‘That’s enough now.’ The inspector shifted her grip on Aveline, who had crumpled against her, sobbing. ‘If you’d step out now, Mr Vitruvius.’ The inspector nodded towards the door. ‘You too, sir.’ She looked over at Joe. ‘I will take it from here.’ She was piloting the weeping girl to a chair.
Drew backed out. Joe followed. The door shut firmly behind them.
Stunned, Drew leaned against the wall for support.
No complex plot, no twisted joke, no revenge, no mastermind.
Just a girl he hardly knew, with an overpowering obsession.
‘Fucking hell!’ Joe wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘What was that about? This Brandon Phipps. He’s another writer?’
‘Yes.’ Drew found he was shaking. It was embarrassing, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. ‘Apparently a better one than me.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
New Year’s Day, Evening
A dark headache was thumping at the back of his head. He probably shouldn’t be drinking whisky, but he accepted it anyway. Devlin took his own glass to sit in the chair opposite him. Drew looked around. He’d got over the shakes, but the events of the afternoon were still way too close to the surface. After the confrontation in the office he’d given his statement and completed the formalities. A fresh wave of unease shivered through him. But you really need to let it go now.
The room was soothing. The sitting room of Devlin’s house. Devlin’s wife’s house. She’d lived here before they were married. Warm colours and well-used furniture, a jumble of children’s books and toys, thriving plants and cut flowers. It reminded Drew of the barn. Kaz, Jamie and Suzanne, Jamie’s grandmother, were in the kitchen at the back of the house. He could hear music and occasional laughter and there was a delicious scent of something cooking. He dragged his attention back to the man sitting opposite him. ‘The police have charged her?’
‘They have.’ Devlin took a sip from his glass. ‘But she’s stopped talking. And she has a lawyer.’
‘This afternoon … What she said?’ He’d been running and re-running the words in his head. Couldn’t turn them off. ‘She wanted me dead, but she never actually confessed to having me locked in the hut.’
Devlin shrugged. ‘Aveline was the one making all the arrangements in your agent’s office. It was perfectly simple for her to substitute her own.’
‘And make it look like it might be me, using Clint’s name.’
Devlin nodded. ‘If you were out of the way she thought this guy Phipps would get more attention and a better share of the PR budget.’ Devlin looked at his whisky. ‘There’s usually money involved somewhere.’
Drew brooded into his glass. Shoving away an image of hate-filled eyes. More than money. ‘Was Phipps a part of it?’
‘Apparently not. He’s been in Iceland since mid-November. Got back two days ago. The police will talk to him, but it doesn’t look as if he was involved. They’ve picked up the two men. Your Mr Right and Lefty. One of them is some sort of a relation, cousin, I think. They’re still looking for the others.’
Drew shook his head. ‘The stupid thing is that Phipps is a good writer. Already successful. In a few years he’ll be really big.’ Drew shut his eyes. ‘The whole thing was messy and amateur, with a core of something very clever inside it.’ He opened his eyes again, staring bleakly ahead of him.
I wanted to take your heart. The words echoed in his brain. That, and her eyes. Up close, and personal.
If it hadn’t been for the snow, might Aveline …
He jerked away from the thought. It was meant to look like an accident.
He looked up. The shadows in the room were lengthening. ‘It could easily have worked. It almost did. Bloody hell.’ He finished the whisky in one gulp.
Devlin sipped his more slowly. ‘Let it go, Drew. It’s done.’
Drew exhaled. ‘I never want to go through anything like that again.’ He put his empty glass down carefully on a side table. ‘I’ve got another favour to ask.’
‘Which is?’ Devlin asked warily, but he was smiling.
‘I need some lessons in self-defence.’
His headache was gone. Drew walked slowly along the street, pausing at the corner to look up. He could see the stars, but they were faint in the London sky. Kaz had invited him to stay to dinner, and the evening had helped him to wind down, which Kaz had undoubtedly realised. She was also an excellent cook, and Suzanne, her mother, was entertaining, if risqué company. It was strange watching Devlin relaxed with his family, knowing the other side, the professional face. There was something there maybe, for a book …
Drew hunched into the collar of his coat. The weather had got cold again with the New Year, but it was only a few more yards to his apartment block. He’d be glad to get this day over. He crossed the road. There was a man sitting in a car, parked at the kerb. The car door opened in front of him and the man got out. ‘Mr Vitruvius?’
Drew’s stomach lurched. Should he run? Oh hell it might just be a fan. Famous author runs screaming into the night when asked for autograph …
‘Yes?’ At least your voice doesn’t have a quiver in it.
The man stepped into the light of a street-lamp and Drew got a good look at his face. His stomach lurched again. A face he knew – Brandon Phipps.
‘I just wanted to say … The police came to see me … that girl …’ His words were falling over each other in his effort to get them out. Drew watched his chest heave in a deep breath. ‘Aveline. That girl. I barely knew her … We had coffee a couple of times. She seemed pleasant, if a bit too intense. I had no idea what she was going to do. I’m most sincerely sorry.’ He held out his hand. Drew found himself shaking it. ‘I had to come and see you,’ Phipps went on, earnestly. ‘I couldn’t let you think that I had any part of it.’
