Last Resort (15 page)

His client list was also available. I opened it and looked for recognisable names among the two dozen or so listed; Linton Baillie was there, and a couple of people I knew as newspaper columnists, but the rest were unknown to me.

I searched on the Internet for half a dozen of them; two names cropped up on Amazon, but of the other four, one was a proctologist in Dallas, Texas, another was a lifeguard on the Australian Gold Coast, a third ran a very dodgy ‘get rich quick’ business in Wales, and the fourth was a foreign exchange dealer. Maybe everyone who called Coyle wound up being listed as a client, or, just as likely, he had made up half of the names. If that was so, Lexie Martin would fit in very nicely, for there wasn’t a single ‘M’, an oddity for a Scottish agency, where ‘Mac’ should abound.

I clicked on a name on the site, one of those I’d recognised, Jean Shields: ‘Freelance journalist and now the celebrated creator of Jimmy the Sheepdog, beloved by children around the world.’ The accompanying image showed a woman with a shy smile; it was off-centre, probably an iPhone selfie.

Finally, I moved on to Baillie, hoping to put a face to him, but no such luck; there was no mugshot on display, and very little text, only, ‘The man who took the lid off MI5 with his best-selling
The Public Executioner
.’

‘Time for me to put the lid on him,’ I murmured to the empty room, as I closed my computer.

I was in the kitchen, wondering what to do about dinner, given that all I had in the fridge was the MacSween’s haggis I’d forgotten that I was taking to Andy’s when I chose my lunch with Roger, when I had an incoming text.

‘Delighted to see U 2moro. 10 am, 10 Bengal Place. OK? Tommy Coyle.’

I flashed him a response. ‘Super. Thanks a million. C U then. Lexie.’ I grinned at my phone, and blew it a kiss.

Sixteen

I
had a plan for my meeting with Mr Coyle, but there was a flaw in it. Even though the man was, on the face of it, something of a bullshitter, I wasn’t going to last long with him if I walked through his door empty-handed.

I’d told him I wrote ‘really terrific’ detective novels. I needed something to back that up.

The solution came to me after half an hour’s fretting over a home-delivery pizza and half a bottle of white wine. I went back into the Amazon website, and copied the headline information on half a dozen bestsellers in the crime fiction list, pasting it into a Word document, piece by piece.

When I was satisfied that I had enough, I edited it down, taking a little bit from here, a little bit from there, blending it all together until I had what I reckoned was an acceptable synopsis for a debut mystery novel.

I was printing it out next morning when the phone rang. I picked it up and went out of the office, away from my noisy printer, saying, ‘Hi, this is Alex,’ as I walked.

‘Hi, love,’ Andy said. He sounded weary. ‘I’m sorry about last night. There was a hijacking threat on a Russian aircraft over the Atlantic; Ukrainians. The pilot told the hijackers they could shoot him if they liked but he was landing at Prestwick, not on top of the fucking Kremlin, as they demanded. He did too, and we had armed police and negotiators on the ground waiting for him.’

Instantly, I felt ashamed of my annoyance the night before. ‘What’s the situation now?’ I asked.

‘Sorted. The negotiating team talked them out without bloodshed. I’ve only just lifted the news blackout, so you can expect the telly to go crazy shortly.’

‘Well done the good guys,’ I said. ‘You sound whacked.’

‘I am.’

‘Too whacked to talk? Your text said we need to.’

‘Later, maybe tonight.’

‘Give me a clue, at least,’ I insisted. ‘I may have plans for tonight for all you know.’

‘Exactly. That’s part of it. I can’t do this any more, Alex, this commute between Edinburgh and the west of Scotland. Bob might have managed when he was in Strathclyde, but even he would have had to give in eventually.’

‘What are you saying to me?’ I asked him.

‘That I’m moving to Glasgow.’ He let the words hang in the air for a few seconds. ‘That’s where my new headquarters will almost certainly be when I move out of Tulliallan, but even if it’s not, that’s where the bulk of the job is. I need a place there, and it doesn’t make economic sense to keep on the Edinburgh house too. I’ve made an offer for a place in Clarkston, so Dean Village goes on the market next week.’

I felt myself go cold inside; something else was coming, and I knew what it would be. ‘I like that house,’ I said, quietly.

‘I know, and so do I, but it can’t be.’

‘Maybe I’ll buy it.’ The coldness crept into my voice.

‘Come on, you like your place too.’

‘That kind of defines our relationship, Andy, doesn’t it? What are we? Lovers or best pals?’

‘We’re both, aren’t we?’

I let my silence speak for me.

He broke it. ‘Come with me?’ he ventured. That’s what I’d anticipated.

‘Stay with me,’ I countered.

‘I can’t,’ he protested. ‘Edinburgh doesn’t work for me any longer. I need to do this. Alex, you can practise criminal law in Glasgow as easily as you can in Edinburgh. Most of your work will be in the High Court and that goes on circuit.’

