Brought to Book (2 page)

He'd made his name in the 1980s with a series of well-plotted thrillers that had reached the best-seller lists and filled several shelves in W. H. Smith. Her father had been a particular fan, and it became a tradition that he should receive the latest Harvey novel for Christmas. Then, six years ago, the annual book had failed to appear, a fact that, among aficionados, caused as much consternation as the sun not rising. Harvey himself retreated from the public eye, steadfastly refusing all requests for interviews, and with the lack of hard fact, rumours abounded. As a second year came and went, it was openly speculated in the literary pages that he'd written himself out and his silence would be permanent.

Then, in the third year, he confounded his critics by producing what was considered his masterpiece, a novel of such power and depth that, while it won several literary prizes, left his regular readers baffled. The thriller element of his previous books had been replaced by an altogether darker and more questioning theme, and Rona's father was not impressed.

‘He's gone all high-falutin,' he'd remarked disgustedly.

A major film followed, resulting in Oscars for members of its cast, and then another book, a brooding, psychological study that made disturbing reading. Again, critics struggled for superlatives and it, too, was confidently nominated for several awards. But before any judging could take place, Harvey had suddenly and inexplicably died: or rather, been found dead in, as Max had remarked, unusual circumstances. He had owned a cottage in the north of the county to which he retreated to write his novels, and one weekend was discovered floating face downwards in a local stream. Again, rumours were rife and the inquest's open verdict did nothing to lessen them. The prestigious prizes were awarded posthumously.

Rona, responding at last to Gus's frenzied leaps, threw the ball for him before, wrapping her jacket more closely about her, she seated herself on a nearby bench. And that, she reflected, conjuring up the face that appeared on his books – bearded, craggy, with an enigmatic half-smile – was all she knew of the man. She didn't doubt there was a great deal more.

Gus skidded to a halt in front of her and dropped the ball at her feet, panting expectantly. She hurled it as far as she could, then extracted her mobile phone and rang her agent.

‘Eddie? It's Rona. I thought you'd like to know that Theo Harvey's widow has asked me to write his biography.'

‘Dear girl! What a plum to fall into your lap!'

‘That wasn't Max's reaction; he thinks it's a poisoned chalice.'

‘I can't imagine why; you'd be guaranteed an enormous amount of interest and I'm sure Jennings would jump at it.'

‘I had hoped for a breather before another bio. They're very time-consuming, as you know.'

‘But surely you're tempted?' he probed, adding, when she didn't immediately reply, ‘What's Max's suggestion for handling this “poisoned chalice”?'

‘That I discuss it with his wife, then see how I feel.'

‘Precisely what I'd advise. Let me know the outcome, and if you'd like to go ahead, I'll do the necessary. Must go, love, someone's waiting to see me. Speak to you soon.' And he rang off.

Thoughtfully, Rona slid the phone back in her pocket and sat gazing across the grassy slope ahead of her. In the distance she could see Gus, his attention diverted from his ball, sniffing at some shrubbery. There weren't many people about. A few faithful dog-walkers like herself, muffled in woolly hats and scarves; a woman with a child on a tricycle, running clumsily to keep up with him; a couple of elderly men cutting through the park on the way to do their meagre shopping. Yet even though no one was within earshot, this seemed an inappropriate place to make an important call; she'd ring Mrs Harvey when she got home. Standing up, she whistled for Gus, and as he started lolloping obediently towards her, turned and began to walk back down the slope.

Meriel Harvey replaced the phone and turned to the man by the window.

‘She's coming, then?' he confirmed.

‘Yes. Tomorrow morning.'

‘Well, I hope you know what you're doing.'

She looked at him beseechingly. ‘Justin, I can't go on like this. I have to know.'

‘And you think this woman will be able to tell you?'

‘There's a chance, that's all. She's known to research very thoroughly; she might turn something up.'

‘Suppose she does, and it's something you'd rather
not
know? Or at least, rather nobody else did?'

