The Writer

by RB Banfield

  “But your left eye—“

  “They probably did, yeah, all right? Are you happy? They wouldn’t know what shoe to put on what foot, or care if they got it wrong. A murder? Forget it. They probably thought a rock happened to fall from the sky, like they used to back in peasant days, and hit the guy when he was out for a stroll. In this case it was some unknown driver going way over the speed limit. Hit, kill, drive off, never seen again. How convenient.”

  “But you don’t think that,” Dun said, knowing that his man, his best detective, had something. “You think there’s more to it.”

  “You want to reopen the case, then send some rookie chasing after it. I’ve got actual police work to do.”

  “No you don’t. And you’re the best rookie I have.”

  Dun enjoyed his joke and laughed as he walked away to his lunch destination. Then he stopped and instructed, “Leave no stone uncovered, Ironwright. It’ll be all your fault if anything gets missed.”

  Benny Taylor was sitting at the next desk and he had listened carefully to every word without understanding most of it. A five-year veteran, he still had trouble coming to grips with his job. He waited for Dun to leave before he leaned over to Dan. “Your eye twitches, Dan?” he asked in all seriousness, and then wondered why Dan ignored him.

  “This was Dale’s,” said Dan.

  “What’s that?” asked Benny. “You think Dale missed something?”

  Dan sat quietly for a few moments and then abruptly stood up from his desk and went in search of his lunch. “The body was moved,” he said to Benny as he walked past him.

  “Dale knew that?” Benny asked but Dan didn’t stop.

  It was in the evening when Dan called in on the Evans. He had put aside his wife’s very nice pineapple desert; a simple concoction of bread chunks, milk and a dab of vanilla essence that when baked became something astounding. That was no mean feat, to walk away from his desert, but he knew he needed to get the visit out of the way. If he started in on all that rich pineapple loveliness he would not want to move out of his monstrous lounge chair, and it would have coincided with the sports segment on the TV news. Sam promised it would be easy to reheat when he got back home, but all he could think about was that it was currently a long way away from his mouth, and he didn’t like anything about that thought. He found that he passed an attractive corner store on his way to the Evans and a quick stop there saw him collect some cut-price cream rolls, ones that actually had real cream in them. He made a note in his notebook of the address. His notebook was full of such addresses, and he had more of them than for anything work related.

  “Sorry to be a pain,” he said as Sarah opened the door for him, “but I need to go over what I talked about with your husband a few days back.”

  She welcomed him in, and she was quickly joined by Paul. He shook their hands and regretted that they were still a little sticky from the buns. Both looked excited at his presence and were happy to provide all the high-class coffee he wanted, as well as a very tasty selection of fruit slice. Dan knew that he was not being polite in eating down the first one in about three or four bites. What was worse was when they noticed that he tried to put another in his pocket. It was an old habit that he had from childhood, when he saw a lot of food he would try to take as much as he could at once. He had tried to stop the habit but then realised how much food he missed out on.

  Both Paul and Sarah didn’t seem to notice as they gave him all kinds of questions and then answers, none of which interested him. He waited for them to stop talking before he took out his notebook and pen.

  “This is over Max Marshall?” asked Sarah. “Have you arrested him?”

  Dan grimaced, thinking that she might be a problem. He knew that having two excitable witnesses together was about ten times as worse as than one calm one, since they fed off each other and drove up their stress level.

  “There is no reason to arrest Max Marshall,” he said in a relaxed manner.

  “Of course there is,” she replied like he was a child.

  He realised that he had been too relaxed and given them the impression that he was soft.

  “He knew about the murder in Gendry,” she continued. “It’s in his book. Paul told you about that, didn’t he?”

  That interested Dan. “What book is this?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called,” she said. “I don’t think he told us. He’s very secretive like that.”

  “I was under the impression he was writing it,” said Dan, “not finished it. You say it’s in an actual book?”

  “It’s not published yet, no,” Paul explained. “It’s just some story he was writing. But he’s detailed the murder, all about it. No one’s going to get that right without knowing a thing or too.”

  “Can we put the handbrake on here for a second, folks?” Dan asked with a polite smile. “Allan Longbottom was killed in a hit and run accident, most likely unprovoked. By the looks of Gendry, speeding vehicles are a bit of a plague, and this was bound to happen at some point. If what you say is correct, that Max Marshall had prior knowledge, then he would have had to have known Longbottom and had a reason for the crime.”

  “And wrote it down,” said Sarah, appearing even more enthused now that she had heard some details of the case from someone who was in authority.

  “But not only that,” said Paul. “When he told us about it, you should have seen the look on his face.”

  “Why, what was his face looking like?” asked Dan.

  “Satisfaction,” said Paul, himself satisfied to say that.

  “He was bragging, is what he was,” said Sarah. “Yes, he was bragging all right.”

  “What association does Max have with Gendry?” asked Dan. “Does he travel there much? How many people does he know there?”

  Paul looked at Sarah and admitted, “We have no idea.”

  “We’re friends of his wife, more than him,” said Sarah, which was no surprise to Dan. “She’s Jill. She’s nice.”

