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

by Simon J. Townley

  All he could make out this time was a vague “Urrr” sound. Her face barely moved but somehow it registered despair, defeat and sorrow at not having the strength left, at the end of a long life spent among words and books, writers and editors, to utter more than a grunt of pain. Words defeated her, at the last, and she couldn’t produce one when it might send her killer to the prison cell he undoubtedly deserved.

  The breath sagged out of her body. He glanced at the bank of machinery monitoring her health, helpless to read it. He didn’t need to. The door opened, and a nurse strode in, quickly followed by a doctor, another nurse, and Capgras was ushered from the room.

  He sat outside and waited for three more hours, unable to get back in past the defiant medical teams, until finally they pronounced her dead. Tom’s tour of duty at her bedside was over. It had come to nothing but a last gasp, and a complete lack of hard proof.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Stuffed Graveyards

  The days grew shorter and the city was blanketed in morning fogs. Mists rolled along the river and crept ashore, their collars upturned, hats pulled low, slinking up alleyways and circling London’s landmarks, sleeping until midmorning when they would wake and rush away, as if late for an urgent meeting or a dalliance in the finer quarters of the town.

  High above, unseen by city dwellers, their bags packed and passports renewed, clutching boarding passes in their beaks, starlings and swallows prepared to flee southward.

  In parks and gardens, apples fell and rotted on the grass. Women shopped for colourful scarves and fur-lined boots. Men appeared in sensible black coats. From every corner, nook and cranny came the roar of central heating boilers, the tap, tap, tap of preventative DIY and the two-stroke thrum of hedges being trimmed.

  The seasonal shift surged over Tom Capgras too. Grief at the loss of Kiera stung him hard. But the pain was eased by Hannah’s love, by her body and her humour, the way she loved to spend cold, wet weekends in bed for half the day, wrapped around him, clinging to his warmth.

  Investigations turned on heavy wheels as the police sifted information and talked to suspects, none of them Arthur Middleton, who could not be found. As the days passed and no more killings came, Capgras dared to hope that Evelyn had been the last victim, and that by now Middleton had surely fled the country. His London flat was empty, his ex-wife knew nothing of his movements while his son and daughter, both engrossed in their own concerns, assumed their wayward father was simply shooting off around the world, probably on a book tour they said, or having another of his affairs with younger women.

  In Cornwall, the coroner pushed paper around his desk while the police drank tea, ate biscuits, and carried large files up and down stairs. The fire brigade drew up reports on the explosion but all and sundry still believed it was an accident, despite the visit from London detectives.

  The coroner kept hold of Kiera’s remains until satisfied nothing more could be gleaned from the rubble of her life. Behind closed doors the undertakers divided up the fragments of bone picked from the wreckage, hoping for the best. They sent a full-sized coffin to London for the funeral, though it contained little if anything of Kiera Roche.

  Those shivering in the cold wind that blew across Highgate Cemetery accepted what they were given and said goodbye. The turn-out was modest: Kiera seemed to have few friends in life. Not a single relative appeared. There were no long-lost boyfriends sobbing at the graveside. No mysterious offspring, born when she was still almost a child herself. No nephews or nieces, hoping to inherit a fortune.

  “No sign of Middleton,” Hannah said, glancing nervously over her shoulder as stout men from the undertakers carried the coffin towards the designated hole in the ground where Kiera Roche would spend what remained of eternity.

  “Police are here,” Tom said. “Just in case.”

  “Where?”

  “Unmarked cars at all the exits. A couple of CID, at the back, pretending to be among the bereaved.”

  “Armed?”

  “Hard to tell. But he won’t turn up. Not here.”

  “If he wanted to kill someone, this would be the place,” she whispered.

  She had a point: most of the mourners were drawn from the world of letters – writers, editors and publishers, a few academics, old university friends. Not much to show for a life.

  It began to rain as the vicar droned through his observance, reciting rote words about god and dust, ashes and heaven. What had Kiera believed? Any of this? Tom didn’t know. They had not time to discuss such things. She was like the one-week girlfriends from his university days. They left a mark and might be remembered half a lifetime but he never knew them and they never knew him. Those times had been a dream and the love affairs little more than childish games.

  He wiped the rain from the end of his nose, swiped the tears from his cheeks and turned away once the rituals were done. He reached out and took Hannah’s hand as they crossed the graveyard. DI Whitaker loitered near the gate. There would be a camera somewhere, capturing faces to be matched against names. The case had become a cause célèbre, among the chattering classes of London. The red-top tabloids took an interest for a day or two, but the rest of the papers lapped up the tale of murder and intrigue, linked to a famous crime writer, wanted for questioning. A police press release and lack of an arrest gave them free rein to run their stories over and over, picking at the similarities between the murders and the tales of Sebastian Lear.

  Whitaker nodded at Tom in recognition, his face heavy, his expression grim. There was no news, Capgras could tell. The DI was here to keep an eye out, but the trail had gone cold, as they say in the westerns. The coppers had been too slow to act but they’d never admit it.

  The wake, in the back room of a local pub, lasted barely an hour. Pleasantries were exchanged while people sipped at drinks and looked awkward.

