Читать книгу Booked for Murder - V. McDermid L. - Страница 8

4

Lindsay hadn’t expected London temperatures to be nearly as high as California’s. She was still dressed for the air-conditioned coolness of the plane, she thought, shrugging her shoulders to unstick shirt from skin. In this heat, jeans and cotton twill were not the ideal outfit for climbing four flights of narrow, dusty stairs with the smell of urine from the entrance still pungent. She wondered how many prospective clients were put off by the approach to Catriona Polson’s office. Then she remembered that those climbers would be pre-published authors full of hope. ‘None,’ she muttered under her breath as she rounded the curve of the stairs and reached the final landing.

In contrast to the understated brushed-steel plaque on the downstairs wall and the ambience of a stairway which clearly doubled as a hostel for the homeless, the offices of Polson and Firestone indicated that somewhere on their client list there were some major earners. Even when Lindsay had left Britain, before Soho went up-market and sexually ambivalent, office suites in the area had commanded high rents. Now that the district was almost chic, it must take a sizeable bank balance to secure the whole top floor of a building with a view of Soho Square.

The offices lay behind tall double doors of pale grey wood and brushed steel. Lindsay opened the right-hand door and walked into a reception area that was still lurking in the previous decade. The bleached grey wood was the keynote, looking like the ghost of trees. What wasn’t wood was leather or brushed steel. Including the receptionist, Lindsay thought grimly. She was glad she’d employed a ruse to ensure Catriona Polson would be in. Looking at hair blue-black as carbon steel and a jaw with a higher breaking strain than a girder, she knew she was about to be given the brush-off for having the temerity to arrive without an appointment or three chapters and a synopsis. The sweat on her forehead from the sudden transition to air conditioning didn’t make her feel any more confident of success.

Lindsay had felt slightly guilty about ringing up and pretending to be an American publisher’s assistant breathlessly booking a noon phone call to Ms Polson, but not guilty enough to miss making sure she wouldn’t have a wasted journey. The receptionist’s grim glare gave her immediate absolution. She smiled. Nothing altered. The receptionist continued to stare at the screen of her computer. Lindsay cleared her throat. The receptionist’s plum-coloured mouth puckered. Lindsay found herself irresistibly thinking about cat’s bottoms. Then the lips parted. ‘Can I help you?’ haughtily, in a little girl voice that would have shattered crystal.

‘I’d like to see Ms Polson. No, I don’t have an appointment. I know she’s in the building and I’m absolutely positive she’s not in a meeting.’ Lindsay’s smile grew wider as her voice became more honeyed.

The receptionist’s whole face tightened, eyeliner and mascara almost meeting in a smudge of black. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said smugly. ‘She’s expecting an important phone call.’

Lindsay assumed her Southern belle accent. ‘I know, cher. I was the one booked the call. I just wanted to be good and sure Miz Polson would be here to see me.’ Then she grinned. ‘Would you tell her I’m representing Meredith Miller?’

The receptionist did her cat’s bottom impression again. But she condescended to pick up the phone. ‘Name please?’ she demanded as she keyed in a number.

Resisting the temptation to respond with her Sean Connery impersonation, Lindsay simply gave her name. The receptionist spoke into the phone. ‘Catriona? I’ve got a person here called Lindsay Gordon who says she’s representing Meredith Miller. She also says she made a hoax phone call to us earlier, booking your call from New York … She says she wanted to make sure you’d be here …’ She flicked an ostentatious glance up and down Lindsay’s outfit. ‘No, she’s definitely not from the tabloids …’ A malicious smile crept across her face at those final words. She replaced the handset. ‘Ms Polson will be right with you.’

Lindsay perched on the edge of the desk to irritate the receptionist while she searched her business card wallet for something appropriate. When she found it, she slipped it into her breast pocket for later. Just then, the inner door opened. Now Lindsay realised why all the doors in Polson and Firestone reached right up to the Victorian ceilings. Any lower and Catriona Polson would have been perpetually banging her head. She was one of the tallest women Lindsay had ever seen, and she must have been aware of the effect she had on people meeting her for the first time. Yet there was nothing apologetic or clumsy about the way she carried her six feet plus. Lindsay imagined with relish the effect on some of the more effete males of the publishing world whom she’d met. She wore a swirling skirt of Indian cotton, flat strappy sandals and a loose embroidered cotton camisole. Flyaway blonde hair was cut in a twenties bob and framed a round face that looked as if its normal expression was cheerful and welcoming. Right now, wariness was the predominant aspect.