Meriel gave a little shudder. ‘I'll face that if and when it happens,' she said.

Lindsey, too, had received an unexpected letter that morning. It had preyed on her mind ever since, and at lunchtime, reaching a decision, she left her desk in the offices of Chase Mortimer and threaded her way through the crowds of shoppers to her sister's house. The road where Rona lived was parallel to the main shopping street and only a short walk from it: much more convenient than her own home, which necessitated a fifteen-minute drive to work. As she rang the bell, she hoped belatedly that Rona wasn't writing.

‘Linz! Hi – come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

Lindsey, stepping into the hall, bent to pat Gus, who was delightedly threading himself round her legs.

‘You're not in the middle of lunch, are you?'

‘Wouldn't make much difference if I were!' Rona retorted. She loathed cooking and almost never indulged in it. When Max was there, he invariably produced the meals; when he wasn't, she either lived on take-aways and convenience food, or walked round the corner to the Italian restaurant where they'd arranged to meet that evening.

‘Actually,' she added, ‘I'd just got out the bread and cheese. You're welcome to join me.'

‘Thanks, I will. I'm strictly in my lunch hour.'

The meal was not as frugal as it sounded; the kitchen table was laid with a loaf of warm ciabatta and a selection of delectable cheeses, the air redolent with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. On the counter, a brightly coloured porcelain bowl overflowed with fruit – oranges, plums, kiwi fruit, a melon. Rona's avoidance of cooking did not prevent her from eating well. She laid another plate and knife on the table, and waved her sister to a chair.

‘Did you want anything in particular?' Lindsey did not often appear unannounced.

She shrugged, accepting a slice of bread and carving herself a generous piece of Camembert. ‘Moral support – advice.' She looked up, meeting Rona's eyes. ‘I had a letter from Hugh this morning.'

‘Good grief! I didn't think you were in touch.'

‘We haven't been, since the divorce.'

‘So what did he want?'

Lindsey felt in her handbag, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and pushed it across the table. It read:

‘Wow!' Rona said softly.

‘Quite.' Lindsey reached for a pear.

‘How do you feel about it?'

‘How do you think? Ro, I never want to see him again! The
relief
when the divorce finally came through . . .'

‘I know,' Rona said quickly, laying a hand briefly over hers. ‘Then all you have to do is say no.'

‘But is it?' Lindsey asked miserably. ‘You know Hugh; once he gets a bee in his bonnet, he won't let it drop. Now he's decided he wants to see me, nothing will satisfy him but that he
does
see me, and I – I don't think I could face it.'

Thoughtfully, Rona poured the coffee. ‘Can't you put a – a restraining order or something on him? You know more about this kind of thing than I do.'

Lindsey was a junior partner in a firm of solicitors.

‘That would only antagonize him. Oh God, why did he have to write to me?'

‘As it happens,' Rona remarked, selecting a piece of Stilton, ‘I'm in rather a quandary myself.'

Lindsey's head jerked up. ‘Max?'

‘No,' she returned dryly, ‘not Max.'

A state of armed neutrality existed between her sister and her husband, which despite all Rona's efforts she'd been unable to defuse. It was obvious neither of them liked the other, though whether the root cause was jealousy, she wasn't sure. She retrieved Meriel Harvey's letter from beside the phone and in her turn tossed it on the table.

Lindsey read it in silence. ‘So what's the quandary?' she asked, when she'd finished. ‘Surely this is the chance you've been waiting for, to get to the bottom of all the mystery?'

‘Possibly, but I don't want to bite off more than I can chew. I'd have to tread pretty carefully – he's only been dead six months.'

‘I should go for it. I bet there are any number of writers waiting in the wings till a decent interval has elapsed. And since yours was requested by the family, it'd be the authorized version, wouldn't it?'

Rona smiled. ‘Probably, though you make it sound like the Bible! I looked up his web site this morning, but it wasn't much help; there's plenty about the books, but nothing on his personal life that I didn't already know from his obituaries. Still, I've arranged to see his wife tomorrow, so we'll see what that brings.'

