Crooked Herring (10 page)

As I say, a tedious afternoon completely lacking in incident, if you don’t count my strangulation. And yet, while I didn’t realise it at the time, I had done things that would place me in greater danger than I had ever known. All of the warning signs had been there. It was just that I hadn’t noticed them.

‘So, Crispin appears to be alive and well,’ I said to Elsie. ‘If that’s a genuine text message.’

I had travelled up to London that morning to do some research in the British Library. Relevant stuff – not Norman fonts. Having mentioned it to Elsie, she had told me that by a strange coincidence she too would be in the library that morning. We could have coffee together and I could consult her on my investigations.

We were now sitting in the cafe, surrounded for the most part by students, lolling over their computers with half-drunk lattes dangerously close to the keyboard. Elsie had ordered a cappuccino and a
pain au chocolat
, claiming that she could not remember if she had had breakfast.

‘You think it wasn’t really him?’ she asked. She looked again at the message. ‘That’s not how you spell “no longer”, she said. ‘As a writer he ought to know that.’

‘It’s only a text message.’

‘He would have had to obstinately ignore his spellchecker.’

‘It’s still only a text message.’

‘So you said.’

‘It was genuinely his phone – whoever sent it.’

‘You’re certain of that?’

‘Henry said it was the right number.’

‘And you just took his word for it?’

‘No. I lent my phone to Henry a few days ago to make a call to Crispin. He didn’t get him obviously – he just left a voicemail. So I also checked my call records. I’ve sent a text back to Crispin, by the way, but I’ve had nothing more from him. I suppose he’d said all he was planning to.’

Elsie had been thinking.

‘You signed your reply “Ethelred”?’

‘I usually would.’

‘You don’t think that Crispin thought that your number was Henry’s, since Henry had used your phone to leave a voicemail? In other words, that was a text for Henry rather than you? If so, he might not reply to the text from you because he hadn’t intended to contact you in the first place.’

‘It’s possible. And the message began “Hi”, not “Dear Ethelred”.’

‘Ethelred, nobody begins text messages “Dear Ethelred”.’

‘Don’t they?’

‘No. Nor do text messages end: “I beg to remain, sir, your most obedient servant”.’

‘If you say so. But, thinking about it, that does seem
more likely, doesn’t it? It’s a real message for Henry and Crispin is alive, albeit that he can’t spell.’

‘That’s my guess.’

‘I’ll tell Henry.’

‘When you do so, you can also thank him for the latest glowing commendation of your
oeuvre
. Did you see the
Telegraph
this morning?’

‘Another review from Henry?’

‘Another review from Henry.’ She took the paper from her bag and passed it to me. ‘You have a fine literary style, apparently. It’s on page twenty-seven. He is turning into your biggest fan – not a high hurdle to jump, but he’s making the effort.’

I finished reading and placed the paper back on the table between us, trying to avoid the croissant crumbs.

‘That will be worth quoting on the cover of my next book,’ I said.

Elsie nodded. ‘If playing at murderers up on the Downs gets you this sort of publicity you should do it all the time.’

‘I don’t think it was just that. Henry said he genuinely liked my books.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

I tried to remember exactly what Henry had said. Maybe not quite that, but something that undoubtedly implied it. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘OK, you’ve made some progress, but you’re no closer to knowing where Crispin actually is or what Henry did on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Crispin said he’s no longer in England.’

‘That leaves a lot of the world where he could be.’

‘True. You’re right, though. Each discovery we make
simply raises more questions. I don’t know why Crispin seems to have gone into hiding. I don’t know what Henry did after leaving the club, except that he went to the pub in Didling Green. And I don’t know who threatened to kill me.’

‘A nutter.’

‘A well-informed nutter. There are so many things that almost fit together but don’t quite. There’s a letter from somebody who clearly knows what is going on and who tries to sound threatening, but succeeds only in being weird. There’s the text from Crispin that says almost nothing – whether it’s intended for me or Henry. One moment the tension is being ratcheted up – the next we’re back to where we were before. It’s as if I’m living in a badly plotted novel.’

‘You should feel right at home then.’

‘But that
is
what it feels like,’ I persisted. ‘Even the weird bit of play-acting that Henry went in for on the Downs. I think I’m about to be murdered then, no, I’m not. And the story just moves on.’