She peered down at Lindsay without stooping. ‘Ms … Gordon, was it?’

Lindsay nodded. ‘Catriona Polson?’

‘That’s me. When you say you represent Meredith Miller, in what capacity are we talking here?’ Her voice was firm and clipped, her accent straight out of a girls’ school story.

Wishing she had a discreet card saying, ‘Private Investigator’, Lindsay said, ‘I think it would be better if we conducted our business in private.’

Catriona frowned. ‘I’m not at all sure we have any business. All I know about you is that you perpetrated a time-wasting hoax on my company and you claim to “represent” someone who is not one of our clients and who, as far as I am aware, has nothing to do with publishing.’

It was hard not to feel intimidated by the whole package. Lindsay struggled to maintain any sense of control over the confrontation. Just then, the outside door opened and a middle-aged man in a leather jacket came in. Shit or bust, she thought, dredging up an ancient memory of an interview with a private eye. ‘I’m a legal agent acting on Ms Miller’s behalf,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m trying to conduct this matter discreetly, but if you prefer to discuss business matters in the lobby, that’s fine by me. You are Penny Varnavides’ literary executor and my client is her residuary legatee. My client wants to know what exactly …’

Before Lindsay could say more, Catriona had stepped back and was holding the door open for her. ‘This way,’ she said, her voice ten degrees frostier than the air conditioning.

Once she’d ushered Lindsay inside, Catriona stepped in front of her and led the way down a corridor lined with framed book covers. A couple were prize-winning Penny Varnavides Darkliners titles. At the end of the corridor was another steel and wood door which led into a small boardroom. The table and the chair frames were the now familiar ashen wood. Lindsay began to wonder if they’d taken over the offices from some failed financial consultancy. More book covers lined the walls, interspersed with author photographs. Penny was still there, in the centre of one of the side walls. Catriona walked determinedly to one end of the table and sat down, stretching her long legs in front of her and crossing them neatly at the ankles. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Why are you really here?’

Lindsay pulled out a chair a couple of seats away from her and sat down. ‘What makes you think I’m not here to talk about your executorship?’

‘Pointless before probate’s granted,’ she said dismissively.

‘So why march me in here?’

‘When people waltz into my office intent on causing trouble, I prefer not to give them the satisfaction of an audience.’ She dug into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out a packet of the mild cigarettes Lindsay had only ever smoked when she was kidding herself she was about to give up. As she lit one, she kept an eye on Lindsay. ‘So who are you, and what are you really doing here?’

The best lies, Lindsay knew, were the ones closest to the truth. ‘I’m an investigator. Meredith Miller is innocent, and she’s engaged me to make some inquiries about the death of Penny Varnavides. I’m here to talk to you about Penny,’ Lindsay said, watching the smoke curling upwards and remembering how the business of smoking had always made her feel much better than the physical sensation.

‘What makes you think I’ve got anything to say?’

‘You had plenty to say to the police. And you were quick enough to say it.’

Catriona leaned back in her chair and stretched for an ashtray sitting on a sideboard. ‘The police are the appropriate people to talk to when one believes a crime has been committed. And given Meredith’s status as prime suspect, I’m not at all sure it would be appropriate for me to talk to you. Besides, there’s an issue of client confidentiality here. Penny was my client, and I’m not inclined to breach our professional relationship.’

‘As soon as probate is granted, it’ll be Meredith who benefits from your work even more than you will yourself. She will, in effect, be your client. Don’t you think it would make life a little easier for everyone if you cooperated with me?’ Lindsay tried.

‘If Meredith did kill Penny, she won’t be earning a shilling from the estate, will she?’ Catriona inhaled, then released what was left of the smoke from her nostrils. It was hard not to read self-satisfaction into the gesture.

