hard to spot: he was loitering in the crowd in the covered section outside the round reading room. He held a notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, and was busy making notes. Capgras sauntered in his direction. Sure enough, he heard his name called from across the great court.
“Tom, I say Tom.” Middleton pushed past a group of elderly tourists and nearly swept a young child off its feet. “What a coincidence.” Middleton looked decidedly pleased with himself. “I was planning to send you a copy of my latest, as we agreed. Got it here with me as it happens.
Capgras adopted a confused expression. “Sorry, do I…” His face transformed into a beaming smile. “It’s Arthur Middleton, isn’t it? From Joanne’s wake. These are happier circumstances. What brings you here?”
“Researching the setting for a big climax. Always helps to have them somewhere famous. The Americans like that sort of thing. Got to get the details right, of course, capture the ambiance. Yourself?”
“Oh, something similar. Just met a contact here, thought I’d have a look around. Haven’t been here for years.”
“Contact eh? Cloak and dagger stuff. Fascinating. Never really had a press man in any of my books. Might consider it. Could add some twists and turns. Though I did have one reporter, thinking back on it. She was a young thing, starting out on a local paper in Plymouth. She fell for Lear in a big way. Got murdered, as I recall. What was her name? Damned if I can remember. The novel though, Darker Purpose, that was the one. Sales were terrific. There was talk of selling the film rights. Didn’t come to anything but that’s the way of this business. There’s always another book, that’s the great thing about writing.”
“You never worry about running out of ideas?” Tom asked.
“Oh no. Ideas are everywhere. Look, why don’t we grab a cup of coffee and talk over this review.”
“Actually, yes, that’s a good idea. I wanted to ask you a few things as it happens.”
“But you haven’t read it yet.”
“I still have questions.”
“You reporter types, I don’t know. Come along then. I’ll get the cakes in and we can have a chat.”
Capgras, unwilling to turn his back on a serial killer, let Middleton lead the way. The man seemed to have no suspicions that his scheming might have been exposed, but Tom knew how devious the criminal mind could be, not only from endless hours spent in court rooms and interviews but also from bitter first hand experience. The prison where he had done his time had been home mainly to crooked accountants, businessmen who’d tried to trick the Revenue and unemployed single dads who couldn’t pay their TV licence fines. But every nick has its fair share of nutters and bullies.
As for Middleton, the man was clearly a high-functioning psychopath. There was no other explanation. Capgras followed him across the central quadrangle, with its undulating glass roof, to a cafe in the corner. Tom took a seat while Middleton attempted to flirt with the attractive, despairing young woman serving teas and coffees.
Capgras scanned the crowd, aware there might be police here.
Middleton returned with a tray of drinks and a slice of chocolate cake each. “Can’t resist chocolate,” he said. “Hope you feel the same way. Real synchronicity this, don’t you think? The two of us meeting out of the blue, twice in as many days. What are the chances?”
“Slim,” Capgras said.
Middleton produced a novel out of the black leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. He placed it proudly on the table in front of Capgras.
Tom had been expecting a copy of The Profits Of My Death, but this was titled Monster Ingratitude. He picked it up. “Paperback?” he said, trying to sound innocent. He flipped it over, scanned rapidly for a publisher’s logo. Nothing.
“Yes I know what you’re thinking. But times are changing. The old guard are being left behind. Arthur Middleton won’t be one of them.”
Capgras turned to the verso page. “Published by Flibbertigibbet Books,” he read.
He glanced across at Middleton, an eyebrow raised.
“Decided Haslam and that crowd weren’t right for my work, not any more. They don’t do enough marketing. They let the novels languish, not investing the time or money needed. I should have made this move long ago.”
Middleton actually looked flustered.
“How are sales? I imagine you have to do a lot of promotion, find ways to get publicity and the like.”
“Gives me more control, though. And doing it yourself is the only way these days. Which is where you come in, of course. If you could write a review…”
“We could do an interview as well.”
“That would be splendid.”
“I think the books section would be interested. I know they’re keen to hear from established authors who’ve chosen this route and turned their backs on traditional publishing. You’d be willing to talk about sales numbers? All the things you’re doing for publicity?”
