Brought to Book (24 page)

T
he post lay on the mat as Rona pushed open the door and she flicked quickly through it. Still nothing from Theo's agent or publisher, but there was a reply from the secretarial agency that had typed his books, and she sat down on the stairs to read it.

It seemed that no one at the agency had ever met Theo, nor had they had any significant correspondence with him. Once a year, his manuscript had arrived by post, was transcribed, and two copies sent back to him; his cheque was received by return of post. There was then no further communication until the arrival of the next book the following year. This had been the procedure from receipt of his first novel,
The Silencer,
published in 1984, to
Game for Fools,
which came out in '95. A gap of three years then ensued, during which they'd read in the press of his much-publicized ‘block'.

Consequently, they'd been considerably surprised when, in 1998,
Dark Moon Rising
appeared without his having called on their services. Their managing director wrote to Mr Harvey, expressing the hope that they might have the opportunity of preparing his next novel, but had received no reply.

The letter ended by saying that Ms Parish was welcome to call on them if she felt it would achieve any purpose, but in view of the lack of personal contact, she might feel it was not worth while.

‘Too right!' Rona muttered to herself, getting up from the stair. She looked at her watch. Still only a quarter to ten; lunchtime, when a phone call could legitimately be made, seemed aeons away. She went upstairs, stripped off the hastily donned sweater and jeans, and had a shower. Then, feeling better equipped to face what the day might bring, she searched her files for the phone number of Theo's publishers.

It took a while for them to locate his editor, a man called Darren Peters, who then informed her that nearly all their contact with Theo had been through his literary agent, Elizabeth Franklyn at Bliss, Bowles and Charleston.

‘You must have found his block worrying,' Rona probed, ‘specially when it lasted so long.'

‘We were most concerned, of course. He was one of our top authors.'

‘Did you see him at all during that period?'

‘Yes, I invited him to lunch to see if we could come up with a solution.' Meriel had mentioned this.

‘How did he seem?'

‘Distraught. Not his usual self at all. In fact, he was never the same as before, even when he got back to writing. In the early years, for instance, he'd actively enjoyed the publicity we arranged for him – attending bookshops, television and radio appearances, book tours. But after the gap, he made it clear he wouldn't attend any more events in person.'

‘Why do you think that was?'

‘We put it down to loss of self-confidence. It was frustrating, of course, but as both books proved to be best-sellers, sales weren't adversely affected.'

Which seemed to be all he could tell her. Rona thanked him, and jotted down a few quick notes before contacting Theo's agent and once again going through the explanation of her interest in him.

‘What was your impression of his last two books?' she asked curiously, after the pleasantries had been observed.

‘Outstanding,' Elizabeth Franklyn replied promptly. ‘They—'

‘Yes,' Rona interrupted impatiently, ‘but I meant in comparison with the previous ones?'

There was a pause. ‘Well, they were totally different, of course. He'd matured a lot as a writer in those three years.'

Rona glanced at the agency's letter on the desk beside her. ‘Do you know why he didn't have them professionally typed, like the others?'

‘He explained that he was rewriting almost to the last minute, and it made more sense to do them himself. I have to say they made more difficult reading, with all the insertions and deletions.'

‘Did he ever hint at what had caused the block?'

‘No, but it isn't that unusual, you know. Quite a few of our authors have suffered something similar over the years.'

‘Did you know him well, as a person?'

‘That's hard to say. Outwardly, Theo was very hail-fellow-well-met. I'm speaking about before the block, of course. You'd have had him down as an extrovert, someone who enjoyed company and had an almost childish need to be liked. But in point of fact, as I later discovered, he was a very private person. I was astonished, when he died, to find out how little I had known him.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Well, I would never in a million years have believed he could kill himself.'

‘And you think he did?'

‘Oh, definitely. A gloss was put on it, of course, and admittedly no one could prove anything, one way or the other, but that was the general agreement. All the same, if he was that way inclined, you'd expect him to have done it during his block, rather than when everything he wrote received such paeans of praise.'