It was clear that Catriona and Lindsay were never going to become friends. With nothing to lose, Lindsay went on the attack. ‘But you will, won’t you? Ten, twenty per cent of what Penny earned must have made you a lot of money while she was alive. Dead, she’s going to generate a small fortune, isn’t she? Even if it was just an accident, her sales are going to climb. But if it’s a particularly gruesome and mysterious murder, using the very method outlined in her next book, her sales figures are going to go through the roof.’

Catriona’s eyebrows furled together in an angry frown. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion. You take my breath away, Ms Gordon.’

‘You’re not the first woman who’s said that,’ Lindsay said suggestively, gambling that Catriona was straight.

‘How dare you!’ Catriona said with contempt.

‘Penny used to say it all the time,’ Lindsay continued blithely. ‘I wasn’t entirely candid with you, Catriona. I live in California, you see. Penny and Meredith are very old friends of mine. I know a lot more about you than you do about me. I know, for example, how much you’d hate a story in one of the middlebrow newspapers that pointed out how much you stand to gain from your little trip to the police station. And how, when it actually comes down to it, you knew much more than Meredith about the murder method. She’d only heard Penny talk about it, but you’ll have read it. And if we’re talking cui bono …’

‘My God,’ Catriona said, voice dripping contempt, ‘I didn’t know private snoopers like you knew cui bono from Sonny Bono. Ms Gordon, to kill Penny Varnavides for the income generated by one short burst of sales would be akin to killing the goose that laid the golden eggs in the hope of pushing the market price of gold higher. I stood to earn a lot more cash from Penny Varnavides alive than I could ever hope to gain from her death.’

‘Maybe so. But it would still make a nice tale in the tabloids. I’m not asking you to breach commercial confidentiality. All I want is some answers to a few innocuous questions. I’m not the one who got heavy here.’

‘I despise blackmail,’ Catriona said, lighting a second cigarette.

‘Me too,’ Lindsay said cheerfully. ‘It doesn’t half get results, though.’

‘You must go down like a cup of cold sick in a euphemistic society like America.’

‘They love it. Penny used to call me a breath of fresh effluvium. They think all the Scots are brutally frank. They’ve been watching too many historical Hollywood epics. So, are we going to talk to each other, or am I going to talk to the tabloids? Did I mention I used to be a national newspaper journalist?’ Lindsay’s smile alone would have been accepted by any court in the land as sufficient provocation for GBH.

Catriona fiddled with her cigarette. ‘There’s so little to say that it’s not worth arguing over. I’m far too busy to have to deal with muck-raking journalists as well as interfering busybodies.’

It wasn’t a graceful climbdown, but Lindsay wasn’t proud. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I know Penny would have wanted you to help.’

Catriona looked as if she’d bitten into a profiterole and found a slug. ‘Such convenient knowledge,’ she muttered.

‘You’ve been Penny’s agent right from the start, am I right?’

‘Since before she was ever published. She brought The Magicking of Danny Armstrong to me after it had been rejected by all the major American houses and her agent in New York had let her go. I was able to place it for her over here, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

Lindsay took out her notebook, more for show than necessity, and scribbled a note. ‘This latest book? Very different, I hear.’

‘Penny decided she wanted a challenge. She was doing three Darkliners titles a year, and she wanted to break out of what had started to feel like a rut. Heart of Glass was going to be her first adult thriller. It was very noir, very passionate and very powerfully written. I had great hopes of it.’

‘How much of it was actually finished?’

‘Penny had written about three-quarters of it. She came over here to do some research she needed for the last part of the book, and to finish writing it. I read what she’d completed before she arrived. But within days of getting to London, she announced she was doing a major rewrite. I was surprised, because what I saw was very good. But Penny was adamant that it needed some substantial alterations.’

Lindsay frowned. ‘She wasn’t going to change the murder method in the book, was she?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware. From what she said to me, it was the characters she planned to work on, not the plot or the structure.’

‘Was there anything in particular that she mentioned?’

Catriona stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Nothing specific,’ she said.

‘Have you got a copy of the manuscript?’

