Booked for Murder

by Val McDermid

  It wasn’t just having to read the novel on screen that was causing her problems. If she’d been able to print out the three versions of the book she would have been able to lay them alongside each other and make a page-by-page comparison. But even with the splitscreen facility her word-processing software allowed, she could only compare two versions at a time. She had decided to work through it chapter by chapter, first comparing the original version with the second, then the second with the third.

  It was heavy going, even with the work of a writer as talented as Penny Varnavides had undoubtedly been. Lindsay, who had read most of the Darkliners series, at first out of loyalty and later pleasure, was astonished by the maturity and depth of the writing. If Penny had had work of this calibre in her, it was no wonder she was frustrated by the scope of teenage fantasy. The only marvel was that it had taken her so long to develop the confidence to break out of the comfort zone and stretch herself.

  Lindsay wriggled around, trying to find a more comfortable position on the bed. She knew she was welcome to set herself up either at the kitchen table or in Helen and Kirsten’s home office, but she wanted neither to be in their way when they got home nor to have the distraction of their inevitable interest. So she had holed up in her room with a bunch of grapes from a stall by the tube station and a six-pack of Rolling Rock. The beers were cooling in a basin filled with the bag of ice she’d bought at the small supermarket at the corner of Helen’s road. After five hours of staring into the screen, she was starting to wonder if she should be applying the ice to her gritty eyes.

  It wasn’t as if she was coming up with anything that pointed the finger of suspicion at anyone she knew about. Heart of Glass was the terrifying story of two serial killers, one deliberate, the other accidental. The central character was a mystery novelist who realized that every time he created a particular murderous scenario, it was reflected almost immediately in real life. As an experiment, he deliberately wrote a book where his despised older brother, thinly disguised, died in a murder made to look like a freak accident with an exploding beer bottle. Just as Penny herself had died. Within weeks, his brother was dead, by almost identical means.

  With this gruesome proof of his gift, the writer set about killing off everyone he had ever disliked. Judging from Penny’s novel, he’d devoted a lot of energy over the years to hatred. In parallel with his remote-controlled homicidal spree ran the story of a surgeon who had developed his surgical skills in the bedrooms of his victims as efficiently as he had in the operating theater. He had been killing successfully for years, escaping detection by never murdering in the same city twice. An international serial killer, he’d earned frequent flyer miles for murder.

  The connection between the two men was the surgeon’s wife, who was also the writer’s editor. The final ingredient in the heady stew was the wife’s lover, a charismatic congressman about to mount a presidential campaign.

  Knowing that Penny used elements of her friends, acquaintances and professional contacts in the construction of her characters, Lindsay tried to match the characters in the book to people she knew in Penny’s life, to see if any clues lay there. But Penny was too skilled in her craft to have left an obvious trail leading back to her immediate circle. Even where parallels seemed possible, there were no correlations that struck Lindsay. The editor was nothing like Baz, being a weak character swept along by events, unable to control her life. Nothing like the woman Meredith had described, a woman capable of seizing the opportunity for infidelity, then taking steps to make certain it didn’t disrupt the relationship at the heart of her professional life.

  There didn’t even seem to be any signposts in the changes Penny had made between the drafts. There was a certain amount of linguistic tinkering, some reorganization of material, rearranging the order in which certain sections appeared. But there was no structural rewriting that went to the heart of the book. However Penny had fiddled superficially, her central storyline had driven forward with the impetus of an arrow flying from a bow.

  By the time she had reached the end of the final chapter, it was after midnight and Lindsay was no nearer an answer. Whatever Penny’s killer had feared from the pages of Heart of Glass, it was far too subtle to strike her.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” Sophie said, the excitement in her voice travelling easily across ocean and continent.

  “Mmm,” Lindsay grunted, forcing her eyebrows upwards in a vain attempt to get her eyes to stay open. It was quarter past seven in the morning, but it felt like the middle of the night. Seeing her plight, Kirsten thrust a mug of pitch-colored coffee in front of her. Lindsay took a scalding sip and felt synapses snap to attention all through her brain. “Believe what?” she asked, sounding like a reasonable approximation of a human being.