‘Um. No.’ Drew shook his head, bombarded by the flow of words. The headache was coming back. ‘That’s fine. I’m glad. Er …’ He indicated the lighted hallway of his building. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘Oh. No.’ Phipps was backing away, towards his car. ‘I just wanted to let you know. It’s all right now. Goodnight.’
Drew stood, slightly dazed, as Phipps got into his car and drove away. A crazy end to a crazy day.
Not quite.
When he reached his flat, the phone was ringing. He recognised the clipped brisk tones of Geraldine, his agent, without needing to look at the caller ID. She was already talking. ‘We’re putting out a press release. You’ve been located safe and well, police have made an arrest, blah blah. No further comment. You’re now looking forward to your forthcoming American tour. The lawyers want to vet the damn thing.’
With another tide of words washing over him, Drew latched onto the part that mattered. ‘American tour?’
Geri laughed. ‘Darling, you said that just as if you’d forgotten it! Three months, coast-to-coast. And that thing you asked to go to – where everyone dresses up.’
‘It’s a fantasy convention,’ he supplied dully, stomach churning.
‘That’s it. It’s all arranged. Bloody nuisance though. That girl, Aveline, made all the arrangements. I’ve had to get someone to check everything, make sure she hadn’t messed that up too.’
Oh yeah. Messed up. Like trying to kill me? Drew was beginning to understand the definition of surreal, on a personal basis. ‘Er … had she?’
‘No, thank God. Everything is fine.’ There was a noise in the background. ‘Look, I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll e-mail a copy of the press release. Oh, and the new book is awesome, darling. The publishers are simply wetting themselves over it.’
‘Ah … good to know.’ Drew found himself talking to the dialling tone. He replaced the receiver, staring blankly over at the corner of the room that constituted his home office. Holed up in the flat after Devlin dropped him off, under cover of darkness, he’d broached none of his electronic equipment, not even the lights. Which was a bittersweet reminder of the barn. While Devlin was putting the s
ting together he’d laid low until it was ready. He’d eaten food from the freezer, slept and read … and thought of Lori.
He padded over to the desk, prodding the computer into life. There it was, on his organiser. Three months. New York to L.A. and all points in between, leaving the day after tomorrow, and he’d forgotten all about it.
Well, you did kind of have other things on your mind.
Normally he loved touring, meeting fans, talking about the books. And the States was his favourite place to do it, but now … Lori.
He stood by the desk, staring at the schedule, then shut the machine off and headed for the whisky.
He really needed another drink.
Chapter Thirty-Four
2 January
He should have been packing. Instead he was surfing the Internet, looking for a way to contact Lori. Nothing was working. Lori France had no Internet presence that he could find. He’d been so focused on protecting her, and Misty, he’d left himself with no way of getting in touch.
At least that way you were sure they’d be safe.
It had been the right thing to do – but now …
Lori might not be anywhere on the Internet, but he was. His reappearance had hit the headlines. He’d put the phone on divert to route all his calls to the virtual assistance company he used when he needed them. The involvement of the police and a potential court case made ‘no comment’ an acceptable response to everything and also effortlessly upped the level of interest. There were reporters camped outside, waiting for him to emerge.
Not going to happen, ladies and gentlemen.
Public opinion seemed to be divided about his disappearance – most were concerned and intrigued, a few still thought it had all been a publicity stunt.
If you only knew.
He’d found a lot of stuff on the Internet that he didn’t want, but he hadn’t found Lori. But you do know where she lives.
The temptation to get in the car and simply drive back to Wales, and the quiet simplicity of the barn, was so strong, he almost gave in to it.
But why would you go back to Wales? Officially those days in the barn never happened. You can’t make a connection now.
Also the street is full of reporters and you have a plane to catch at stupid o’clock tomorrow morning.
Frustrated, he glared around the room.
A letter?
He dug in the drawer in his desk. He had a stamp, but no envelopes. He rummaged some more, unearthing a dog-eared postcard from a stately home he’d visited six months ago for an event.
It was better than nothing – but a brief message that anyone could read wasn’t really enough for what he wanted to say.
Come on, you’re supposed to be a writer.
After a moment he scribbled ‘Thanks again for everything’, underlining the ‘for everything’ and adding his initials. Underneath he printed an e-mail address that he’d had for years, that only a handful of people still knew, completed the address of the barn and added the stamp. If he hurried he could catch the post and get started on the damn packing.
Once you get past the reporters.
When he arrived downstairs, there were two large men in the entrance hall. He might have been worried about this, but one of them was Joe. He introduced his colleague, Tom. ‘Boss said you wanted to learn a few moves, self-defence, like.’
‘I do, but I’m going to America at some God-awful time in the morning.’ He explained about the tour.
‘No problem. We’re global.’ Joe grinned at Tom. ‘What you think? Ray in New York and Chris in L.A.?’
Tom nodded. Drew looked from one grinning face to the other. ‘Why am I getting the feeling that this is suddenly not such a good idea?’
The grins just got wider.
Oh, well, he had asked …
Beyond the narrow glass doors to the block, Drew could see a couple of reporters on the steps, huddling against the cold. He pulled the postcard from his pocket. ‘While you’re here, can you do me a favour?’