  “Max keeps to himself, I’d say,” said Paul. “I couldn’t tell you anything about how he spends his time or who his friends are. I don’t even know if he has any friends.”

  “How about yourselves?” asked Dan, moving his pen closer to the notebook, which he knew would throw them off their smugness. “Do you know anyone in Gendry?”

  “Us?” Paul asked, not expecting that question. “No.”

  “Been there much?”

  “I went there once when I was a girl,” said Sarah. “With my dad, who was a keen fisherman. I don’t remember much about it, other than discovering my dad was not really any good at being a fisherman. He gave it up not long after that. We never did go back, but I have wondered about what it looks like now. One day we might stop in if we’re driving up there, on our way somewhere more important.”

  Dan made sure she knew that he wrote all of that down. “There’s one thing I’m not clear about,” he said like he was having trouble remembering. If they knew him then they would know how deep his memory went and any time he feigned forgetfulness was just a ruse. The scribble in the notebook was more for show, to give him something to do when he wanted to draw out the conversation. It wasn’t even his real notebook, since he did not want to mess that up with worthless fluff like he was getting from these two. “When you say he told you that he had killed Longbottom, and this was in something he was writing, did you see this document? Did he have any pages with him at the time?”

  “We didn’t see any,” said Paul.

  “We all heard him saying it,” said Sarah. “Us and his wife Jill. We’ll swear that in court.”

  “Let’s not jump the guns on this,” said Dan. “If he has something in writing, then we may be able to put together some charges. It’s probably something innocent, I wouldn’t be surprised. Just a misunderstanding. Thank you for your time.”

  “Let us know when you arrest him,” said Sarah. “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “If that happens I’ll be sure to
do that,” said Dan and then stopped himself from asking her if there was anyone else she would like to know is arrested. He took another fruit slice with him and thanked them for the very nice coffee, but all he could think about was the reheated desert waiting for him to come home to.

  Dan started off driving home but took a different corner and headed for the Marshall’s apartment building. More than what the Evans’ said was the memory of his first visit and knowing that something was being hidden. That something, whatever it was, bugged him. He knew from experience that what was hidden may not be incriminating, and more often than not it was innocent and nothing to do with the case. But the very fact that there was something there made Dan want to find it. He wanted it enough to put off, just for a short time, eating his desert, and that made him grumpy.

  Max was so startled to see Dan at his door that he was speechless. Dan noticed the fear in his eyes and that made him smile. Sometimes his job could be easy. Here was someone trying to hide something from him. Like a trained sniffer-dog, Dan went straight to work on finding it. His stomach demanded he hurry.

  “Detective Ironwright, is there something else I can help you with?” Max asked.

  “If you don’t mind,” Dan said in an easygoing manner, “I have a couple of follow-ups regarding the Gendry case. If you don’t mind?”

  Max let him in. “I didn’t know you guys worked this late. Crime never sleeps, huh?”

  “It doesn’t, but I do. To tell the truth, I have a nice pineapple pie waiting for me when I get home, so this won’t take long.”

  “I have already said I know no one in Gendry, or anything about that murder up there. I really don’t know how I could be part of your case, but I think I already told you that.”

  “And I have your statement about that. But since then it has come to my attention that you have been writing stories about the Longbottom case.”

  They only went as far as the dining room table, where Max offered him a chair. In the middle of the table sat a large and square crystal bowl full of very lifelike imitation grapes. Dan was about to help himself before he saw that they were plastic. The mood he was in, he probably would have eaten one anyway.

  “It’s a free country,” said Max.

  “Then it’s true, you have been writing about it? May I see what you have done, please?”

  “Mr Ironwright, I didn’t know you were a fan.”

  Dan was about to say it was only for the case but then decided it would be best to humour him.

  “My latest book is set there, in Gendry,” said Max. “Let me burn you a disk of what I’ve done so far, and you can read it to your heart’s content. Remember, it’s only a draft, and I don’t usually let people see drafts. Seeing as this is a special circumstance, and you’re not some kind of snotty critic, I don’t see how it could hurt. You’re not a snotty critic are you? Don’t worry, I was only kidding.”

  Dan was not expecting Max to cooperate so readily and for once he was speechless. Max went to make a copy and it only took a minute. When he returned with a silver disk already in a plastic case, Dan was amazed at his efficiency.

  “How did you know about the Gendry case?” Dan asked as he inspected the disk and saw that it was just a computer disk like any other and he felt dumb for looking at it like that.

  “Since it hasn’t been a secret it would be unusual if I had no knowledge of it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Why write about it?”

  “Why write anything? Because it’s there. Because it wants to be written. Because it’s easier to write it than not write it. Because it’s on people’s minds. Because in a month or two nobody will remember it, even the residents of Gendry, so I’m keeping it in the public eye. If I didn’t write anything, no one would remember. That’s just the way the sad world is. One moment we’re in awe over some tragedy, the next we’re laughing at some pointless reality show. Tragedies are everywhere, and if you ask me, there is no difference between reality shows and the news channels; both revel in human suffering and make money from it. Someone gets run down in a small town; shocking. Someone gets voted off an island; more shocking. But the ‘shocking’ part is why we’re tuning in in the first place. I suppose, if I was honest with myself, my book is trying to take advantage of that, the same as any other kind of media. I suppose I’m glad Gendry was rattled by that murder. And if you push me, I guess I’m pleased the man died, if it means I can sell my book about it. That’s just the way this sad world is.”

