by Val McDermid
Lindsay tried moving a mouth that seemed to be lodged in a concrete face. “I can’t believe you got her to switch off the radio in here,” she managed as she helped herself to coffee.
“I don’t mind bringing work home with me. But I’m damned if I’m going to wake up to it as well. I told her, it’s the Today program or me.”
“It must be love,” Lindsay commented.
Right on cue, Helen bounced into the room swathed in a kimono, her marmalade hair in damp coils to her shoulders. “Sleep okay, Linds?” she demanded, sweeping past them both and yanking a tray of hot croissants and pains au chocolat out of the oven.
“Yeah,” she said. “Could have done with a few more hours, but . . .”
“Don’t be daft,” Helen said, dumping the croissants on to a plate and balancing it on top of the papers she’d been working on the night before. “Never mind Tulsa, you’re back living on Tulse Hill time,” she continued, breaking into song and playing air guitar in a bad imitation of Eric Clapton.
“Helen,” Kirsten groaned plaintively.
“Best cure for jet lag,” Helen persisted. “What’ve you got on today, K?”
Kirsten frowned momentarily. Then her face cleared. “Doing a piece for Radio Bloke about holiday reading. One last interview to do, then I can cobble it all together.”
“Radio Bloke?” Lindsay asked faintly.
“Five Live,” Helen informed her. “‘Twenty-four-hour news and sport from the BBC,’” she mimicked, helping herself to a croissant.
“I do bits and pieces for them, but mostly I work for Four,” Kirsten said, her warm radio voice re-emerging from the early morning gravel. “Arts and media stuff.”
“That’s handy,” Lindsay said, perking up as the coffee worked its way through to her brain.
“Watch out, K,” Helen cautioned through a mouthful of pastry. “When this scally starts to take an interest, there’s always an ulterior motive. She’ll be after borrowing some fancy recording equipment or something, just wait and see.”
Reaching for a pain au chocolat, Lindsay shook her head. “You know me too well, Helen.”
“You can’t scam a scammer,” Helen said.
“Is there something I can help you with, Lindsay?” Kirsten asked between mouthfuls.
“I don’t honestly know,” she said. “Maybe. Do you know anything about Monarch Press?”
Kirsten nodded. “As it happens, yeah. Kaleidoscope did a feature on their tenth anniversary. I wasn’t producing, but I went along to the party. Lemme see . . .” Her dark eyes focused on the middle distance as Helen leaned across to refill her coffee cup. “Thanks, love. Now, lemme get this right. The guy behind the company is an East End wide boy called Danny King. He’s a proper cockney, one generation away from a barrow boy. Though that’s being a bit unfair. His dad actually got off the barrows and worked as a printer in Fleet Street.”
Lindsay groaned. “Bigger highway robbers than Dick Turpin.”
“Yeah, well, old man King retired to Spain on his redundo some time in the mid-eighties, leaving his wife behind.”
“How did you find all this out?” Helen demanded. “I know you’re nosy, but that’s ridiculous!”
Kirsten grinned. “I was standing next to his dad during the speeches, which were mostly the kind that can only be improved by talking through them. He told me his entire life story, most of which, thankfully, I have managed to erase from the memory banks.”
“So how did an East End cowboy get to be a gentleman publisher?” Lindsay asked, trying to keep the conversation on track.
“Who said anything about gentleman?” Kirsten said, eyebrows steepling. “Danny’s mum was a great believer in self-improvement, and she was always encouraging her little lad to read. When he ducked out of school, his dad called in a few favors and got him a job in the print works of one of the big publishing houses. From there, Danny parlayed himself a job as a sales rep. Supposedly he was a very good one. Then he won the pools.”
“You’re kidding!” Helen exclaimed. “How much?”
“A mill and a quarter. Which was a lot of cash eleven or so years ago.”
“It’s a lot of cash now,” Lindsay pointed out. “And he set up a publishing house?” The incredulity in her voice was matched only by the expression on Helen’s face.
