There was a third option: go to print. Rush out an article and see if his former colleagues at the newspaper would play ball. But there was libel to consider. Part of him worried about losing his exclusive if the police made an arrest. On the other hand, he was holding all the best information on this story, and knew the main players first hand. He’d always be able to prise open an angle that no one else would see.
Tom took out his wallet, found Evelyn Vronsky’s business card and called the landline. A distinguished, elderly voice purred at him: “Mr Capgras, how lovely to hear from you.”
“I have news. Can we talk? In person?”
“Let’s have afternoon tea. I’ll be at the Dorchester in an hour.”
“Is there a dress code?”
“I’ll have a word with them. Don’t worry, Tom. It’ll be fine.”
He headed back to the museum, retrieved his bag with the manuscript inside and took a taxi to Park Lane in time for the four-thirty sitting. Most of the journey was spent wondering what kind of person had first felt the need to schedule afternoon tea according to a strict timetable, and why the idea had ever caught on. He came to the conclusion that much if not most of human behaviour was beyond his reckoning.
As he approached the gleaming doors of the Dorchester Hotel a uniformed doorman addressed him by name. “The Promenade is this way, sir. Mrs Vronsky has arrived ahead of you.”
“Am I all right, like this?”
“On this occasion sir, we will make an exception.”
The doorman led Capgras towards a lobby on the ground floor – a blizzard of pot plants and marble columns, cushioned chairs and ornate lamp shades, almost all of it a deeply uncomfortable shade of apricot.
Evelyn Vronsky sat at a table tucked almost out of sight on the far side of the room. Tom felt critical eyes assessing his scruffy clothes as he took the long walk towards her. She smiled at him, invited him to sit and gestured to the waiter hovering close by. She ordered afternoon tea for two.
Tom watched the waiter until he was out of earshot. “Do they do coffee?”
“Have the tea.” She made small talk about the weather, traffic and her shopping trip. Capgras got the distinct impression it was considered rude to discuss business before the refreshments arrived.
The waiter brought savoury finger sandwiches, scones and jam and more cakes than any two people could eat in half a dozen lifetimes. The tea was poured by a tall, thin man with white gloves. Tom sipped it. Served with lemon. It was better than he expected. But he didn’t actually like tea. He decided it would be best to lie, tactfully.
“You have news, Tom?”
“You know, I assume, about Tony Haslam.”
“Terrible, terrible. That is connected, I take it?”
“I believe so.”
“So not food poisoning?”
Tom shook his head. “There’s more.”
She raised an eyebrow with a sangfroid that impressed him.
“A reviewer from the US. A book blogger, found dead at home. Suspected poisoning.”
“I don’t see the link.”
“She had written a scathing critique of a certain gentleman’s book. And his latest offering was found on the floor, beside her body.”
“This would be our mutual friend, I take it?”
“Arthur Middleton, yes.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded.
“You have proof?”
“Not enough for a courtroom.”
“Enough for the police?”
“Probably not. Not coming from me, at any rate.”
“I’ll not get involved Tom. Much as I want to see justice done. You’ll have to charm them.”
“They’re beyond that, believe me.”
“Convince them then.”
“I’ll need more.”
“I’ll carry on paying. Just keep me informed.” She paused to examine the chocolate cakes. “I really shouldn’t come here,” she said. “Not good for my waistline.”
“You want your name kept out of it entirely? The police may ask awkward questions.”
“Tell them a lie, Tom. Tell them you were being a journalist, nothing more. Send me an interim invoice when you’re ready. By email is fine. You’ll be reimbursed straight away. Best of luck with the police.”
It seemed tea and cakes were over already.
Tom didn’t budge. “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem especially surprised about Arthur Middleton.”
“Well, it had to be someone. Is there a motive, do you know? Revenge, I assume, for some slight or other.”
“They let him go, the publishers and the agency.”
“That was no surprise. Even for a writer, however, that’s quite the emotional overreaction.”
“It may not be pure revenge.” He explained his idea that Middleton was killing for the sake of book sales, to get publicity for his latest novel.
“Absurd enough to be true, I suppose. But Tom, be careful. If there are three dead already, he might strike again.”
“I’m aware. You should be cautious too. He seems erratic and unpredictable.”
“Of course he does. He’s a writer. I’ll be fine. Let me know how it goes with the police.”
He felt doubly self-conscious on the way out, striding across the marble floor in his leather jacket, his scruffy trousers and scuffed motorbike boots. But not a single face to turned to look at him. They were, to a woman, far too polite for that.
Darkness had fallen and the car headlights lit up the London drizzle as it dripped out of the sky above. Tom stood on the pavement outside the Dorchester, wondering where to go next. He’d been hoping Evelyn Vronsky would have taken over, once she had her information. It should be her going to the police. She was a hard woman to ignore. He, on the other hand, could be disregarded with impunity.
He’d have to get his story straight and the evidence in order. And it made no sense to go alone. He’d look like a crank, a loony. They’d give him two minutes and send him on his way. But not if Hannah was there. He hailed a cab, hoping she would be working late.