‘That’s just Henry,’ said Elsie. ‘But I agree somebody seems to be having a laugh at our expense. The question is: who do we trust?’

‘Maybe I should go and talk to Emma again,’ I said.

‘Do you really need to go to Brighton? Couldn’t you phone?’

‘I have questions that it would be better to put to her face.’

‘I understand completely.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘If it’s not what I think, why should you think I’m thinking that?’

‘I just need to see her in person.’

‘Planning to shag the information out of her this time?’

‘I’ll ignore the fact that you said that.’

‘It was a serious suggestion. It’s an old and trusted technique. Think of Mandy Rice-Davies.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good precedent.’

‘Ethelred, there are literally billions of good precedents for having sex with somebody. If you have sex, trust me, you won’t be the first to do it.’

‘But I have no intention of doing so. And, for the record, I never have had sex with Emma Vynall.’

‘No? Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I was in Brighton signing some books and I remembered that there were, in fact, three books I’d promised to lend Crispin. So, I thought I’d just drop in. That’s OK isn’t it?’

‘As long as it’s not urgent,’ said Emma. She looked at me over the top of her wine glass. There was a smudge of lipstick on the rim. My glass, in front of me on the kitchen table, was as yet untouched. I couldn’t afford to get too drunk if I was driving home. I knew, of course, that I ought to be driving home. I knew that if I didn’t drive home my life was going to get a lot more complicated. But then, as Elsie had said, what was I doing here?

‘You’ve heard nothing more from Crispin?’ I asked, picking up the glass.

‘Not since he flounced out of the house just before Christmas, leaving me with a family-sized turkey in the fridge. You?’

‘A text,’ I said.

I watched her face carefully. She showed no surprise and strangely little interest.

‘There you are, then,’ she said. Her words were slightly slurred. She was taking her post-break-up drinking seriously.

‘I suppose so. It was just that it was a slightly odd message. I wasn’t sure whether … well, maybe somebody had got hold of his phone …’

‘Why on earth would he let anyone do that?’

‘I mean, hackers can do anything, can’t they?’

‘No idea. I’ve never knowingly met one.’

Emma topped her glass up in what was almost a reflex action. She put the bottle down then, realising that she wasn’t drinking alone today, picked it up again and nodded towards my glass. I shook my head.

‘You’re not implying that I sent that message, are you?’ asked Emma.

‘Of course not,’ I said.

‘I haven’t seen him or his phone since he walked out.’

‘I still don’t understand why Crispin left,’ I said.

‘You don’t have to. It’s not your problem, Ethelred.’

‘Sorry – I don’t mean to pry.’

‘No, pry if you want to. I suppose it will all come out eventually. Crispin’s likely to tell all his mates, after all. I’d better give you the full story, even if I don’t come out of it as well as I might. It’s like this. On the day concerned I’d accused him of sleeping with one of our friends – you don’t have to know who. Crispin denied it and, in the end I sort of believed him; but the whole Crispin infidelity thing had gone just a bit too far for me to want to drop it. So I didn’t.
Well, you don’t, do you? Eventually he said if that was how I felt, he was clearing off. So he marched noisily upstairs and started packing – throwing stuff around the bedroom just in case I hadn’t noticed. Anyway, after another couple of glasses of wine, the thought occurred to me that it would really screw up his plans if I decided to go off in the car. So, I drove round the corner to the friend I’d accused him of sleeping with and we got completely drunk. The following morning I drove back and Crispin was gone. As far as thwarting his plans were concerned, I’d left taxis and buses out of my calculations, though hopefully I’d really pissed him off when he dragged his cases downstairs and found no BMW on the gravel drive. But the downside was that I missed out on the bit of the break-up where he says I’m going somewhere where I don’t have to put up with this shit – here’s the address of that particular place if you are interested to know. Of course, I expected him to be back. I wrapped his presents and put them under the tree. I actually cooked the turkey on Christmas Day. But there wasn’t even a phone call. On Boxing Day I took his presents to the Oxfam shop and ate turkey for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You’ve no idea how big a turkey is until you have to eat the whole thing yourself. It’s obscene.’