“That’s right. He announced to a waiting world that nobody was publishing the books he’d wanted to read as a teenager, or the books he’d wanted to sell, or the books he wanted to read now, and he was going to fill the gap in the market. Everybody laughed at him, of course. Publishing was in a decline, the market was shrinking, there were too many books and not enough buyers already. And of course, he was a toerag from the wrong side of the tracks without the requisite English degree. But he proved them all wrong.”
“So what kind of stuff does Monarch publish? Apart from Penny’s Darkliners series?” Lindsay asked.
Kirsten dug a packet of cigarettes out of her dressing-gown pocket and lit up. “It’s a pretty eclectic list. Mostly fiction, mostly by young writers who don’t come out of the sausage factory of university and journalism. The keynote is that it’s all slightly off the wall, out of the mainstream. Cult fiction. Acid-head dole-ite narrators. Travel guides to places you didn’t know you wanted to go to till you read the book. Their slogan is, ‘Fact or fiction—in your face.’ Your friend Penny was his first big success, but there have been others since.”
“How did he do it? What made it work?” Lindsay asked. Her curiosity was pricked now, and it was nothing to do with Penny.
Kirsten shrugged. “He was one of the first to abandon hardback publishing and go for good-quality softback originals that were only a pound or two more expensive than mass-market paperbacks. The books had a strong corporate image, so they stood out on the shelves. He hired people who weren’t afraid to back their hunches on new writers. And he marketed the books with a bit of chutzpah. They advertised in music mags, style mags, top-end women’s glossies—places where publishers hadn’t gone before, except with individual titles. It wasn’t any one thing—it was the way he combined ideas.”
“He took the right risks,” Lindsay said.
“That about sums it up. And now Monarch has got a real brand identity with its readers. People read a Monarch title and they like it, so they try another one. Pretty soon, they start to buy the new titles automatically.”
“Sounds a bit too much like a dream come true,” Helen said skeptically.
Kirsten rumpled her hair. “You’re just a twisted old cynic. Not every business has a skunk like Guy and a snake like Stella.”
Lindsay nodded. “Maybe you should pitch Danny King into the film business, Helen. Sounds like he’s got the golden touch.”
Helen snorted. “Spare me any more boy wonders.” She glanced up at the schoolroom clock on the wall. “Speaking of which, I’d better get my skates on before I find we’re contracted to make a soap for satellite.”
After Helen had gone, Lindsay said, “Did you happen to meet Baz Burton? She was Penny’s editor.”
“Can’t help you there. After I disentangled myself from Danny’s dad, I was doing the rounds of the authors, trying to see if I could pick up any program ideas. I didn’t actually talk to anybody from Monarch. Sorry.”
Then it had been Kirsten’s turn to leave. Even after Lindsay had loaded the dishwasher and put the remains of the previous night’s takeaway in the fridge, it was barely eight o’clock. Showered and dressed, she’d been on the street by half past and in the supermarket opposite Monarch’s Shepherd’s Bush office twenty minutes later. Now all she could do was wait for the publishing day to begin. At least, for the first time in her life, she was on surveillance somewhere with an unlimited supply of coffee and, more importantly, a toilet.
By ten fifteen, Lindsay reckoned that anyone who was planning on coming to work at Monarch was probably there. Besides, the table clearer in the café was starting to become restive, sighing heavily every time she pa
ssed Lindsay’s table with its coffee cup still half full. She picked up her backpack and strolled out into the car park, where the warmth hit her, a shock after the air-conditioned cool of the store. “Just like being at home,” she muttered. At least she was dressed for it today, in Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless tunic with a mandarin collar.
As she got closer, Lindsay could see that the ground floors of five of the mews cottages had been knocked together to give a semi-open-plan appearance to Monarch’s ground floor. The reception area, in the middle cottage, was decorated in the same sunshine yellow and forest green as the distinctive livery of the imprint’s paperbacks. The receptionist sat behind a high yellow desk like an airport check-in. Her acid fuchsia T-shirt clashed magnificently with the decor. Clearly not a place to work if you were prone to hangovers or migraine, Lindsay thought as she approached with a smile. A green sign told the world the twenty-something receptionist’s name was Lauren. Somehow, she looked like a Lauren. She had long hair the color of set honey, big blue eyes and a bone structure that hollowed her cheeks. In spite of the right components, she somehow missed being beautiful. “Good morning, Lauren,” Lindsay said. “Is Baz Burton in?”