‘Perhaps he had other problems,' Rona suggested. ‘Did you know anything of his personal life?'

‘We never discussed it, if that's what you mean. All I knew was what I read in the gossip columns, like everyone else.' She paused. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Just that there's a possibility there was another woman.'

Ms Franklyn gave an inelegant snort. ‘Dozens, by all accounts.'

Rona didn't pursue it. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him?'

‘Not that I can think of, but I'll contact you if anything comes to mind. Apologies for not replying to your letter, by the way; I was off for two weeks with ‘flu and my correspondence tray is overflowing.'

‘Thanks for your help,' Rona said.

For the next half hour she transcribed the gist of both phone calls into the relevant sections of the database. A glance at her watch showed it was still only ten forty. Had a morning ever passed so slowly?

She stood up restlessly, and the draught of her movement caught a scrap of paper that had lodged under the computer, sending it spiralling to the ground. She bent to pick it up. It was Gary Myers's address, that she'd scribbled down when talking to Archie Duncan. She stood for several minutes looking down at it, while her heart set up a steady beating. Was he responsible for harming Gus? There was only one way to find out.

Before she could change her mind, she switched off the computer, slipped on her coat and went to collect the car. There was no saying whether Gary Myers would be home at this time of day, but if he was not, she would wait for him. This cat-and-mouse game had gone on long enough, and at the very least, the fifty-minute drive to Stokely would help pass the time.

Rona hadn't given much thought to Gary Myers's home, but she hadn't envisaged a neat, semi-detached house on the outskirts of town. It seemed he wasn't as lost in drug-related depravity as she'd been led to expect. She drew up a few houses down on the opposite side of the road, and took stock.

The house was freshly painted, the windows clean and demurely net-curtained. The front garden, though small, had a neatly clipped hedge and a lawn that had had what was probably its first cut of the season. Furthermore, a small car stood in the driveway. Was he home, or – a new thought – was there a Mrs Myers?

Her eyes fell to the clock on the dashboard in time to see the hands move the last fraction towards twelve noon. With accelerated heartbeat, she took out her mobile and punched in the vet's number.

‘Springfield Veterinary Centre,' said a bright voice in her ear.

‘This is Rona Parish,' she said aridly. ‘I'm ringing to enquire about our dog, Gus. We brought him in this morning.'

‘Hold on a minute.'

A whispered consultation took place in the background, while Rona's blood drummed in her ears.
Please, please, please
.

‘Ms Parish? Mr Standing says there's nothing definite to report, but Gus is holding his own, which is a good sign.'

Not good enough. ‘When – when can I ring again?'

‘You could try during evening surgery, between five and seven.'

‘Let me give you my mobile number, in case there's any news before that.'

The receptionist patiently took it down. ‘He's in good hands,' she said sympathetically, before ringing off.

Her eyes on the innocuous little house across the road, Rona phoned Max. He answered immediately.

‘I've just been on to the vet,' she began.

‘Me too. Seems we'll be kept in suspense a bit longer. Like to come over for a bite of lunch?'

She felt a stab of guilt. ‘I can't, Max, I'm – in Stokely.'

‘Good God! What are you doing there?'

‘I'll tell you when I see you,' she said hurriedly. ‘But if you hear any more, phone me on my mobile, won't you?'

‘Of course. See you.'

No point in delaying further. With a dry mouth, Rona got out of the car, locked it, and walked across the road. As she approached, she could see daffodils in neat rows lining the front path. Between their yellow battalions she walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

A voice from inside called, ‘I'll get it!' and the next minute, Rona found herself face to face with a small woman in an apron, who regarded her with a pleasant if interrogative smile.

Another surprise; the woman was at least fifty, possibly more.

‘Mrs Myers?' she said hesitantly.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm – looking for Gary Myers.' Her quest was becoming increasingly bizarre.