  “No one knew her.” Tom handed Hannah a glass of mineral water. “All these folk, I’ll bet not one of them visited her home, invited her for dinner. Or asked about her life. Or cared. They met her through work, that’s all.”

  “Same as me,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s no one’s fault.”

  “But it seems a shame. How could she live so alone?”

  “She had you. For a time.”

  “Not long. That was nothing.”

  “You were there though. Before…”

  Before the end. A glorious few days. Over now. He had grieved and moved on. He glanced at Hannah. Had it been too fast? What did people think? What did he care? “We should get out of here.”

  “I need to mingle, talk to the partners, publishers.” She edged away from him, her hand slipping out of his.

  “You can’t network at a wake!” But his words were lost behind the babble of talk. He watched her move around the room, expertly introducing herself into conversations, spreading smiles, condolences and greetings among the powerful people in her world. She belonged among these folk in ways he never would and never could, even if he wanted to. Kiera wouldn’t have fitted in here either. What would she have made of this? She’d have laughed, and dragged him away, making fun of the humbugs with their business suits and balance sheets.

  He looked around the room, half expecting to see her leaning in the doorway, an inscrutable smile on her face and an impudent glint in her eye, a glass of wine in her hand, and a glimpse of leg peeking through a slinky black dress. It would be just like her – to turn up at her own funeral, to check who was there and laugh at them behind their backs.

  He took another glass from the tray, held out to him by the old woman with her face hidden under a shawl. She shuffled away, stooped low. Capgras paid her no mind, lost in his thoughts. He sipped the drink and followed Hannah with his eyes. Forget the ghosts, and the dead, he told himself, though he knew a wake wasn’t the time for making such vows.

  Hannah was in the corner, talking to Joseph Haslam. Tom set his shoulders back and took a deep breat
h: it was time to introduce himself. He sauntered across the room as if intent on nothing more than a casual conversation. Haslam glanced at him as he stood beside Hannah, waiting for a break in the conversation. A woman in her fifties talked openly of Kiera and how Roche had worked as Arthur Middleton’s assistant for a time, relaying editorial feedback and acting as a proof-reader for the great writer. Capgras shot a glance at Hannah: she kept a straight face.

  How deep did the lies go in this world? She worked for the publishers, she’d edited the books and didn’t know the truth of it. Even Joseph Haslam seemed none the wiser. He looked bored with the conversation.

  When the woman paused, Hannah introduced Tom as one of the stable of writers at the agency. Not as her lover, or her boyfriend. His name clearly meant something to Joseph. A spark of interest flashed in his eyes. “Didn’t you… was it you… that business…?”

  “That was me, yes.”

  “Brave thing you did, standing up for the truth,” Haslam said.

  Hannah introduced the woman who had been talking about Kiera: Jessica Reardon, a senior editor. She was average height with light brown hair, cut unflatteringly short. She wore no make up, and reminded Tom uncannily of the dormouse from an old children’s book that existed now only in the attic of his memories.

  “I saw you at Joanne’s funeral.” Jessica held out her hand toward Tom. “You were talking with Evelyn Vronsky, if I recall.”

  “That’ll be another wake, another chance to meet up,” Joseph said, his voice dark and ironic, with the grim humour of the recently bereaved. “They’re coming thick and fast.”

  A heartbeat of awkward silence hovered over the group, wings braced on the air, talons sharp and ready to strike. Jessica fumbled with the frames of her glasses. “Has a date been set, do you know?”

  “Nothing yet,” Hannah said. “It may be a long time. The police. The coroner.”

  “Terrible state of affairs,” Jessica said. “The sooner they catch him the better. Have you seen his sales? All that publicity. It’s shocking. It shouldn’t be allowed. They should take his books off the shelves if you ask me, but what can you do these days? All those online places, they don’t care as long as there’s money being made.”

  “I’m sure the police are doing everything possible.”

  “I won’t feel secure until he’s caught. I’ve not been sleeping.” Jessica looked around as if expecting Arthur Middleton to be sneaking up on her, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “It could be any of us next. There’s nowhere safe. Not from that maniac.”

  “There’s no proof it was Middleton,” Joseph said. “Technically, at least, he’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Poppycock.” Jessica looked shocked by her own words. She put a hand over her mouth as though to stop herself from saying anything further. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “It’s all right,” Haslam said, “we’ve all been under pressure. We’ve lost friends. And you’re right to be afraid. There’s no telling what the man has planned.”

  “The police were at the funeral,” Jessica said. “They know he’s out there somewhere. Plotting. If I got my hands on him, I don’t know. I wouldn’t stop myself. It’s all he deserves.”

  “We should get back to the office,” Joseph said. “Nice to meet you Tom.”

  “Could we talk sometime? Business. As a reporter. And writer.” Capgras sensed Hannah squirming. This should go through the agency. But he was fed up with waiting. “About all of this,” Tom said. “A backgrounder, for when things are resolved.”

  “I’m sure, yes, we could arrange something. Not yet, but soon. Be in touch.” Haslam gestured for Jessica to make a move. They shuffled towards the door.