The receptionist dragged her attention away from something behind the desk that Lindsay couldn’t see. “Is she expecting you?” she asked, her voice a disappointing nasal south London whine.
“I don’t have an appointment. But I’d really appreciate it if she could spare me a few minutes.” She smiled ingratiatingly.
“Can you tell me your name and what it’s in connection with?” was the bored reply as the eyes strayed back beneath the counter top.
“My name is Lindsay Gordon and it’s in connection with Penny Varnavides. I’m representing Meredith Miller.”
That got Lauren’s undivided attention. “Right,” she said, her voice approving and interested. “Let’s see what we can do, eh?” Her hand appeared above the counter clutching a phone and she keyed in a number. “Susan? It’s Lauren at the front desk. Someone here for Baz . . . No, but I think Baz will want to see her . . . Penny Varnavides . . . No, she’s not press, she says she’s representing . . .” her voice trailed off and she looked questioningly at Lindsay.
“Meredith Miller.”
“A Meredith Miller . . . Right.” She replaced the phone and gave Lindsay a friendly smile. “Ms. Burton’s assistant is going to check if she can see you.”
“Thanks.” Lindsay strolled over to a wall display of book jackets, her eyes automatically seeking out Penny’s titles. A phone rang and Lauren answered it. “Monarch Press, how may I help you . . . You want to leave a message for. . .. Certainly. And you are . . .? Could you spell that . . .? T-a-v-a-r-e? Fine, Mr. Tavare, I’ll see he gets the message.”
As the phone went down, a scarlet-faced woman with a disturbing resemblance to a hamster marched round the end of a partition and into the reception area. “How many times do I have to tell you?” she hissed at the receptionist. If it was meant to be out of Lindsay’s earshot, she’d failed. “People who arrive without an appointment get shown the door. You do not buzz through and put Susan on the spot, is that clear?”
Lauren flushed. “But Baz . . .”
“I don’t want to hear buts. It’s a simple enough procedure, surely you can manage it? Or do I have to talk to Danny?”
Lauren, who had clearly learned her lesson from the Princess of Wales, dropped her head and looked up at Baz from under her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Baz, okay?”
“And while I’m on the subject of simple procedures, how come an urgent set of proofs that gets biked round to me yesterday morning doesn’t make it on to my desk till ten minutes ago?” The woman’s voice rose in pitch and volume. “Do you know what the word urgent means, or do I have to buy you a bloody dictionary?”
Before Lauren could answer, Lindsay jumped in. “Excuse me, but am I in the wrong place? I thought this was a publishing house, not a casualty ward. I mean, how urgent can a set of proofs be? You know, every time you get wound up like that, it takes days off your potential life span.” She smiled disarmingly. “I’m Lindsay Gordon. You must be Baz Burton.”
Baz gave Lauren a final glare, then swung round with a broad smile towards Lindsay. “Pleased to meet you.” She didn’t offer her hand. “Sorry about that. You know what they say—you just can’t get the staff. My assistant tells me you’re representing Meredith Miller. Can I ask in what capacity?”
“Can we talk somewhere a little more private?” Lindsay said, stepping to one side to avoid a pair of young men walking through reception deep in discussion about book clubs.
“Is this going to take long?” Baz asked, glancing ostentatiously at a Mickey Mouse watch. “Only, I’ve got an important meeting in twenty minutes, so if you need longer, I’d suggest you make an appointment for another day.”
“Let’s make a start with that twenty minutes, then,” Lindsay said firmly. “If we need more time, I can always come back later.”
“Fine,” Baz said curtly. “Follow me.”
She led the way round a room divider and into a small office partitioned off the larger room, where people sat at computers and piles of manuscripts. Baz settled into a leather executive chair behind a desk cluttered with papers. She didn’t invite Lindsay to sit, but she did anyway, noting that the visitors’ chairs were significantly lower than the edge of the desk. The room had no door, and Lindsay felt strangely exposed with her back to the entrance.