  “Penny’s latest draft. Heart of Glass. The package arrived by courier today and Carolyn called me right away, at work. She knew you’d want to see it. Penny actually sent it the day she died. Three new chapters plus the very last revisions she ever made to the text.” There seemed to be an exclamation mark hanging in the air at the end of each of Sophie’s sentences.

  “And?”

  “I skimmed it. I knew you’d want chapter and verse on any substantial changes as soon as possible.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d read the earlier drafts,” Lindsay muttered.

  “I dipped in and out of it whenever I could get a spare moment,” Sophie said. “Darling, she’d made a lot of changes in this draft. The surgeon’s wife—the editor? She’s had a complete personality change. You know how she was passive and weak in the first drafts? Well, she’s not any more. She’s been turned into a strong, scheming bitch. A real sexual adventurer. Now it’s her who seduces the politician, not the other way round. And it’s clear she’s not a victim any more. In fact, it looks like Penny was shaping up to turning her into a killer—I think the twist she was aiming for is that the novelist isn’t really capable of causing death by remote control, but his editor goes out and makes his books come true, partly as a publicity stunt and partly because she enjoys it.”

  By now thoroughly awake, Lindsay drew her breath in sharply. “Now that’s what I call a significant change. Tell me, Soph. Has Penny changed the physical description of the wife at all?”

  “Funny you should say that,” Sophie said. “In the first draft, she’s described as slightly built with mousy blonde hair, pale skin.”

  “Human wallpaper,” Lindsay interjected. The coffee was starting to do its stuff.

  “Right. But the description this time is quite different. Hang on, I printed it out . . . ‘Her hair was hennaed a dark, glossy auburn, cut like Mia Farrow’s in her waif period. It contrasted with dark eyebrows and eyes the color of Hershey Kisses, and served to emphasize chubby cheeks that reminded Carradine of a squirrel storing a lucky find of nuts for later. Somehow, he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover her body pierced in places that would make most women wince.’”

  “King hell,” Lindsay said.

  “I take it that means something to you?” Sophie asked.

  “With a description like that, you could pick Baz Burton out of any line-up,” Lindsay said. “You think there’s any doubt that Penny knew about Baz and Meredith’s night of passion?”

  Sophie chuckled at Lindsay’s ironic tone. “Is the Pope a Catholic? Remind me never to cross a writer. If what you’re saying is right, the character would have been instantly recognizable to everybody at Monarch as Baz.”

  “Not to mention the rest of the publishing world. And not just in London. What do you think they’d be gossiping about at the Frankfurt Book Fair, if not the way that Penny Varnavides had extracted her revenge against her former editor? Make no mistake, sending a message like that to Baz is the longest sacking note in history,” Lindsay pointed out as Helen barged into the kitchen.

  “What is this, Pinkerton’s Detectives, we never sleep?” she demanded loudly enough for Sophie to hear her in California.

&nbs
p; “Tell Helen to shut up, we’re talking serious murder motives,” Sophie said.

  Lindsay relayed the message and Helen poked her tongue out at the phone. Kirsten shook her head in amusement and gestured at the oven with her thumb. “Get on with your call then, Sherlock,” Helen mock-grumbled, taking warm pastries out of the oven.

  “It is a motive,” Lindsay said. “No two ways about it.”

  “It’s horrible to think of Penny dying for something so petty,” Sophie said soberly.

  There was a long silence as they both recalled what lay behind the excitement of the hunt. Then Lindsay said, “I need to see this stuff soon as.”

  “I know,” Sophie acknowledged. “But I’m up to my eyes. I’ve had to come back into the clinic.”

  “The joys of high-risk deliveries?”

  “Yeah. I had to come back into the city after I’d picked up the disk from Carolyn. I don’t know how soon I’ll have the chance to reformat these text files and e-mail them to you.”

  Lindsay groaned. “Oh, God.” Both Helen and Kirsten looked up momentarily from their morning paper and Danish, decided it was nothing serious and carried on, ignoring Lindsay’s histrionics.