  Hannah pinched him on the arm and hissed a reproach down his ear for so blatantly trying to do business at a funeral.

  “Kiera wouldn’t mind. She’d see the funny side.”

  The woman in the shawl shambled past with a tray of drinks and nibbles. Hannah waved her away. “We should get out of here,” she said, “or we’ll be the last ones left.”

  He hooked his arm around hers and they headed for the door. He cast one last glance back, still wondering if the ghost of Kiera Roche had been there all along, watching them and taking notes. But the wake was over and the staff busied themselves clearing away the mess. The old woman stood stooped over the drinks table, helping herself to the wine.

  He said nothing: why let it go to waste? They headed out into the darkness of a wet Autumn evening, Capgras hand in hand with Hannah, having said his last goodbye to the lover who had seared his heart.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Obsession

  Tom wound his way around the desks, half of them empty these days, or home to hopeful kids funded by their parents, desperate for a break and willing to work for free. Fitzgerald waved at him from the newsdesk. “What you got today? Something new I hope.”

  “Working on that. I need some strings pulled. Apply some pressure.”

  “The Middleton thing?”

  “It hasn’t gone away.”

  “But it has become stale. If they catch him, call us. What happened to that undercover job? That would make a good feature, political angles and all. Proper investigative material. That’s what we want from you, not this celebrity killer stuff.”

  Capgras slumped into a chair next to Fitzgerald. “A string of high profile murders. It’s news in every paper in the land.”

  “It was news. Not any more. Either he kills again, or they catch him. Otherwise forget it.”

  “They won’t catch him. They’re barely trying.”

  Fitzgerald span around and took off his wire-frame glasses. It was always a bad sign. “It’s not your job to do it, Tom. Stick to reporting. You’re good at that. Leave the criminals to the coppers.”

  “This is personal.”

  “Leave it behind, move on. What you doing for money? You haven’t placed a story here in weeks.”

  “I’m getting by.”

  “You’re stewing in it. Get back to work. I’ll put you on assignment. Be part of a team again. Shake you out of that rut.”

  “Can’t do it. Too busy.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “I came to ask a favour.”

  “Middleton? Don’t want to hear it. You’re obsessed. Drop it. I say that as a friend.” Fitzgerald turned away, fumbled his glasses onto his face and stared at his screen.

  Capgras lurched out of the chair. “This story isn’t done. You’ll see.” He made to move off.

  “Be careful. Don’t go looking for the man. Leave it to the cops.”

  Tom didn’t look back as he headed for the lift, though he could sense his old friend staring at him, shaking his head. Don’t look for the serial killer. Don’t get too close. Put the past behind you. Move on. It was good advice, all of it. Good advice, from an old friend who had been around the block more times than Tom could count. Advice that he should heed if he had any sense. He kept walking, ignored the lift. He took the stairs, bounding down them.

  Leave it the cops? Not in this life.

  Don’t go looking for the man? But he had to do it. No one else would.

  Be careful? Too late for that. Besides, Kiera would be a long time dead. And for that, someone had to pay.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Knife In The Back

  Joseph Haslam stood in the lobby of his publishing stronghold waiting for the lift. The lights flashed, the doors opened. He stepped forward and was met by the metal frame of a cleaner’s trolley. An old woman mumbled an apology and he stepped aside to let her pass, barely noticing the old crone. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine in the evening. Half his staff would still be working, or should be. He’d have words with facilities in the morning. They needed to get in younger cleaners, more attractive ones, if they were going to loiter around during business hours. That woman must be ugly, probably hideous. Why else did she hide her face behind a shawl and a shuffling walk, with her eyes to
the floor like a medieval leper?

  He sighed to himself and took the lift to the ninth floor. He needed to speak to members of the editorial team, and he hoped some at least would still be in work.

  The lift doors slid open with a satisfying purr and he walked along the corridor towards the open-plan editorial office where his workers toiled in cubicles, moving words around until they turned into money.

  The place was deathly quiet. A hush hung over the room. No one was here. Had they all gone home? There was no dedication to the cause any more.

  As he turned to go he heard a faint mumbling. “Who’s there?”

  More mumbling. It sounded like a groan. A shiver of fear ran through him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled against the collar of his tailored, crisp white shirt. “Who’s there? Show yourself.” He fumbled for his phone, dialling security while scanning the room for any threat.

  The groan rumbled across the office space once more. It sounded like an animal in pain. He padded across the carpet, noticing for the first time the rigid, mathematical pattern. A hand poked out from behind a desk, fingers writhing. Security answered their phone at last and he barked commands about getting up here fast, and calling an ambulance. And the police.

  He wished he could wait, or walk away, let professionals deal with this. But time was time. And life was life. And this person needed him now, in ways he had never been needed before.

  He stepped forward, knelt beside the dying body and recognised Jessica Reardon, one of their most trusted, loyal and long-serving editors. A knife protruded from her back. Blood had soaked into the carpet, her clothes and her hair. It was on her face. It stank of death. He recoiled, gagged, thought he might throw up. She was alive. What should he do? Remove the knife? Or leave it in? Stop the bleeding? Talk to her?