Baz tilted her head to one side, frankly studying Lindsay. Lindsay returned the compliment, taking in a hennaed urchin cut over straight brows and eyes the same muddy color as the supermarket coffee. Her plump, jowly cheeks were at odds with a neat frame whose slimness was accentuated by the tight black jeans and vest she was wearing. Her shoulders were as pink as her cheeks and showed all the signs of peeling from too much sun. In her left ear was a single earring in the shape of an axe. In her right, a line of half a dozen silver studs marched upwards from the lobe till they met a pair of ear cuffs. “Sorry about that business out there. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you. It’s just that I am literally snowed under with work, and that idiot girl on reception keeps on funnelling wannabe writers through to me as if I’m running a counselling service for failures,” Baz said to break the silence.
“All the more thanks for giving me some time,” Lindsay said noncommittally.
“You still haven’t answered my question, though,” Baz said with a teasing smile that completely altered her face, reminding Lindsay that hamsters could be cute. She leaned forward with her elbows on the desk and gazed at Lindsay.
“At Meredith Miller’s request, I’m investigating Penny Varnavides’ murder.”
Baz looked incredulous. “You’re a private eye?”
“Not exactly. But I have had some experience of murder inquiries.”
“And Meredith’s hired you to clear her name, is that it?”
“Sort of.” For no reason she could put her finger on, Lindsay was reluctant to reveal how much she knew about Meredith or Penny. Admitting she was working out of friendship would be to give too much away.
“Fine. I’m all for Meredith’s name being cleared. It’s absolutely ridiculous that she’s even come under suspicion.” Baz spoke vehemently, her voice rising. “Anyone with half a brain could see that Meredith would never hurt a fly. She’s one of the gentlest people I’ve ever met.”
There were a lot of words Lindsay would have applied to Meredith before she got to gentle. “Have you known her long?” she asked.
“Almost as long as Penny. Which makes it about eleven years. I met her the first time I went to San Francisco. And I’ve seen her quite a bit over the years, both in the US and here in England. When she’s in town on business, we sometimes have dinner. I really hope you can get the police off her back,” she added, beaming a wide white smile at Lindsay.
“You knew right from the start they were lovers?”
Baz’s lips quirked in a half smile. “Y
ou know what they say. It takes one to know one. It took Penny about four years to tell me the big secret, but I sussed it from day one. But why all the questions about Meredith?” she demanded, suddenly suspicious. “I thought you were supposed to be on her side?”
“I am. Just background, that’s all. I’m told that you had seen a lot of Penny this trip?”
“I wouldn’t have said ‘a lot,’” Baz objected. “We met a few times to discuss the progress of her new book.”
“Did you normally do that?”
“Not with the Darkliners series, no. Pen could knock them off standing on her head with one arm tied behind her back. She’d just send me a two-page synopsis so the art department could get busy with the cover and we could do the jacket copy. Then twelve weeks later, like clockwork, another fifty thousand words of Darkliners title would drop through the letter box. Then we’d have a meeting to sort out the edits, and that was about it, really. If she was over here anyway, we’d do lunch or dinner, but for pleasure, not work.”
“But this time it was different?” Lindsay prompted.
“Inevitably. Heart of Glass was a very different book from anything Pen had attempted before.” Baz gave Lindsay another dazzling smile. “I wanted to give Pen all the support she needed to complete it.” Sensing her facial expression was inappropriate, Baz swiftly changed to a suitably sad look. “Tragically, that didn’t happen.”
“How was the book progressing?” Lindsay asked briskly, refusing to be sidetracked into a sharing of sorrow.
“Very well. About 70,000 words on paper.” Baz had suddenly become abrupt, her previous chattiness vanishing as if it had never been.
“Do you have a copy of the manuscript?”
“No. I don’t have any text. I don’t even have a synopsis. Pen was guarding this one with her life.” As she realized what she had said, Baz’s mouth fell open.