Chapter Sixteen
A Chance Meeting
Tom paused at the bottom step of the offices of Janowicz, Leatherby and Wainwright, literary agents. The last time he’d been here was the day he’d found Joanne, her feet dangling in the air and her face contorted with pain.
It felt like half a lifetime ago – when he’d bounded up these steps full of hope and anticipation. He had aged in the space of a few weeks. A weariness had settled on him and he longed for the days when all he had to worry about was getting a book deal.
He climbed the stairs slowly, staring at the carpet. When he reached the fifth floor the door to the offices stood open but there was no one on reception. The place seemed deserted. Had everyone gone home? A shiver ran through him. The hairs on his arms prickled. It had been much like this, the last time. Who would he find, Hannah maybe, hanging from a beam?
He called out: “Anyone about?”
Hannah’s face peered around a door. She waved at him and the tension drained from his body.
He followed her into an open plan office where desks groaned under mountain ranges of manuscripts, books and assorted piles of paper.
“Safe to talk?”
“They’ve all gone for the night.”
“How did it go? Have you told them?”
“They don’t believe it. One of the partners described it as ‘far-fetched’ and trust me, that’s damning coming from them.”
“But they warned the staff?”
“They didn’t want to worry people. Or spread rumours about a former client. ‘Scurrilous,’ they called them. They’re sensitive about having let him go. There’s a legal dispute. The agency is entitled to fifteen per cent of his self-published earnings, but he says we broke the contract so he won’t pay. It’s not big money yet but over a few years it might build up. It will look bad if we’re seen making accusations.”
Capgr
as buried his face in his hands, thinking over options.
“What did the police say?” she asked.
“Haven’t approached them yet. I met Middleton though, in the British Museum.”
“You called him?”
“I made it seem like a chance meeting.”
“How?”
“That’s top secret. Tricks of the trade.” That was almost true, but not his trade. Douglas Wolstencroft’s trade.
“What did he say?”
“He denied everything. Said there is no manuscript of The Profits Of My Death. Insists the book has never been written.”
“We can prove he’s lying,” she said. “Text analysis: it’s been used in courts before now.” She took a selection of Middleton novels from a bookcase in the corner.
Capgras scanned the titles. Poor As the King, No Honest Man, and Unchaste Action. “You know anyone who could do this tactfully?”
“There are people at Oxford. We used them once, when there was an accusation of plagiarism.” She found the details. “It costs,” she said, handing him a slip of paper with names, phone numbers and email addresses. “I can’t put it through the agency.”
“Don’t worry. Evelyn Vronsky is paying.” He dialled the number but there was no reply. That was no surprise, since it was gone seven in the evening. He left a message on an answering machine, then called CID at Charing Cross police station and asked to speak to DC Lock. Not here, he was told. When is he next in? The WPC didn’t know. Could she find out? From the general huffing, he could tell she had better things to do. “It’s concerning a murder,” Tom said. “Actually, three murders.”
“I’ll leave him a note, ask him to call you.”
“Is there anyone else there…?”
“No, just me.”
“And you’re not interested?”
“If DC Lock is dealing then it’s best to speak to him.”
Which meant no, she wasn’t interested. “Make sure he gets that note. Say it’s urgent.”
The woman hung up.
Capgras rubbed the stubble on his cheeks by way of concentrating. He could see a number of options: go public with a story in the paper; go higher up the chain of CID; go back to Evelyn Vronsky and ask her to make waves; call police in the US and see what they knew; find Middleton again, though for that he might need more help from Douglas and it wouldn’t be so easy a second time. Or… Or…
“It’s late,” Tom said. “Lock won’t call tonight. Shall we get something to eat? Drink first?”
“I should get home.”
“Do you live alone? I only ask out of safety. Middleton, you know….”
She looked away. Was she trying to hide her expression. What did that mean? But as she turned back her lips flickered into a shy smile. “I could do with a drink, I guess. This is all a bit much. I thought publishing would be nice and quiet. Not too stressful. Lots of books. Introvert authors.”
“No mention of serial killers in the job description?”
“Only fictional ones.”
She grabbed her coat and locked the offices as they left. Outside, it was still raining and the traffic on the wet roads created a background rumble like a distant waterfall. Capgras pulled up his collar. “Do they have real pubs round here? It’s not all bars, is it? Fancy cocktails joints?”
She took his arm and led him left, right, left again into Chandos Place. She stopped outside the Harp Bar. It looked like a real pub. “My brother loves it,” she said. “It’s where we bring writers. The men that it is. You know, the older ones.”
“I’m not that old.”
“I didn’t say you were.” Her mouth trembled into that smile again and she headed inside. Tom followed and found himself in paradise. He stood at the bar, inspecting the pumps. He counted ten real ales on tap. Some he’d never heard of.
“For a while there, I thought you didn’t drink,” Hannah said. “You didn’t touch a drop at the wake.”
“Staying sharp.” Capgras handed over the cash to the barman.
