He held up his phone to show the announcement on the posthumous awards. “If she wasn’t going to strike before, she will now. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. It’s a provocation.”
“They don’t know,” Ruby said, “they think…”
“They think she’s dead, and the killing is over. That it was Middleton all along.”
“We have to warn them. Go to the police. Get something in the newspaper. Tell them to call it off. Secure the building.”
“All of that.” He glanced at his watch. There was still time to file copy for the late editions of the morning paper. “Better make a start.”
“What can I do?”
“Research.”
“We’ll crack open that whisky after all,” she said.
Capgras swigged his beer to the bottom of the glass and set off, arm in arm with Ruby, planning how to tell his latest tall tale, wondering if there was anyone, anywhere, who would believe him. The police, Fitzgerald, the editors, the organisers of the awards? Hannah? He had to stop Kiera but the only weapon he had was his words, and though most people in authority took them for the ravings of a crazy man, all the same Tom Capgras scurried home with his loyal assistant, determined, this time, to set the world to rights with his prose.
Chapter Fifty
Who's In, Who's Out
Vronsky, Leatherby, Haslam: the people who had cheated Kiera Roche and blocked her career would be honoured, that evening, with posthumous awards for their lifetime contribution to publishing.
Tom paced the newsroom, muttering under his breath about human folly in general and the stupidity of the chattering classes in particular. Where was Kiera? No way to know. Close perhaps. Did that explain why his skin prickled as if he could already feel the heat of her anger simmering on a slow boil.
He had phoned the organisers of the inaugural Pomegranate Book Awards and alerted them to the threat, urged them to cancel, to send the guests away or better still to stop them coming in the first place. A forthright woman with a waspish tongue had warned him not to interfere or spread malicious gossip. In the end, she had accused him of making hoax bomb threats.
“Then why would I give you my name?” Tom had pleaded. But the woman, who spoke as if chewing beach pebbles, hung up, with an audible harrumph.harrumph
He had called the police, in a variety of guises, including DI Whitaker, the emergency control room, and the anti-terrorist unit. None of them had taken him seriously though they had all solemnly promised to look into it.
The story he had so hurriedly yet carefully prepared the previous evening had been spiked by the overnight editor. He had come into the newspaper offices to argue his case and get something into the online edition. He’d published already on his own blog, but at times that felt like spitting at the wind.
“Tom, sit down, calm down,” Jon Fitzgerald told him. “You’re making the place uneasy.”
“It’s a newsroom. It’s supposed to be uneasy.”
“Not this paper,” Fitzgerald said.
It was true: the room was more like a library that a hotbed of breaking stories. Some days you could hear a pin drop, even as sub-editors in cardigans and slippers shambled around preparing cups of tea and shuffling packs of words into an indeterminate order.
“There must be something we can do.”
“Get a photographer there? Capture the mayhem?” Fitzgerald didn’t look up from his screen. He was busy reading a report from the Press Association on a threat of industrial action by firefighters on Tyneside.
“You realise the cream of London’s publishing elite could be wiped in one, all-consuming atrocity.” Tom resumed pacing back and forth behind Fitzgerald’s chair. “Agents, writers, publishers, the lot.”
“Will they be missed?”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“It does sound far-fetched, you have to admit. Even for you, this is out on a limb. The Roche woman is dead. Middleton’s deceased. Case closed. You find evidence she’s alive and someone might listen. Otherwise, it sounds barmy. What have you got to go on? A hunch?”
“It’s the only answer that makes sense. You know, like Sherlock Holmes. Once you’ve eliminated all the whatevers, then anything that’s left must be the truth, no matter how unlikely.”
“Not sure you have that quite right.” Fitzgerald sipped his cup of tea and went back to reading about disgruntled public sector workers.
Capgras sat down, at last. Twenty seconds later he stood up again. “This is insane. Send a photographer to this awards thing, just in case.”
“Already in the diary.”
“So you do think something’s going to happen?”
“Nope. But a book of the year prize always makes a good photo call, on a slow day.”
“You’re gonna wait? Nothing else?”
“That’s the size of it. Old-fashioned news gathering. Has a lot to recommend it.”
Capgras span on his heels and headed for the stairs. “You’ll regret it, see if you don’t,” he called over his shoulder. “And tell your photographer to keep a safe distance.”
He leapt down the stairs, three steps at a time, collected his helmet and goggles from reception and hopped onto his motorbike parked on the pavement outside. It took only minutes to reach Covent Garden. He left the bike in a disabled parking spot close to the offices of Leatherby (deceased), Janowicz and the other one. He bounded up the familiar set of stairs. It always seemed to be a crisis that brought him to see his own literary agents. These people were supposed to be selling his book to a publisher. He was ostensibly one of their stable of authors. But he had turned into an angel of death.
The woman on reception adopted her welcoming smile and her most conciliatory tone of voice as she told him that Hannah wasn’t available, nor any of the partners, all of them in an important meeting that, no, she could not and would not interrupt, it being more than her job was worth and anyway: what was the need? Could he be more specific? Was it to do with his book, or a contract? Surely it could wait. And no, he could NOT go in. Not under any circumstances.