‘The Appeal Court is in Edinburgh,’ I countered. ‘Anyway, that’s not the bloody point. Couples discuss major issues, and they agree what’s best; that’s how it’s meant to work. One party doesn’t bugger off and take a decision on his own. You just did that, Andy, which means only one thing to me . . . we aren’t a couple.’

I heard something on the line that sounded very much like a growl.

‘I seem to remember you taking a decision a few years ago,’ he said, ‘a very big decision, without discussing it with me.’

‘You got me pregnant, Andy,’ I snapped at him. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen but it did. If I’d discussed it with you, and said I wanted a termination, you’d have screamed the place down. You’d have rediscovered the Catholic principles that you use when it suits you, and demanded that I sacrifice my career. You’d have done that, and I’d have listened to you, then I’d have had the abortion anyway. So all I did was avoid the confrontation.’

‘Thanks.’ That one word was dripping with irony.

‘Don’t mention it. You’re getting your own back now.’

‘Come with me,’ he repeated.

‘On what basis?’

‘Come and be Lady Martin. I had the letter from the palace this morning; the knighthood’s been offered and I’ve accepted.’

I astonished myself by exploding with laughter.

‘Fucking hell, you’ve done it again. Leaving aside the fact that you’ve just made the clumsiest marriage proposal in history, you didn’t stop for one second before accepting to consider whether I might prefer to be Mrs Martin.’

‘Can I take that as a “No”?’ He sounded as cold as I’d felt earlier, before he’d fired up my anger.

‘Andy, you can take it as a “Fuck off”!’ I yelled.

I pushed the red button on the handset and threw it across the room, so hard that it shattered against the wall.

Alexis Skinner doesn’t do tears very often but I did then. I dropped into my red armchair and buried my face in my hands. I didn’t know whether I was crying out of anger, out of frustration, out of loss. All I knew for sure was that inside I felt as I had when I walked out of hospital after having the abortion; something was gone and it could never be replaced.

I got it all out of my system in the shower, then with an effort of will turned my thoughts back to the business of the morning.

My first consideration was how to dress. I had presented myself in my voicemail message as an ingénue would-be novelist. The power suit that I had worn the day before would hardly fit that image.

After a brief rummage in my casual wardrobe, I came up with a pair of hipster cords that I’d last worn when I was in my mid-twenties but had never got around to sending to the charity shop. I settled on them and was pleased to discover that they still fitted; indeed they hung a little loose, but not perilously so.

I topped them off with a ‘Yes for Scotland’ sweatshirt, worn bra-less, ruffled my hair a little, and appraised myself in the mirror.

‘Well, get you, Lady Martin,’ I murmured, with a small chuckle and a raised eyebrow.

I retrieved my fake synopsis from the printer, and read through it again. It would do, I decided; it didn’t need to be a work of art, for all it was doing was getting me through the door.

Street parking is never fun in Edinburgh, so I decided to take the bus to Bengal Place. I’d been doing that a lot more frequently since leaving CAJ. I’ve become an expert; I buy M-tickets online and store them on my phone.

The route took me to the foot of Dundas Street, where I got off and turned into Henderson Row. My bust-up with Andy was still on my mind; being Lexie seemed to help keep it at bay, although I was kicking myself for giving him Martin as a surname.

He called me again, just as I reached Bengal Place, but I didn’t take it. I guessed that he’d be looking to calm me down, but I knew for sure that he wouldn’t have changed his mind, or even come up with a compromise. He doesn’t do that.

It isn’t one of my strong suits either, probably the main reason why I was dealmaker of the year. I don’t blink first.

Earlier, I’d thought of phoning Dad, the master of the icy stare, to cry on his shoulder, but he didn’t need it at that moment in his life, and besides, he seemed to be busy with something in Spain, hence my involvement in the Baillie affair. There was also the complication that if he’d asked me what I was doing, I’d have had to confess that I was exceeding my brief by searching for the man.

The office of the Coyle Literary Agency wasn’t hard to find. Bengal Place is no more than thirty yards long and is made up of tenement buildings on either side, all the doors being controlled by entryphones.

There was no brass plate, or anything grand, simply a card trimmed and fitted into a slot, beside a button. I pressed it and waited for a few seconds until a male voice, one I recognised, intoned, ‘Yessss?’

No receptionist, I guessed.

‘It’s Lexie Martin, for Mr Coyle.’

‘Of course, my dear, first floor.’ There was a buzz and I pushed the door.

The stairwell was presentable, by which I mean it had been painted fairly recently and it didn’t smell of piss . . . the main benefit of remote entry systems in central Edinburgh . . . but food odours made it clear that I was in a residential rather than commercial building.