“Ahhh, yes, I’m sure, yes whatever it takes. Can’t be shy about it.” The beginnings of a frown had appeared on Middleton’s brow.
“And why this book? You have others unpublished.”
“No, this is the next in the series. Lear finally get his promotion, so he’s detective superintendent from now on.”
“Joanne mentioned another novel of yours. The Profits Of My Death. That’s not coming out?”
“Some mistake. When did she say this? Book doesn’t exist. Title is on the long list mind, but never been used.”
“No?” Capgras adopted his best , most innocent voice. “She told me something about the plot. A sculptor in St. Ives, killing gallery owners and the like. All for revenge. Or was it publicity?”
“Not a Sebastian Lear novel, I can promise you that,” Middleton said.
Capgras stirred his coffee. Should he go to the cloakroom, get the dog-eared manuscript and show it to him? But it was valuable evidence, the only copy. Too much of a risk. He decided to change the subject, come at it from another angle. “Terrible news about Tony Haslam.”
“I’ve not heard anything.”
He died last night. Food poisoning, so they say. He looked so well, only yesterday. You were talking to him, weren’t you?”
Middleton’s face twitched and writhed with what looked like genuine shock. “Tony? Really? Oh my.”
He was either a genius actor, or he genuinely hadn’t been told the news. It had to be the former. “So soon, too, after Joanne,” Capgras said. He paused, watching Middleton’s face. Not a man to play poker against. He looked close to tears.
Capgras took a slurp of coffee. He stared at the chocolate cake, but left it on the plate. “Do you know a woman called Charlotte MacInnes?”
“I don’t think so. Should I?”
“She runs a book blog, wrote a review of Nuptial Breaches. I saw on the site that you had responded in the comments.”
“Oh. Yes. That was a long time ago.”
“She’s dead too.”
“What?”
“Last week. Her child was found next to her, in a coma. She may have been poisoned. Police aren’t sure how she died.” Capgras made a mental note: find a local reporter, put them onto the story, get more information.
Middleton’s expression was starting to change. “What are you suggesting? You don’t mean…”
“Let’s talk publicity,” Capgras said. “What is your strategy for promoting your latest book?”
“Reviews, of course. Get the word out there.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Yes. I mean, one does whatever one can. Radio, television perhaps. Advertising is a possibility. Where is this leading?”
“Did you kill them?”
“What?” Middleton scraped his chair back, a look of horror scrawled across his flabby cheeks.
�
��Did you murder Joanne Leatherby, Tony Haslam, Charlotte MacInnes?”
“Don’t be preposterous.”
“Who’s next?”
“This is slander, libel. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. If you go repeating this stuff, I warn you…” He leant over, snatched back the copy of his novel.
“I have the manuscript of The Profits Of My Death. Did you intend that as a threat? It’s all there. Your whole plan.”
“I told you, there’s no such book.”
“I’ve seen it. Held it in my hand.”
“Yes? How did you get it?”
“It was in Joanne’s desk.”
A light seemed to go on in Middleton’s eyes. Or had an explosion gone off in his cerebral cortex? “My god, the cow. The lying, deceitful bitch.”
“No way to talk about the dead.”
Middleton rounded on him. “You know nothing. I’m warning you…”
“I’m recording this, by the way.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Explain it then.”
“Oh you’d love that, you press men. I know what you’re like. You’ll twist anything I say and turn it into lies. Goodbye and good riddance.”
Middleton set off across the quadrangle heading towards the exit. Capgras took a last swig of coffee and melted into the crowd. He trailed his quarry out of the museum, over the road, dodging a dark saloon car that appeared from nowhere. Capgras was close behind, shielded by a nondescript grey hatchback. Middleton hadn’t glanced back once. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might be followed. Middleton headed right down Coptic Street, then took a left. But when Tom turned the corner, Middleton was gone. Capgras sprinted ahead, looking down allies, into doorways and windows. Nowhere. The man had disappeared without trace.
Chapter Fifteen
Afternoon Tea
Tom Capgras had a simple choice: he could do the moral, sensible, ethical thing and go to the police, the only people able to stop Middleton before he struck again; or he could report back to the woman who’d offered him five hundred pounds a day. Money he needed.
Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1) Page 7