  “I’m doing my best, Lindsay,” Sophie said, sounding hurt.

  “I know, I know, I wasn’t having a go,” Lindsay said apologetically. “It’s just so frustrating.”

  “I promise you’ll have them by the end of the day,” Sophie said.

  “That’s terrific, honestly. That’s fine,” Lindsay reassured her. Then she sighed. “I really miss you, you know. Helen and Kirsten have been great, but it’s not like having you around.”

  “It won’t be long till I’m back in Britain too. Don’t forget, we already had our flights booked for next week.”

  “I know. I just wish I didn’t have to do without you that long. You’re always telling me I’m not fit to be let out on my own.”

  “You need some back-up, huh?”

  Lindsay grinned. “That’s right. I need someone to cover my back when I’m dealing with these heavy people. Violent types like publishers.”

  “Joking apart, you be careful. At the risk of sounding like the last line before the commercial break in Murder, She Wrote, there’s a killer out there, and I don’t want you to be the next victim.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lindsay said. “With what you’ve told me this morning, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea who killed Penny. And I’m not about to confront her up a dark alley. I don’t think that even Baz Burton has the bottle to jump me in an open-plan office in front of the entire office staff of Monarch Press.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any point in me suggesting you hold off on this confrontation till you’ve had the chance to read the revised text for yourself? So you can quote chapter and verse at Baz?”

  “Absolutely correct. What would be the point in that, unless you’re winding me up and telling me stories?”

  Sophie sighed. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

  “I promise I’ll still be in one piece when you get here,” Lindsay said.

  “So let me speak to Helen now,” Sophie said. “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” Lindsay said, waving the phone at Helen, who grabbed it and had a short conversation with Sophie which was remarkable for its monosyllabic quality. Lindsay had never seen anyone but Sophie reduce Helen’s dialogue so drastically, and it appeared the old gift hadn’t left her. After a series of grunts, yeahs and “no problems,” Helen hung up.

  “So,” she said to Lindsay. “Are we on for tonight? The big sting? Or are you going to be too busy catching murderers?”

  “Trust me, I’m a doctor,” Lindsay said.

  Helen snorted. “It’d take more than an American PhD to make me trust you, kiddo.”

  Lindsay stood up, pretending to be on her dignity. “It’ll all be done and dusted by seven. Then you and I will be ready to roll.”

  Impatiently, Lindsay drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair she was reluctantly occupying at Monarch Press. Seeing her scowl, Lauren leaned forward across the reception desk and said confidentially, “She won’t be long now. The editorial meeting never lasts past eleven. Danny’s always got too much on to waste time letting them rabbit. He only allows the editors five minutes max to pitch any of their titles.”

  Lindsay pursed her lips and glared at her watch again, as if that would make the time pass more quickly. She couldn’t even use the minutes constructively to see if Lauren’s brain contained anything else worth picking since the reception area was never empty for more than a minute at a time. The longer she had to wait, the more her conviction of Baz’s guilt grew. No matter that the meeting Baz was in was a routine weekly session, Lindsay couldn’t prevent herself feeling Baz had made herself deliberately unavailable to spite her. Illogical and paranoid, she knew, but the feeling still wouldn’t depart. She flipped open the front pocket of her backpack again and checked that her microcassette recorder was in voice-activated mode. She wasn’t taking the risk that Baz would confess something she’d later try to deny.

  Finally, as the minute hand crawled towards the hour, a young woman appeared, looking harassed. “You’re waiting to see Baz, right?” she greeted Lindsay. Without waiting for an answer, she gestured impatiently to the door. Lindsay got to her feet and forced herself to follow the woman through the editorial floor at a measured pace rather than the trot that would have matched her mood.

  Baz was sitting behind her desk shuffling papers when Lindsay walked in. She glanced up. “Hi. Siddown, yeah?” she said as she finished reading the top sheet and scribbled what might have been a signature across the bottom of it. Then she looked up, her face still a painful scarlet from too much sun. “I’ve spoken to Meredith,” she said bluntly.