Lindsey glanced at her watch. ‘I must be on my way; I have a client coming at two.'

‘Not been much help, have I?' Rona said ruefully, following her up the basement stairs. ‘Still, the letter was sent to the firm, so he can't have your home address.'

‘That's no deterrent; he'll wait outside the office if he's so minded.' She gave a little shudder.

‘Don't let it get to you,' Rona advised, giving her a quick hug. ‘You might be reading more into it than was meant. Write back saying no, and I'm sure he'll accept it.'

‘I wish I could be,' Lindsey replied.

Max Allerdyce, walking along Guild Street on his way to buy new brushes, saw Lindsey emerge from Fullers Walk and turn in the direction of her office. He checked his stride and frowned. She could only have been to the house, he thought. Why hadn't Rona told him she was expecting her? Perhaps, not content with his own advice, she'd wanted to sound her out about the Harvey book.

He watched her from the other side of the road as she wended her way through the crowds. It was uncanny how like Rona she was: the same walk, the same smile, the same mannerisms, and, even to him, their voices were indistinguishable over the phone. So how was it, Max wondered for the umpteenth time, that one of them should be the most important person in his life, while the other had, from first acquaintance, made his hackles rise?

Shrugging aside the conundrum, he turned into the art supplies shop and applied his mind to his purchases.

Marsborough was a pleasant little market town whose mellow brick houses boasted porticoes, white-framed Georgian windows and neat, railed-off basement areas. Even the shops had bow-windows – though in some cases their preserved frontage concealed the layout of well-known chain-stores – and the market, which had originated centuries ago, was still held each Friday.

Guild Street was the main shopping area, though stores and restaurants overflowed down most of the adjacent streets. The furniture emporium rounding the corner into Fullers Walk had a walkway above it, enclosed by curved black railings, that gave access to a cluster of boutiques and galleries, and a café from where one could sit and look down on the busy thoroughfare. Farther down Fullers Walk was a florist's, a bakery, a delicatessen and several smaller outlets, before the shops tailed off to give way to residential houses.

Two roads led off it: a third of the way down, on the left, Dean's Crescent curved back up towards Guild Street, and, having crossed it, became Dean's Crescent North, where Max had his cottage; while a hundred yards farther on, the Walk was bisected by Lightbourne Avenue, where their main house was situated. The restaurant in Dean's Crescent was, therefore, a convenient rendezvous.

Rona was greeted effusively by Dino himself. She and Max had a running argument as to whether or not this was his real name, or simply purloined from the Crescent.

‘
Buona sera, signora
!
Signor
Allerdyce is already here.' He led her, Gus at her heels, to the alcove where they always sat, and as Max rose to greet her, the dog slunk under the table, turned round a couple of times, and settled himself to sleep.

Max filled her glass from the bottle in the ice bucket.

‘Good day?' he enquired.

‘So-so.'

‘I gather Lindsey called round?'

‘Now how could you possibly know that?' she asked incuriously, picking up the menu.

He tapped his nose. ‘You didn't mention it on the phone.'

‘I wasn't expecting her; she just turned up. She's had a letter from Hugh.'

Max's eyebrows shot up. ‘I thought that chapter was closed.'

‘So did she. He says he misses her and wants them to meet.'

‘And how does she feel?'

‘Panicky. She doesn't want to see him. Have you decided what you're having?'

‘
Antipasti
and
scaloppini al marsala
.'

‘I think I'll have the
crostini,
followed by
lasagne al forno
.'

Max shook his head. ‘The amount of pasta you eat, you should be like the side of a house.'

‘I have a good metabolism,' she returned smugly.

‘Any more thoughts on the Harvey book?'

‘I phoned Eddie and he agreed with you – that I should suss it out, keeping my options open. So I've arranged to see Mrs Harvey at ten thirty tomorrow.'