‘So you did throw him out?’

‘I suppose so. Why?’

‘Just something Henry said.’

‘Did he?’ Emma topped up her glass.

‘You’ve tried to ring Crispin?’

‘It seemed polite to do so. I’ve found that under circumstances like this you can annoy somebody even more by being very civilised and reasonable – phoning them to see
how they are, for example. Being concerned for their bloody welfare. But I just got voicemail. I thought he’d be bound to come back in time for New Year’s Day. We’d invited a couple of friends round for lunch. I phoned them late that morning and claimed Crispin was under the weather.’

‘Might they have known where he was?’

‘If they did, they didn’t express surprise that I was claiming he was asleep in our bedroom, and they certainly didn’t tell me he was somewhere else.’

‘But you weren’t worried?’

‘He’d said he was leaving and he left. Anyway, he’d got form, you might say.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He’s gone off in a huff before. No communication then, either.’

‘Like Agatha Christie?’

‘Not one of Crispin’s literary heroes. I don’t think that would have motivated him. Of course, the whole nation holding its breath while the police searched high and low for the missing author would have appealed to him. So, for all I know he may have even been hanging out in Agatha’s room at the Old Swan in Harrogate. I never asked. He never told. After about a week, he just pitched up at home and we never spoke of it again.’

‘But you think he might have done the same thing this time?’

‘Maybe. Who cares? I just mean he’s capable of it. And this time there might have been the sort of publicity he liked.’

I thought of the fake reviews he’d given himself on Amazon. Perhaps it was all beginning to fit together – Crispin
slipping something into Henry’s drink, then stealing away, then (for whatever reason) setting up a series of strange ‘clues’ for reasons as yet known only to himself.

‘He wouldn’t have told you what he was doing, though? To stop you worrying?’

‘Worrying? Who’s worrying? He’d made it clear that it was no longer any of my business. He’s gone wherever he’s gone.’

She was looking at me over the top of her glass again, one eyebrow raised. There was a sort of sleepy cosiness, a soft vulnerability about her.

‘You’re right. I’m sure he’ll show up when he wants to be found.’

‘Well, when you do find him, you can tell him to go to hell as far as I’m concerned and he can take his teenage bitch-whore with him. Sorry – I should have said, in addition to being infuriatingly polite and reasonable, I’m also being a venomous harpy. It’s called multitasking.’

‘It must be tough for you,’ I said.

I reached out my hand across the table and placed it on hers. She looked at my hand for a moment, her head on one side.

‘Ethelred,’ she said. ‘I really wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Crispin’s gone but that doesn’t mean …’

I also looked at my hand, then slid it very slowly back to my own side of the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t intend to …’

‘I know I said that I would have slept with you at Harrogate, but I also thought that I’d made it clear I was terminally drunk. Anyway, it wasn’t the sort of offer you could take a rain check on.’

‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean anything …’

‘I was pretty drunk too when you were last here. As for my current sobriety … I’m more in remission than actually cured, you might say. If we sit here at the table drinking until about ten o’clock I may suddenly find I can’t tell you from Brad Pitt – but equally I may have already passed out on the floor in a pool of vomit. It’s not worth hanging around on the off chance.’

I picked my glass up then put it down again. It looked as if I’d be driving home quite soon.

‘I’m sorry …’

Emma reached across the table and quickly patted my hand. ‘It’s fine. You’re a man. You’re basically programmed to make a pass at any unattended female. I thought it was odd last time – dropping off two books nobody would want at a place they weren’t planning to return to. I thought it was even odder this time – adding another book to the pile and asking me all sorts of questions about when Crispin would be home. If I could give you some advice, “here are some books for your husband” isn’t a great chat-up line. Most girls wouldn’t even let you into the hallway with that one, let alone the bedroom. Still, no hard feelings, eh? Do you want some dinner before you go? That’s not a euphemism for anything else, by the way – it’s just that I still have a lot of turkey stew in the freezer. You look as if you need feeding up.’

‘It’s getting late,’ I said.

‘Your call,’ said Emma. ‘You may as well take the books with you. I can’t promise I’ll be able to give them to Crispin any time soon. And you never know when you’ll need them as an excuse to visit somebody else.’