Thomas Coyle was waiting for me at the door. He was an inch or so shorter than I am, and looked older in the chubby flesh than in his photograph. The odd toupee was in situ but the garish jacket had been replaced by a sweater; maybe cashmere, but probably not.

He smiled, giving me a quick glance up and down, his eyes widening not quite imperceptibly at one point. It had been cold in the shaded street, my Hippie Hanna Afghan coat was hanging open and I could feel my hardened nipples pressing against the sweatshirt. I squared my shoulders to make them stick out a little more and grinned back at him.

‘Come in,’ he said, ushering me quickly through a shabby hall and into a room that looked down into Bengal Place. It was set out like an office, with a desk by the window, but there was a television in the corner, and two old leather armchairs on either side of the fireplace, in which a coal-effect gas fire flickered.

‘Let me take your coat.’ He reached out as if to help me out of it, but I beat him to it, slipping it off my shoulders, and handing it to him. He copped another quick glance at my temperature gauges, before hanging my coat on a hook behind the door.

‘It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice,’ I gushed. ‘You must be terribly busy with all your other clients. I looked at your website this morning; it’s very impressive.’

‘Thank you, Miss Martin.’

‘Lexie, please.’

‘Thank you, Lexie, but think nothing of it. ‘Helping aspiring writers is my
raison d’être
. It’s what I’m here for. But first,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s my coffee time. Will you join me?’

‘I’d love one,’ I lied. ‘Do you have Nespresso?’

He may have thought that I thought that he looked like George Clooney, for he beamed. ‘Normally yes, my dear, but I’m out. It’s only inst, I’m afraid.’

‘That will be lovely.’

He went back into the hall, heading for the kitchen, I assumed, leaving me free to look around. There was very little business furniture, only a three-drawer filing cabinet, on top of which sat a printer, connected by cable to a computer on the desk. Wireless technology hadn’t reached the Coyle Literary Agency.

I’d have loved to sneak a look into the cabinet for Baillie’s file, but I couldn’t take the risk, in case Coyle had a quick-boil kettle. Instead I retrieved my ‘synopsis’ from my coat and smoothed it out.

I had just finished when he returned with two mugs of coffee. Each one featured a book on the outside, promotional material, I surmised, handed out by publishers to plug an author or a new title.

The image on the one he’d given me was the jacket of
The Public Executioner
by Linton Baillie.

He saw me inspect it. ‘Impressive, aren’t they. Who knows?’ he added. ‘One day your work might be on one of those.’

‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘If only . . .’

‘ “If only” is why you’re here, my dear,’ he gushed. ‘My job is to turn “if only” into reality. Tell me something about yourself, Lexie.’ He tried to look at me in an avuncular way, but still his eyes missed mine, settling lower down.

I sipped my coffee, hoping that it might warm me up and soften Cheech and Chong . . . we all have pet names, don’t we? It was as dodgy as I’d expected from the cheesy little bugger, supermarket value brand, most likely.

‘I’m thirty,’ I began, ‘and I’m single. I’ve worked in a big office for ten years, but now I’ve chucked it to do what I really want, and that is, become a best-selling novelist.’

‘Have you any writing experience?’

‘I’ve been doing it for years,’ I bullshat. ‘I tried poetry, then I tried children’s books, then I tried fantasy romance . . . I’m a huge Twilight fan . . . but now I’ve switched to crime fiction, and I know that’s the way to go.’

‘Do you have a manuscript?’ he asked. ‘Most writers who come here have a book to show me.’

‘No, I don’t, not yet, but I have an outline of what I’m working on.’ I handed him my printout, with the most nervous smile that I could muster.

‘Then let me look at it.’ He took it from me and studied it, reading it through once, then a second time, with a gravitas that reminded me of my old university tutor studying a paper on civil law that I had handed in.

The similarity ended when he smiled.

‘This is marvellous, Lexie,’ he announced. ‘You have a wonderful, unique imagination; if you can match it with your writing as you turn this into a complete manuscript, you have a big future in front of you. And even if you can’t, the agency can help you with its editorial services.’

I frowned. ‘I don’t know if I can afford that.’

Coyle laughed at my apparent naivety. ‘There’s no cost, my dear lady. It’s included in our twenty per cent commission.’

If I’d been for real I’d have squared him up there and then. I don’t know a hell of a lot about the publishing business, but I do know that twenty per cent is at the top end of the range. But I wasn’t, so I looked relieved and said, ‘That’s very reasonable.’

He nodded, as if that was true. ‘How soon do you think you can complete the book?’

I frowned. ‘Three months?’ I ventured.

‘That would be admirable. I believe I can help you, Lexie. My terms are set out in a standard letter. We both sign it and it serves as an agreement between us. You can terminate it by giving three months’ notice at any time, but my rights in any agreement I negotiate on your behalf will continue in perpetuity. Is that acceptable?’

‘Is it ever!’ I gushed.

‘Give me your address and I’ll print it out now.’