“What about now? Aren’t you here to protect me?”
She was teasing him, openly. Was that a good sign? He could never tell. He wondered if it was just him or if everyone had this much trouble reading women.
Beer was a different matter. He held up his pint glass, sniffed the fragrance then swigged a long refreshing draft. He smacked his lips like a camel at a waterhole. The barman put a glass of white wine on the bar for Hannah and Tom carried it to a table. “We could eat here,” he said. “But I’m not that hungry in truth. Evelyn took me to afternoon tea at the Dorchester.”
“Nice?”
“Posh. Lots of cake. Too much tea. She wants me to keep investigating but doesn’t want to get drawn in herself, which is a shame because she seems to have clout.”
“She knows people.”
“That always helps.”
“And she has money.”
“That helps too.”
“But she’s left it up to you to take down Middleton?”
“She didn’t put it quite like that.”
“But that’s the truth of it.”
“She is paying me.”
“Enough?”
He shrugged. Not enough to risk his life. But it would pay outstanding bills. He changed the conversation, moving away from murder and death towards small talk, asking about her career, her past, her education. They drank and talked and he watched her face and the way her brown hair fell over her eyes every time she laughed. He knew mixing business with pleasure never works and he’d always avoided that at newspapers. Newsrooms were bitchy at the best of times and the gossip was outrageous. But he liked looking at her. He liked that a lot and thought he could probably get used to it.
He got a second drink, and then a third. She started to slow down, and when he offered a fourth, she declined. “We should have eaten. This has gone straight to my head.”
Capgras downed the last of his pint, weighing up her almost full glass of wine. “You sure you don’t want another?”
She was staring past him over his shoulder as if she’d just seen a ghost. “Oh my god. What are the chances? Don’t look.”
“Who is it?” He half expected Arthur Middleton to come striding across the barroom holding a revolver.
“One of our clients. You met her yesterday.”
“Kiera Roche?”
“With a man. A very handsome one.”
This time, Tom had to turn and look. The man was wearing an expensive suit, for sure. But he didn’t look that handsome though Capgras was no judge.
“I should say hello,” Hannah said. “Don’t want to though. She’s a bit intimidating.”
“We could sneak out the side door.”
“She might see us.”
Tom downed his pint. He grabbed Hannah’s hand, tugged her gently to her feet. She scurried after him and they ran like children raiding a larder.
They dodged between sluggish cars and ran down Adelaide Street, happy as truants until they reached The Strand. The roar of traffic made Hannah stop. “Tube,” she said pointing towards Charing Cross. “I have to go. Must get home.” She pecked him on the cheek and was gone into the crowd before he could protest. He contemplated rushing after her: he could insist that it wasn’t safe to be on her own. But who was he trying to fool? Let her go. Don’t get involved.
He turned his collar up against the rain, said a silent prayer to the god of motorbikes to keep his Norton safe, parked out on the streets overnight, and set off looking for a train, a tube, a bus, a taxi: anything that would take him home.
Chapter Seventeen
Under the Dragon’s Tail
DC Lock glanced over the manuscript of The Profits Of My Death, skimming through the pages with a level of thoroughness that confirmed that there were indeed words on paper, and that all put together in this fashion it very probably was intended to be a book.
Lock dropped the paperwork onto the table, got up and left the room without saying a word.
Capgras stared at the bare walls. He waited. And waited. He checked his phone for messages. Nothing. He went back to the manuscript, opened it in the middle and began to read, the words washing over him.
Lock finally returned with his boss: a thin, tidy man with the air of an academic or a teacher. He wore a suit, a good one, and a tie. He was clearly not planning to get his hands dirty chasing burglars down alleyways.
The man didn’t bother to sit. “I’m detective inspector Adrian Whitaker. I understand you’re concerned about a number of deaths, one of them in the USA.”
“That one is suspicious, for sure. FBI are investigating it.”
“You’ve spoken to them?”
“No. Came to you first.”
“But DC Lock tells me you have also spoken to the man you accuse of these killings.”
“I bumped into him. We talked about things, yes.”
Whitaker’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe a word.
“One of these deaths is considered a suicide. You’re aware of that? The other is believed to be food poisoning.”
“They are connected, trust me. And the material in these novels... it’s like he’s leaving hints. Or threats.”
Whittaker asked for details. Capgras ran through a summary of The Profits Of My Death. The two coppers kept looking at each other, unimpressed.
“Thank you for bringing it to our attention. We’ll look into it,” Whitaker said.
Capgras caught a smirk flash across Lock’s face.
“In the meantime, please don’t approach Mr Middleton again, or make accusations openly. Or put anything in the public domain. If we need more, we’ll be in touch. We have contact details? Fine.” He turned to go.
“Don’t ignore this,” Tom said. “There’ll be more deaths. There has to be.”
“Because he needs publicity for his book?” Whitaker’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “It’s a little far-fetched. Even for a journalist.”
Capgras pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “If you’re not interested, then I’ll run whatever story I see fit.”
Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1) Page 8