Capgras walked past her, flung open the door to the conference room and strode inside. A gaggle of literary agents and a murmuration of assistants, helpers and readers perched around a long wooden table. Silence fell, awkward and uncomfortable, as Capgras entered. The woman from reception pursued him, protesting, but he shut the door in her face.
“There’s something you need to hear,” Tom said.
“Tom, no.” Hannah sat near the head of the table where one of the partners, a peacock of a man in his late fifties wearing a sharp suit, was managing to look angry, amused and bored all at the same time.
Hannah rose from her chair. “Tom Capgras, everyone. Tom, we’re preparing for tonight. It’s important for us.” Her voice had a tone to it, part pleading, part hectoring.
“That’s why I’m here,” Tom said. “You can’t go. You have to get it called off. Postponed. Moved. Anything.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said the man at the head of the table. “Why on earth should we do that?”
“Because you’re all in danger.”
“Oh this should be good. Please do tell us more.”
“It’s Kiera. And Middleton. We got it all wrong,” Tom said.
“An unfortunate business, but over now. We’re putting it behind us,” the man announced to the room in general. “We’re moving on.”
“It wasn’t Middleton. He was used.” Just like Tom Capgras himself had been used. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but he kept going. “It was someone else all along, using Middleton as cover. Playing us for fools.”
“Who now?” The man at the far end of the table leant back in his chair with his hands behind his head.
Capgras spoke directly to Hannah. “It was Kiera Roche. She’s alive. And she isn’t finished.”
“Preposterous,” the man said.
Others around the table murmured in disbelief.
“She wants revenge. On
all of you.”
“What have we ever done to her?” the man asked.
“Revenge, for killing her dreams.” Tom still spoke directly to Hannah. She looked desolate, embarrassed, terrified. But she wasn’t frightened of Kiera. He could see it on her face: she was scared of how Tom’s outbursts, how his mad ideas, would blight her career and turn her into a laughingstock, finish her in the world of publishing, make her look like a fool in front of the people she had worked with, day and night for all these years. But he was here to save her life, and others too, even the ones who didn’t deserve it. “You have to listen to me. This book award is the perfect time to strike. It’s in the latest book. Have you read it? Any of you? Better in the Grave? Have you not read it?”
“That’s one of his self-pubs?” said the man at the head of the table. “Not wasting my time on that.”
“It’s about a writer who gets cheated and mistreated by agents and publishers. So he blows up the London book fair, kills Inspector Lear. It’s a threat, a warning. She’s playing games, taunting all of you.”
“I assure you,” the man said, “Kiera Roche was a valuable and cherished client and friend to this agency and she is deeply missed. But she is surely dead. You were there, were you not? I do understand that trauma and grief can affect a chap, creep up on him when he least expects it. But she had no reason to harm any of us.”
“I’ve seen her letters, the law case, how you swindled her out of the money, put clauses in contracts that meant she got nothing, then refused to help her get her own book deals. She has good reason to hate you. She intends to teach you a lesson.” His eyes flashed to Hannah, imploring her to listen.
She turned away. He knew then that they were done. The relationship was over. This meeting was concluded. His attempt to talk sense into these people would come to nothing. He opened the door but paused to fire one final salvo. “If you value your lives, stay clear of that ceremony.” He closed the door quietly but firmly, scowled at the woman from reception who was loitering like a mother hen that has lost her chickens, and headed, for the last time, down the stairs of Janowicz, Leatherby and Wainwright, literary agents.
Chapter Fifty-One
A Killer's Pride
Kiera Roche had spent three years employed at a German chemical plant as a translator, researcher and personal assistant. They were, in many ways, wasted years. The impetuous marriage that lured her to Westphalia foundered on the rocks of the Rhine. The money from her job was steady, but she squandered most of it and when she finally left she took little with her, other than a love of Goethe, an abiding appreciation of speciality beers and a highly developed working knowledge of chemical reactivity.
It was background information that was proving useful for the task of urgently constructing a large and excessively lethal homemade explosive device. She worked meticulously, following precise instructions, using equipment bought hurriedly that morning in a series of hardware stores and wholesalers of hairdressing supplies across north London. She had set up her lab on the top floor of a disused warehouse in the East End, near to her bolt-hole and getaway vehicle, Arthur Middleton’s beloved yacht Cordelia. There was a risk of being discovered, of course, if a stray tramp wandered by or marauding kids stumbled upon her makeshift workshop. But the stairs were treacherous and noisy. She should hear in plenty of time in anyone approached. And if they did, well, she had weapons. Her Glock G19 sat close by on the workbench, fully loaded, shining in a shaft of sunlight from a broken skylight.
She could afford no interruptions to her hurried preparations. Her little surprise needed to be in place before the guests arrived. The clock kept ticking and there was no time to waste.
She had long considered performing some last great act of vengeance and defiance. Better In A Grave had been written to raise the temperature and keep the publishing elite living in fear. Her intention initially, however, had been to slip away quietly to a new life of prosperity and freedom without ever delivering on the promised grand atrocity. The announcement of lifetime achievement awards for her worst enemies had come as too much provocation. She could not resist.