3 January
Lori stared at her computer screen. Displacement activity. Anything rather than sending her completed manuscript to the agent who wanted to see it.
It’s as finished as it will ever be. Let it go!
Instead of doing what she’d logged on to do, Lori was surfing the web. There was no reason for it. She was just surfing. Quizzes to check her knowledge of Shakespeare, adverts for writers’ retreats in remote locations, videos of cute kittens to make Griff jealous – when she wasn’t looking at news reports about Andrew Vitruvius.
At least you know now that he’s safe.
She’d seen the proof, excited selfies from two fans, unable to believe their luck, when they found themselves on the same flight to New York. Three months on tour and then what? He’d have to come back for the trial. Two men and a woman had been charged with abduction and a string of other offences. Lori wondered about the woman. Slighted girlfriend? It would all come out eventually.
Now that she’d started to dig, she couldn’t seem to stop. It hadn’t taken long to find out everything she ever wanted to know about Andrew Vitruvius. The books, the reviews, the public appearances, the awards, the six-figure contracts, the film options, the hair-raising research trips, the girlfriends – models and actresses mostly – the fans – girlfriends in waiting?
And at the end, or maybe the beginning … the wife.
She’d read that with a lump in her throat. He’d been just eighteen, eighteen, when his wife and three week old son died, along with fifteen other people, in a tangle of wreckage outside Brighton station, three days before Christmas. Two kids who had met while in care, fallen in love and had a child.
And then he lost them.
There was an old and grainy picture of relatives waiting at the station for news. If you knew, you could pick out the painfully young Drew, standing at the back of the group, shoulders stiff with tension, flat cow lick of dark hair stark against pale skin, face trapped in anguish.
Pain coiled around Lori’s heart. To bear that sort of loss, so young. But somehow he’d resurrected himself. His first book had been published four years later.
And yours will never be published if you don’t send it.
Quickly, before she could think any more, she tapped out a covering e-mail. With a fast beating heart, she attached the manuscript and launched them both into cyber space.
For a moment more she dithered, hands over the keyboard. Should she send Drew a quick jolly message on Twitter or e-mail – glad you survived Christmas? And what would she get in response? A casual, ‘Oh yeah, must meet up again sometime’? A standard response from whoever handled his e-mail? Nothing at all?
He said he would forget the time you spent together. And asked you to do the same.
Actually, he said he wouldn’t talk about it.
Does that amount to the same thing?
It was just a kiss. She ran her tongue over her lips, as if she could still taste …
The man is out of your league. He’s already moving on.
Forget the manuscript and Drew Vitruvius.
Write the next book.
Chapter Thirty-Five
15 April
Drew lugged two suitcases full of dirty washing and a slew of small bags – what the hell was in half of them he had no idea – up to his apartment. Once he got them all inside, he collapsed on the floor beside them. Travelling, talking and editing the next book on the road, and he was just about knackered.
The publishers wanted to have the new Andrew Vitruvius in the stores on both sides of the Atlantic and Australia to hit the Christmas trade. Someone had mentioned a ‘Down Under’ tour in September and the usual noises were being made about the next book.
And there is no next book.
A flutter of disquiet shivered through him. There was the usual soup of ideas floating about in his head, but nothing had reached out and demanded to be written. Frighteningly, he wasn’t sure how much he cared.
You
’re just tired. And if you could stop thinking about her …
He rolled over and dragged the bag with his laptop towards him. With some jetlagged stabbing and cursing, he got his e-mails open.
Still nothing from Lori.
Did you really think being back in the UK would make an e-mail magically appear?
He’d sent three more cards from the States.
Face it, mate, if she wanted to get in touch …
With a grimace, he shut down the machine. Cards could go astray, e-mails got caught in spam filters, people got tied up with work, had accidents, got ill …
The last two had his head spinning. No, not that, please.
If she’d felt the same way you did …
Hell! He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. One more try. Do what he should have done in January.
It took him a few seconds of disoriented exhaustion to figure out that the vibration against his thigh wasn’t weird muscle spasms but his phone. He fished it out and pressed talk.
Clint. ‘How d’you fancy Paris, like? I got a mate there, does a bit of Parkour.’
Parkour.
Running and jumping off high buildings without a safety net. Maybe that would trigger the new book?
‘You’re on. But there’s something I need to do first and I’m not functioning tonight. Ring me tomorrow with the arrangements?’
He ended the call and turned again to the computer. The virtual assistant who never slept. He tapped out an e-mail. I need a large bouquet of flowers delivered to my address by 10 a.m. tomorrow.
Arrangements made, he looked at the bags. Nothing there he needed. With an effort he hauled himself to his feet and staggered towards the bedroom.
16 April
It was a very big bouquet. He stood in the doorway looking at it, after the guy handed it over. Kaz would have told him what all the flowers were. He recognised roses and tulips, but the rest? He didn’t have a clue. All tied up with what looked like a piece of sacking and what seemed to be string. But it was big, and pretty, and that was all that counted. He closed the door and stepped over the pile of bags.
What Happens at Christmas Page 14
