Crooked Herring (13 page)

‘What are you playing at, Ethelred?’

I was used to Elsie beginning conversations with me like this, but not usually other people.

‘Sorry, Emma, I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said.

For a moment the phone seemed to have gone dead. Then she spoke again. ‘Are you saying it wasn’t you?’

‘Wasn’t me what?’

‘Wasn’t you who reported Crispin missing?’

‘Somebody has reported Crispin missing?’ I said.

‘The police came round this morning. They said he had been reported as a missing person. I felt a bit stupid having to say I had no idea where he was. I mean, if anyone was going to report him, it was really down to me, wasn’t it?’

‘Anyone can report a missing person.’

‘Yes, but if the missing person is married you’d expect
his wife to notice first. Somebody else reporting it suggests a negligent approach on my part.’

‘Well, I don’t know any more about it all than you do. Somebody else has clearly noticed he’s gone.’

‘Clearly. Who?’

‘I don’t know. Emma, perhaps I should have told you all this sooner, but there’s something very odd going on. I’ve had a strange letter …’

‘Strange in what way?’

‘A death threat,’ I said.

‘A death threat? Saying what?’

‘Saying I’d be next.’

‘
Next?
Next after whom?’

‘They may have implied Crispin …’

‘You mean you’re saying Crispin’s
dead
?’

‘No, the letter said that. I’m as sure as I can be that Crispin is alive. I had that text. But I think it’s possible that Crispin actually sent me the letters himself.’

‘Crispin sent you a letter saying he was dead and that he was going to murder you?’

‘Put like that it doesn’t sound too probable, I admit.’

‘And why would he do that?’

‘Perhaps because he thought something had happened between us at Harrogate?’

‘Don’t be stupid, Ethelred. Anyway, you’re saying you were told in a letter that Crispin was dead, but didn’t think it was worth passing on that information to me? You came over here twice, but that bit skipped your memory?’

I realised that, if Crispin was indeed dead, I had not broken the news of his death terribly well. Of course, he wasn’t dead, but from Emma’s point of view, I was now
somebody who insisted on personal visits when out-of-date textbooks were the issue, but who was quite happy to mention, over the phone and purely in passing, that her husband might possibly have been murdered. I could see why she might find this odd.

‘I don’t think that anything like that has happened,’ I said very quickly. ‘I think he has simply gone off somewhere. Perhaps he wants us to think he is dead …’

‘But he sent you a text message.’

‘In confidence. I wasn’t to tell anyone.’

‘But why should he want the rest of us to think he was dead?’

‘I don’t know. You mentioned the Christie thing.’

‘
You
mentioned the Christie thing. I just said that he had vanished before. Anyway, Agatha Christie didn’t send death threats to all and sundry.’

‘True.’

‘And I said: when he vanished before he was just away for a few days. No fuss. No amateur dramatics. Just a four-day-long sulk. Crispin wouldn’t have sent you death threats. Have you told the police?’

‘Not as yet,’ I said.

‘Why, Ethelred? In the name of God, why? You come round here and ask me all sorts of questions. You seem desperately interested to know where Crispin is. But, having been told in writing that Crispin may be dead, you decide to keep it to yourself?’

‘Yes’ was the simple answer to this question. I took it up one notch from there.

‘Sort of,’ I said.

‘When did you get this note?’

‘The first one? About a week ago.’

‘You’ve had more than one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Both implying that Crispin has been killed?’

‘You could say that.’

‘And you’ve reported neither?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Would telling her that Henry had more or less confessed to murdering Crispin make my actions more or less plausible? I could see that it might not stand to my credit in Emma’s eyes.

‘I can’t explain,’ I said. ‘There are things I can’t tell you at the moment. But I think you do know where Crispin is.’

‘Ethelred, you are now really trying my patience. I do not know where he is. I’ve told you that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What do you think? If you ask me any more stupid questions, I’m hanging up.’

‘OK. But do you know anything about a writer called Elisabeth Söderling?’

The phone went dead. I decided not to call her back.

I could only hope Elsie had had more success. I tried phoning her and got a recorded message, inviting me to speak after the tone. But I felt I needed to gather my thoughts. I needed to phrase things in a way that didn’t make me appear a complete idiot. A text might be better. I sat down and started to compose one that would do this news justice.

The one person who ought to know exactly where a writer is at any time of the night or day is his agent. Writers are more like dogs than cats, really. You can let a cat out and trust it to come home at dinner time, whereas dogs end up stuck down rabbit holes or helplessly drifting downstream, heading for the weir but still holding firmly in their teeth the valuable stick they plunged into the river to retrieve. There are good arguments for microchipping writers if vets could be persuaded to do it at a reasonable price.