Besides, they had all been too slow. Even now, no one had guessed she was alive. Maybe Tom had an inkling. He had been searching her flat after all. But as an investigator he was proving a disappointment. He should have glimpsed the truth long ago. She almost wanted it. It felt wrong, somehow, to flee with the proceeds but none of the notoriety. She deserved credit for her great plan. And the books. They were hers. The good ones, at least. Middleton’s name might remain on the covers, but one day the world must be made to recognise who really wrote them.
She consulted her checklist. The chemical mixture was ready and primed. All she needed to do now was deliver a detonation. Her laptop pinged at her. She cursed the interruption but glanced at it all the same. An email. Probably junk. But curiosity got the better of her.
The message was from Google. She had set up an alert on the name Tom Capgras. He had published a new article, through the dependable newspaper where he once worked full-time and was still revered as some kind of latter-day Robin Hood, standing up to the power of the state. Poor Tom, would he ever comprehend what had really been going on?
It seemed he would. She read the report with a faint smile playing across her lips. She had been rumbled, at last, by Tom at least. His hints were obvious, but it was clear that few if any believed him. The piece was hardly outspoken, warning of unspecified threats to that evening’s awards ceremony, all without naming her.
She could walk away, leave her explosives sitting here, to be found by the next vagrant or junkie. She could flee now and no one would ever accept Tom’s tall tales. It was the sensible thing to do: take the money and run. She had her revenge. This was icing, the coup de grâce, a gesture, nothing more. It would destroy many lives, perhaps Tom’s among them. He was, after all, a fool who would rush in valiantly trying to save people who didn’t deserve his pity.
She wavered, wondering. Then her face creased and her frown lifted, her mouth shifted into a broad grin. It would be good to see old Tom again, one last time. Come what may. He’d have to take his chances with the rest of them.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Backstage of Fools
The two uniformed police officers had so far displayed an excessive patience verging on forbearance. It was a clear sign they had called this one in – and had been told to go easy on Tom Capgras. His newspaper column could prove problematic, hence the kid gloves. So they treated him as a nutcase, but not dangerous in the sense of actually carrying out a bomb attack on a crowded building. Or physically assaulting any of the VIPs.
Capgras had turned up early for the book awards and tried once more to persuade all involved to abandon the event. The organisers told him with excessive politeness that he could go fuck himself. It was only when he began intercepting the guests like a deranged sailor at a wedding feast, pleading with them to save their lives and run the hell away from there, only then did they call the police.
“You’re creating a disturbance,” one of the officers told him, as they huddled together under a bright streetlamp, a respectable distance from the entrance to the medieval banqueting hall, a venue renowned for its elegant sophistication, classical and restrained decor and challenging prices. “Saying there is a bomb inside is tantamount to making a threat. It’s a serious offence,” the officer said. “We could arrest you.”
“But what if there really is a bomb? I didn’t plant it. I’m warning them, that’s all.”
“The venue has complained. You’ll have to move along, sir.”
Over the copper’s shoulder, Tom saw Hannah arriving with a contingent from Janowicz, Leatherby and the other one. She wore a long dress with a modest slit down her left leg to show flashes of flesh, her hair in an updo and her face in a fixed smile. She looked like sixty-four million dollars and loose change. He prayed silently that she wouldn’t glance in his direction, wouldn’t see him on the verge of being arrested as
a dangerous lunatic.
He got his wish: she didn’t notice him. She was too busy greeting and grinning and shimmying towards the door. He’d never keep a girl like that. She’d be married off to a rich old man with business contacts within a year or two. He could read the future in the way she strutted on black stilettos, a silver purse clutched to her side, a simple gesture that spoke volumes about who could come and talk to her, how charming they would need to be, and how powerful.
He wished her well. It was her nature, and she’d never been anything but honest with him – and generous with her affections. But she was not, ultimately, his kind of woman.
“So if I walk away officer, if I promise to head down that street and not return, then I’m free to go?”
“Providing you stay away from the venue sir.”
“Right, so this is me, walking off, if you don’t object.” Capgras took two steps backward, span around and ambled into the gloom of the November evening. He speeded up, not glancing back, not until he reached the corner. Only then did he look over his shoulder. The coppers were standing under the streetlamp, watching him go, one of them talking into his radio.
Capgras turned the corner and broke into a run. He kept moving until he found the rear entrance, protected by high fences and uniformed security sitting in a guardhouse. A van pulled up the barrier and a guard emerged to inspect paperwork, then waved the van through. It parked beside a loading bay and two men in overalls arrived to help the driver with his consignment of boxes.
A small truck turned the corner into the side-street behind the hall. It stopped outside the gates, then inched towards the barrier. Capgras used it as cover, loitering by the rear wheel until the barrier lifted and the vehicle rolled forward. He ran to keep pace with it, the sound of his feet masked by the low gear revs of the truck. It stopped and reversed towards the loading bay. Capgras crouched as he scurried around the back of it. The corner clipped his shoulder and sent him sprawling to the tarmac.
Blood Read: Publish And Be Dead (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 1) Page 24