  Dan was about to tell him he could be incriminating himself by talking like this, but he decided that he won’t since he just didn’t like him.

  “Can you tell me when you wrote it?” he asked.

  “Last couple of months,” said Max. “I can’t say for certain. I write a lot of different things. And I need to warn you again, it’s just a draft, so excuse the typos. I just can’t spell to save myself. Never could. The trick is making people think you can. Truth is, not many people can spell, and no one can spell every word, except one of those strange little kids you see on TV now and then. You can keep that copy there. But please, whatever you do, don’t let anyone else see it. Anyone can copy it and put their name to it and publish it on the net. It’s copyrighted to me and to me only.”

  “Makes me feel like it’s top secret,” Dan said, only half joking.

  “Guess it’s just my natural writer’s fear of seeing his work leave his house in the hands of a stranger. Unfinished work especially, makes me ten times more worried. Like one of your children leaving home when they’re too young to see the world. Would you let one of your children leave home with some man off the street? That’s how I feel about my draft you have there. I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not saying it has any logic. At least I’m not asking to go with you and stand over your shoulder when you read it. But it has crossed my mind.”

  “Your work is safe with me, sir,” Dan said as he got up and head to the door. “Thank you and good night.”

  As he walked to his car he had two uneasy feelings. The first was a result of too much rushing around after his dinner, which was not helped by the addition of cream rolls and fruit slices. The other was that he was starting to suspect that this entire case was a pointless wild goose hunt and whatever was on the disk was nothing but a big waste of his time.

  Dun Moore noticed that Dan had been staring at his computer screen for a good hour. This was unusual. It wasn’t like Dan to spend much time on a computer and he hardly ever saw him on the internet. But there he was staring at it and hardly moving. Every now and then he reached for the mouse, and aside from the constant sipping of his coffee, that was his only movement. Dun considered having someone walk past to sneak a look and then report back to him, but then he thought that he should have his staff be doing something more important.

  Then Dan got up and headed to the kitchen, probably for more food, and Dun nodded. There was the old Dan, still with them. Dun returned to his own desk where he was trying to write a report for his boss which was not going well. But after looking at the computer screen he knew that he couldn’t relax without knowing what Dan was up to. He went to Dan’s desk which was still free, and looked at the screen. Words filled it up and at first Dun thought it was a letter. As he looked at it he saw that it was fiction, with a few glaring typos. Was Dan reading a book?

  Dan came up behind Dun and ignored him as he placed a small box of pastries on the desk, and then went to get more coffee. Dun helped himself to a pastry and followed him.

  “How’s the Longbottom case coming along?” Dun asked him in the kitchen.

  “It’s not,” Dan replied as he filled his cup, sounding like he wasn’t feeling too chatty.

  “How’s that?”

  “Paul Evans and his wife Sarah, they’re chasing ghosts. All it’s about is this Max Marshall and his little story about Gendry.”

  “Story? What story’s this?”

  “You were looking at it just a second back. Some odd thing about some gir
l who goes to live with her grandmother. It seems to be set in Gendry, but it’s not really like Gendry if you ask me. More like one of those quaint versions of Gendry you’d see on TV. Think that’s just the way the guy writes; not really my style. I prefer action; exploding helicopters, that sort of thing. Those Bruce Willis action ones from the eighties, they’re my favourites.”

  “Max Marshall wrote a story, you’re saying? About the murder?”

  “Yeah, and he gave me a copy,” Dan said as he went back to his desk. “I’m sitting here reading through it, like I should, and I find that it’s true, that he talks about Longbottom being found dead. He’s got the reaction of the locals and how the whole town is shocked. Usual stuff you’d expect.”

  “He says how Longbottom died?” Dun asked as he followed. “Say who did it?”

  “I haven’t got that far, but I’d doubt it. None of it seems real to me.”

  “Then it’s all just fiction?”

  “Some of it’s true, maybe.”

  “True? What’s true?”

  “He’s got Handisides in it, and a couple of others I recognise. Sal, who owns Sal’s.”

  “He’s got real people in there? Then it’s not fiction. What do you call it when it’s not fiction?”

  “Non-fiction.”

  At the neighbouring desk, Benny Taylor leaned back in his chair. “Real life,” he offered.

  “The main stuff about the girl,” Dan said to Dun, “that can’t be real. I think she’s the main character. It’s all from her point of view. As far as I could tell, Max isn’t a young woman, so that’s kind of weird, why he’s writing about her.”

  “Think she could be a substitute for Max?” asked Dun. “Like he was there and he’s using her character as cover for what he did?”

  “It’s possible, I guess, but I don’t know,” said Dan. “Her grandmother runs a boarding house up there. Perhaps Marshall stayed in the same place.”

  “What do you mean, her grandmother runs a boarding house?”