  “Good. That’s one less awkward conversation for us to have,” Lindsay said, her voice the only chilly thing in the partitioned space.

  “So what brings you back here?”

  “Your boss asked if I could track down a copy of Heart of Glass,” Lindsay said, avoiding the guest’s chair and perching on the edge of a credenza stacked with manuscripts that ran along one wall, forcing Baz to turn awkwardly in her chair to maintain eye contact.

  “You’ve managed to find it?” Baz asked cautiously. “Where was it?”

  “Penny always deposited a set of back-up disks with friends for safekeeping. It wasn’t hard to find out where they were and to get a copy. You don’t seem as excited as I expected.” Lindsay crossed her legs at the ankles and leaned back on her arms.

  “I’m just relieved,” Baz said, a note of defensiveness creeping in. “I’ve got a lot riding on this book.”

  “Oh, I know you have. A damn sight more than a bloody big hole in your catalog.”

  Baz shifted in her chair, almost imperceptibly altering her position to close herself off from Lindsay’s probing stare. “You’re going to have to explain that. I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

  Lindsay snorted with sardonic laughter. “Was that meant to be a subtle attempt to find out which draft I’ve got? If so, there was no need for the subtlety. I’ll happily tell you, Baz. I’ve got the lot. I’ve got three early drafts, going as far as Chapter 18.” Lindsay paused, gauging Baz’s watchful stare. She thought she saw relief there, but couldn’t be sure.

  “How soon can you let us have a copy?” Baz asked, fiddling obsessively with the pen she’d used to sign the document.

  “That’s going to be up to Meredith and Catriona Polson,” Lindsay replied. “Oh, and probably the police as well.”

  “Why should it have anything to do with the police?” Baz asked, her busy fingers freezing, the pen stationary in mid-turn.

  “I’ve also got the final draft.” Lindsay stared steadily at Baz. “The one I wouldn’t want anyone to see if I was in your shoes. The one that gives you a motive for wanting Penny Varnavides dead.” Her words cut through the humid air like the hiss of a thrown knife.

  Baz’s mouth tw
isted into the kind of smile that’s normally only seen in distorting fairground mirrors. “Come on,” she said in an attempt at jokey contempt. “You can’t be seriously suggesting that a rewrite Penny did in the heat of anger would give me a motive for murder?”

  Lindsay’s grim smile would have worried a shark. “One,” she said, ticking off her points on her fingers, “Heart of Glass as rewritten represents total humiliation for you, personally and professionally. Two, Penny and you could never have worked together again, which scuppers your brilliant career. Three, your girlfriend’s going to be more than a little baffled as to why your formerly fabulous relationship with your most successful author has turned so sour, and I’m sure Penny would have been more than happy to enlighten her. Will that do for starters?”

  Baz’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, but when she spoke her voice struggled for lightness. “This is madness. Look, whatever Penny may or may not have done in some intermediate draft, I was her editor and the final shape of the book depends on me as much as on her. I have the authority to demand that she change back to what was, after all, the book outlined in her synopsis, the book I had commissioned.”

  “Oh, sure! If it came to a showdown between what Penny wanted and what you wanted, obviously Danny King’s going to side with you,” Lindsay said sarcastically. “Come on, Baz. Let’s get real here. Penny wasn’t exactly Ms. Nobody submitting her first novel. If it was a case of losing Penny or losing you, I can’t imagine Danny having to agonize for more than ten seconds.”

  Lindsay didn’t think it was possible for anyone to have a higher color than the editor had already, but she was proved wrong as Baz darkened almost to purple. “It wouldn’t ever have come to that. Penny reacted the way she did because she was hurt and angry and that was the easiest way to get back at me. But she wasn’t a fool. She was planning on coming out when this book was published. If she’d gone with the draft you’re talking about, then someone would have sussed that we’d fallen out and, eventually, why. The last thing she would have wanted was that kind of tabloid notoriety. If you knew her half as well as you claim to, you’d know what I’m saying is the truth,” she added defiantly.