Anyway, it struck me that if anyone knew Crispin’s current whereabouts it would be his agent. The only problem was that Janet Francis is a stuck-up cow who, for some reason, thinks I run a tinpot agency on the outer fringes of the literary world where the sun rises only briefly even in midsummer. Just because I answer my own phone,
whereas you have to talk to about twenty of her minions just to get to say hello to her, doesn’t mean her agency is more important than mine. So, I waited patiently as her receptionist put me through to her secretary and then her secretary, after a ten-minute grilling on my intentions, put me through to her. Finally Janet Francis spoke to me. The temperature in the room dropped about four degrees as she did so.

‘Elsie! How delightful to hear from you. We don’t seem to move in quite the same circles these days.’

‘I don’t move in circles at all,’ I said. ‘I prefer straight lines.’

‘Do you? Well, as my secretary will have told you, I’m just dashing out. One of my Swedish writers is over and I have to be at Foyles for a signing. You know what it’s like. Or maybe not. Could I call you back later?’

‘I’m trying to track down Crispin Vynall,’ I said.

‘Would you like one of my people to pass him a message?’

‘How many people do you have?’

‘Enough to take messages. Now, shall I get one of them to do that?’

‘No, I want to talk to Crispin myself. Do you have contact details for him?’

‘Obviously we do. I’m his agent.’

‘I mean recent details. He’s not answering his mobile and I can’t get him on his Brighton number. You know he’s left his wife?’

There was a short silence. She clearly didn’t know. One small point to the agent without a PA, then.

‘No, he can be difficult to get on his mobile sometimes.
He switches it off when he doesn’t want to be disturbed. The landline is usually better. I think he did give us a new contact number – another landline.’ There was another pause, then she said: ‘Yes, it’s here on the card. He gave it to us just after Christmas.’

‘So, what is the number?’

‘I can’t tell you that, can I?’

‘You can if you want to.’

‘Hmmm, yes, but I don’t want to. If you have a query, you could email it to my assistant, Tuesday.’

‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘No, my new assistant is called Tuesday. You can email her today.’

‘I need to speak to Crispin myself, not leave a message.’

‘Well, good luck with finding his number then. Sorry, Elsie, I really have to go.’

Somewhere in Soho a well-manicured talon rested briefly on top of a gleaming handset. Then, no doubt gathering her handbag and Filofax together, she flew from the room.

Filofax? Yes, I do mean that. Janet’s great days had been in the eighties and nineties. That was when she had discovered Crispin and a couple of other best-selling authors. The twenty-first century had proved a bit of a disappointment for her. Deep down I think she still yearned for shoulder pads, eyeliner and frosted lipgloss. I had no doubt that her card index was immaculate, but it would be a card index all the same – not a computer system or an entry in her iPhone’s contact list. I counted slowly to 100 then phoned her office again.

‘Sorry, she’s just gone out,’ said the receptionist.

‘Could you put me through to her new assistant – Tuesday, I think she’s called?’

‘That’s right. Putting you through now.’

‘Hi, Tuesday. Elsie Thirkettle here. I was talking to Janet a moment ago and she said she’d let me have Crispin Vynall’s new number. But she’s apparently gone out. You couldn’t look it up for me on the card index in her room, could you?’

One good thing about New People is that they are touchingly eager to please. Give them a month or two and they’ll know all too well why you shouldn’t divulge random facts about your authors to complete strangers on the phone. But catch them in those delightful first few weeks and they’ll give you anything they can lay their little hands on. Bless.

‘Yes, of course. Hold on a moment.’

Either she was very close to Janet’s office or (more likely) she ran there and back. She was panting slightly as she read from the card.

‘There’s a home number, which is Brighton …’

‘It would be a recent entry,’ I said. Then I had a moment of inspiration. Thinking of a remark of Ethelred’s that Crispin might have been staying quite close to West Wittering, I added: ‘I think it begins 01243.’

‘That’s right,’ she said, brightly. If she had had any worries at all that the Data Protection Act applied to her, I had allayed them. She proceeded to read out a number.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ I said.

‘My pleasure,’ she said. And she actually meant it.

She was no longer panting, so she was probably quite fit. Fit, bright-eyed and alert. I briefly imaged her jumping
around the office, when not otherwise engaged, like a small hind.

I wondered whether to add that Tuesday should tell Janet how pleased I’d been with her. But then I decided that would be too cruel. Let her skip around in her sunny glade for a little longer before the harsh realities of employment at a literary agency finally struck home.

‘Oh, and who was Janet off to see?’ I asked.

‘Elisabeth Söderling,’ she said.

‘Of course. So, she’s in England?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not in Sweden?’

‘No. She’s been over here a couple of days. She’s signing books at Foyles this afternoon.’

‘How long will she be at Foyles?’

‘Until six. Janet has another meeting afterwards, though, if you were hoping to catch her.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea how helpful you’ve been.’