‘My son,' said the woman. He lived with his
parents
? ‘He's at work at the moment,' she was continuing, ‘but I'm expecting him back any time for his dinner. Would you like to wait?'

Rona said numbly, ‘Thank you. My car's outside, I'll—'

‘No need for that, I'm sure,' Mrs Myers declared, opening the door wider. ‘Any friend of Gary's is welcome; come inside.' And before Rona could reply, she called over her shoulder, ‘George! A young lady to see Gary.'

Rona said quickly, ‘I should explain – I'm not really a friend – I've never met him. I just—'

‘But you want to see him, don't you? Then come inside, dear; he won't be long.'

Feeling like an infiltrator, Rona allowed herself to be shown into the front room. A savoury smell of cooking permeated it, overlaying the scent from a bowl of home-grown hyacinths on a table. Beside the bowl stood a framed photograph of a pale, fair-haired boy in his teens, smiling self-consciously at the camera. Was this the dodgy, shifty-eyed Gary?

A tall, thin man in a cardigan came into the room, holding out a horny hand. ‘George Myers. I hear you've come to see Gary. Mother hopes you'll excuse her, but she has the dinner to see to.'

‘I'm sorry,' Rona murmured, ‘I haven't timed this very well. Perhaps I should come back after he's eaten?'

‘Don't you worry about that. Would you like a drop of sherry while you're waiting?'

Feeling even more uncomfortable but considering it the easier option, Rona accepted, taking the glass with a murmur of thanks. How would this pleasant, friendly couple feel when the purpose of her visit was revealed?

She had taken only a sip of it when they heard the front door open and a voice called, ‘I'm back!'

‘In here, Gar,' Mr Myers directed.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and across the room, Rona and Gary Myers surveyed each other for the first time. Although the photograph had prepared her to some extent, his appearance was nothing like her pre-formed impression. Of medium height, he was wearing cords and a jacket, underneath which she could see a shirt and tie. He had pale, slightly protuberant eyes, a long nose like his father, and a receding chin. A weak face rather than a vicious one. Was this really the man who'd been harassing her?

‘This young lady has come to see you,' his father said into the silence. ‘I'll leave you to it.' And as his son moved slowly into the room, he went out, closing the door behind him.

Rona hastily put down her glass of sherry. ‘I didn't mean to come under false pretences,' she said. ‘My name is Rona Parish.'

His face paled still further, giving it a blanched look that made her wonder if he were about to faint. He moistened his lips.
I advise you not to beard him in his den,
Archie Duncan had said. But here, in this normal little house, with his parents just down the hall . . .?

‘Yes?' he said.

‘I – want to speak to you about Theo Harvey.'

A muscle jerked at the corner of his eye. ‘The writer, you mean? Never met him.'

Rona held his pale gaze, and after a minute his eyes dropped. ‘I've just come from Spindlebury,' she said.

‘All right,' Myers said jerkily. ‘I saw him in the pub there once or twice. No big deal, is it?'

‘I'm writing his biography, and—'

‘I know you are. I saw it in the paper.'

So that explained his initial reaction.

‘—and I think you could help me with several things that are puzzling me.'

‘How could I?' he burst out. ‘I know nothing! I've been through all this with the police. I was miles away when he died.'

‘But you were with him earlier that evening. Arguing. You didn't just know him from the pub, did you? Look, if you've really nothing to hide, what harm is there in talking to me?'

He flushed and looked away – proof that there
was
something – something, she was sure, that had a direct bearing on Theo's state of mind during the last months of his life.

‘I've nothing to say,' he repeated stubbornly.

Hating herself, Rona said, ‘Do your parents know about this?'

His mouth tightened. ‘Is that a threat?'

‘No, a question. I don't go in for blackmail. Do you?'

For a moment longer he held her gaze. Then his shoulders sagged. ‘What do you want to know?'