Catriona sighed heavily. ‘Unfortunately not. Penny took it away with her. She said she wanted me to come to the rewrite with as fresh an eye as possible, not to be able to compare it with what had gone before. She was always quite fussy about retrieving first drafts. Almost neurotic.’

‘She was a perfectionist,’ Lindsay said sadly, stricken by memory of her friend. ‘She hated the idea of anyone revealing her early drafts to the world after she’d gone. I remember her talking about it one night.’

‘I don’t even have a current synopsis,’ Catriona said, sounding more cross than sad. ‘If Meredith should come across the manuscript of Heart of Glass, or the computer disk it’s on, I’d really appreciate it if she could pass it on to me.’

‘Why?’ Lindsay asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.

‘The 300 pages I saw were publishable quality,’ Catriona answered, confirming Lindsay’s guess. ‘If they came with a synopsis, her editor could probably cobble together an ending in an appropriate style.’

‘Oh, great, just what Penny would have loved,’ Lindsay said sarcastically. ‘A load of cobblers.’

‘I think I have more right to be the judge of that,’ Catriona said stiffly. ‘If Penny had doubted my judgement, she would hardly have granted me so much power as her literary executor. Penny wanted to show the world that she was more than just a writer of teenage fiction. What I’ve seen of Heart of Glass demonstrated a formidable talent, and she deserves to have that credited to her reputation. That’s what she really wanted, Ms Gordon. She wanted it so badly she could taste it.’

Lindsay looked away, realising that Penny had wanted it so badly she had even been prepared to jeopardise Meredith’s career just to generate more publicity. That indicated a raw ambition Lindsay had never recognised in Penny before. She could understand her desire for acknowledgement; what she couldn’t relate to was her willingness to sacrifice her emotional happiness and security for the fickleness of reputation. ‘Yeah, well,’ was all she said.

‘I’m not really the person you should be talking to about this,’ Catriona added casually as she lit another cigarette. ‘Penny spent a lot more time with her editor than she did with me this trip.’

‘And her editor is?’

‘Belinda Burton. Baz to her babies. Baz would have had a much clearer idea of where she was up to and where she was going. They were very close. It was a large part of the reason behind Penny’s success. The relationship between an editor and a writer is crucial. Different people work in different ways. When you link an editor and writer whose minds run along the same tracks and who like to work at the same level of detail, you’ve got a match made in heaven. A mismatch and everybody’s life is an absolute bloody misery. It’s part of my job to marry up writers with appropriate editors. Baz and Penny fit like a matching plug and socket,’ Catriona said expansively.

‘You wouldn’t be trying to divert me, would you?’

Catriona laughed. ‘No. But if you’re still fixated on the profit motive and you think that Penny dead is an appealing moneymaker, you really would be better employed talking to Baz. Penny’s royalty is ten per cent, so my cut is around one and a half per cent of the retail price. Monarch Press, on the other hand, are picking up between ten and forty per cent on every book sold. As they say on your side of the Atlantic, go figure.’

Lindsay stood up. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d got everything out of Catriona Polson that there was to be had, but she didn’t have the right questions to elicit more. Perhaps after she’d spoken to Baz Burton, she’d have more ammunition to fire at the agent. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to her. Now, wasn’t that painless?’

‘Painless but not a terribly productive use of my time,’ Catriona said dismissively, leading Lindsay out of the room and down the corridor. ‘I’m bound to say, I hope your client is paying you up front. I suspect she may end up wasting all her available cash on defence lawyers. I think you’re backing the wrong horse, Ms Gordon. Always a mistake to let sentiment stand in the way of reality, however unpalatable that may be.’

For once, Lindsay refused to let herself be wound up. She contented herself with, ‘As Arnie says, hasta la vista, baby.’ On her way out of the front door, she took out the card she’d put in her shirt pocket earlier. It was about ten years old, but that didn’t matter. She flicked it across the desk to the receptionist. ‘Have a nice day, cher,’ she said in her best Bayou accent. She didn’t wait to register the response to a card that read, ‘Lindsay Gordon, Staff Reporter, Daily Nation’.