I hung around outside Foyles until about six-fifteen. I watched Janet Francis leave, looking at her sparkly watch and hobble off down the road. She’s too old for skirts that are that tight and has, I regret to say, put on a bit of weight since I saw her last. I hid in a doorway as she passed. It wasn’t that I was planning to do anything illegal or unethical, but I still didn’t want Janet to stop me doing it.

I could see Elisabeth Söderling standing just inside the door, saying her goodbyes to the Foyles staff. I waited until she had left and set off down Tottenham Court Road, then stepped out smartly from my hiding place, waving a book I happened to have in my handbag. ‘Miss Söderling!’ I called.

She turned and, doubtless thinking I was a fan after a signature, stood there in a resigned sort of way.

‘I was just leaving …’ she said, half-apology, half-justifiable irritation that she’d spent an hour in the place and I’d waited until now.

‘Could I have a quick word with you?’ I asked.

She looked down at the book and noticed it was one of Peter James’s. It was (to be fair) a well-regarded police procedural, which had been on the best-seller list for several weeks and sold a few hundred thousand. But sadly it wasn’t one of hers.

‘You want me to sign that?’

‘Be my guest,’ I said. ‘But I’d hoped we could have a quiet chat somewhere. I’m an agent.’

‘And that’s why you want to talk to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Francis and Nowak handle my books here in the UK,’ she said.

‘What do they charge you?’

‘Fifteen per cent.’

‘I’ll do it for seven and a half.’

‘Really? As little as that?’

I’d just given her the first figure that came into my head. If I’d been seriously planning to take her on I’d have suggested fourteen and a half to begin with and negotiated from there, a quarter of a percentage point at a time. There would be no profit in seven and a half. On the other hand, I’d have taken her away from Francis and Nowak.

‘You bet,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure I can—’

‘Janet’s not taking you out to dinner, then?’

‘No, she had another appointment. She’s always very busy.’

‘So am I, but I’ve got time for my authors. I know a very good restaurant just up the road from here. Well, it’s very good for what they charge.’

‘I’m not one of your authors.’

‘You’ve still got to eat, though, haven’t you? Anyway, I also want to talk to you about Crispin Vynall.’

‘That tosser!’

‘Indeed, as you say, that tosser. May I congratulate you, Miss Söderling, on your command of the English language? The restaurant is just up here on the left.’

Judging by how little food she ordered, she was not going to be an expensive client. I ordered a little more for myself so that the restaurant didn’t think I was being too cheap.

‘That’s the jumbo hamburger with extra bacon and double chips for you, madam? And just a small salad for you, madam?’

‘Yes,’ we said simultaneously. ‘And ketchup,’ one of us added.

While we were waiting for our food Elisabeth had a glass of Pinot Grigio and I had a cup of hot chocolate with cream and extra chocolate and extra cream. (It was cold outside.)

‘I was supposed to be meeting Crispin tonight,’ said Elisabeth. ‘We’d arranged to see each other when I came over, but since New Year I’ve heard nothing from him – no confirmation of the date, no apology he can’t make it.’

We sat in silence for a while. I was puzzled in that I’d started to assume that Crispin had vanished off the radar so effectively by getting a flight over to Sweden. Even after
the hand-delivered note, I hadn’t quite abandoned the theory – after all he could have an accomplice in Sussex.

‘But he was expecting to see you when you were over?’

‘Yes. He said he was looking forward to it.’

‘And your relationship was … well, ongoing?’

‘I had thought so. I was obviously wrong.’

I had also assumed that Crispin’s disappearance – wherever he was – had been planned in advance. But it now seemed to be a last-minute decision and one that he had kept a secret from pretty much everyone.

‘You know he and his wife have split up?’ I said.

‘Recently?’

‘Just before Christmas.’

‘He told me they’d split up ages ago. You can’t trust men, can you?’

Well, there was Ethelred, but, like his readers, he’s a bit special.

‘No,’ I said.

My phone beeped. There was a text from Ethelred. Normally under these circumstances I would have ignored a text, but I could see Ethelred there, laboriously typing out the words, with many corrections and deletions and much attention to punctuation, his tongue licking his upper lip all the while, his mouth half-open in wonderment at this strange new technology. Then at the end of twenty minutes or so he would have pressed
SEND
and collapsed back into his chair with relief.

‘Hold on,’ I said to Elisabeth.

The message (and I was sure that it had taken him a couple of hours to compose it) read: ‘Crispin has been reported as a missing person; the police are investigating.’

‘From one of your children?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘You could say that,’ I said.

A waiter approached. Elisabeth smiled at him and shook her head.

‘I’ll have the banana sundae,’ I said.

‘Extra cream with that?’ asked the waiter, flicking open his notepad.

I just stared at him in disbelief. ‘Extra cream?’ I said. ‘Do you think I’m the sort of person who orders extra cream?’

When he returned he brought a large jug and told me to help myself. Silly tosser. Irony only works if you don’t overdo it.