A Cast of Vultures (19 page)

Jake blew out a breath. He didn’t enjoy remembering the previous night.
Join the club, buddy
. ‘I got home
at eleven, and you weren’t there.’ He crossed his arms against the memory. ‘I tried to ring you, but got the recording saying your number was unavailable. I assumed you’d forgotten to charge your phone. I rang Helena, and the Lewises and Mr Rudiger. Mr Rudiger said he hadn’t heard you come in. Helena and I worked through a list of your friends. By midnight I’d had a colleague run your Oyster card through the system: you hadn’t been on the overground, or any public transport, after you’d used your card for our trip to Richmond. So I got onto the Richmond force and asked them to make enquiries.’ He shrugged. ‘It was too early to do anything officially, but I called in a few favours and some off-duty friends helped. We got Kew’s security to let us in and began a search. We’d been there an hour before we found you, because we started at the pagoda.’ Dear lord, he thought I’d fallen ten storeys from the top of the pagoda. ‘You and I had discussed walking along the Thames towpath. Dragging the river would have been next.’ It was a miracle he was as calm as he was when they’d found me.

I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say, so after a minute he went on. ‘We spent this afternoon shifting the case from Richmond to us.’ I looked up at that and he shook his head. ‘Not me. Chris is heading up the team. I’m not on it, for obvious reasons.’ He slid his eyes over to me. I wasn’t going to like whatever was coming next. ‘Paula is his DS.’

Oh yay.

It was early, but Jake hadn’t slept at all the night before, and I was incapable of doing anything. He showed me the link the Richmond force had emailed before the transfer, to
try and identify my attackers. I pushed it away. ‘Tomorrow,’ I said, and he nodded.

Then I remembered. ‘What’s the news on Sam?’

He smiled. ‘Helena and her friend between them put the fear of God into someone. They’re back home. They won’t be questioned again without one of Helena’s heavy-hitters sitting beside them.’ He shook his head, and I wasn’t certain if it was admiration for Helena, or rueful recognition that his colleagues had better find someone else to question. I decided not to ask.

We went to bed, and within minutes Jake’s breathing had evened out. He was asleep. I stared at the ceiling for hours. Now I’d stopped being afraid, and was no longer in a tree, I was angry. Enough. I needed to find out who wanted to kill me, and why.

J
AKE AND I
had been together long enough that we could have a lot of our arguments silently, mentally leaping ahead to the end without having to go through the rigmarole of fighting it out. When I woke the next morning, I said, ‘I’m going to work,’ and stood braced for the list of reasons why that wasn’t going to happen. Jake braced too, but then he let it go, merely saying, ‘I’m taking you.’

So that was that. Not the ‘that’ I’d been expecting, but that was that all the same.

I was stiff and sore, but the cuts on my hands had scabbed over, and I decided that meant I could do without most of the bandages. Being able to wash and dress myself did wonders for my morale.

When I got to the kitchen, Jake handed me my coffee and I sat looking out into the garden. It was another hot, still day. The garden needed watering. Maybe I could use
my injured hands as an excuse, and make Jake do it. Then I remembered that he’d been called out on his day off, and right after that he’d spent the night looking for me. Maybe I’d have the garden declared a site of scientific interest. It could be an example of Darwinian theory, where we watched survival of the fittest in action.

Jake sat down with his breakfast, bringing me back to more practical matters. ‘Will I have to talk to your colleagues again?’

‘I’m afraid so. But they’ll want you to have looked through the photos first, see if you can identify the men.’

That would postpone another interview, and the further away, the better. A problem postponed is a problem I can pretend doesn’t exist. But I couldn’t really. Instead I told Jake what I’d been thinking about in the tree. Not about knowing the lyrics to ‘Waterloo Sunset’. I’d dazzle him with that another time. But that the whole thing had to be connected to Harefield, and that the only people I could think of who might be involved in that way were Azim and Kevin Munroe.

Jake nodded. ‘I’ve already spoken to Chris.’

I felt horrible for putting Azim forward like that – he’d done nothing except go to a Neighbourhood Association meeting and watch a fire. I’d done the same, and I didn’t think I was suspicious. ‘I’ll text Viv to see if anyone has been asking her about Harefield. She knew him, after all, and she’s also been asking questions, and if no one has been bothering her …’ I trailed off.

‘Who have you spoken to about Harefield? Anyone, no matter how briefly.’

I was going to ace the next pub quiz. ‘You, Viv, Helena.
Sam. The man who answered Harefield’s phone at his office. I can’t remember his name, and anyway, I only asked if he knew where Harefield was. It was before we knew he was dead, so it was really a non-conversation. That’s it.’ I reconsidered. ‘The cops from the local nick knew Viv and I had been asking about him, because I was there when she was telling one of them off, but unless they asked her later, they don’t know my name.’ I tried to remember what they looked like, and failed. No surprise. I often don’t recognise people who work in my building. ‘There were a couple of community police officers there too, and they could have been Sprained Ankle and his friend, but why would they be?’

Jake appeared to think the same. ‘What are your plans today?’

‘I need to talk to Ben about—’ I pulled myself together. Jake wanted to know where I was going to be when, not the minutiae of office politics. I started over. ‘I’ll be at the office all day. I don’t have any outside meetings scheduled. And Helena texted yesterday to say she’d be at home this evening. I ought to go over so she can see I’m alive.’ I headed him off before he could interrupt. ‘I’ll take a taxi booked on the company account, not public transport. Promise.’ I held up my hand: Boy Scout’s oath.

Then I remembered. ‘But I need to borrow some cash. I have no phone, no cards, no nothing.’ The police had found my bag under the walkway, but when I told them Sprained Ankle had pawed his way through it, they’d handed it over to their technicians.

I should have had more faith in Jake. He tipped his chin towards the hall. ‘It’s by the front door. Everything will
need cleaning – it was dusted for prints – and you should have a quick look before we leave and let me know if anything is missing.’

Jake was right: the interior almost glowed in the dark from the phosphorescent powder that had been scattered wholesale. I dumped everything onto the floor and ran through it, wiping as I went.

‘All there, apart from my phone and iPad,’ I grumbled. ‘Unless Sprained Ankle had a runny nose and nicked a tissue.’

‘We’ll stop on the way and pick up new ones for you. Electronics, not tissues. And if you email Chris, he’ll give you a crime number – you can claim it on your insurance, because you were mugged.’

That made me feel better. ‘Why did he do it, though?’ I asked. ‘Sprained Ankle, I mean? Why smash up my toys?’

‘So that you couldn’t be located by the phone signal. If you’d gone over the railings, it’s not that far down. A person might survive a twenty-metre fall, but if their location couldn’t be pinpointed, and they lay there all night, the outlook would be less good.’

I noticed that he’d switched halfway from ‘you’ to ‘they’. I didn’t think he’d done it consciously, but I agreed with the choice: I didn’t want to think about it happening to me, either. I dropped the subject, and on the way to work, by unspoken agreement, we talked about anything not related to violent death – a film we wanted to see, when Jake might put in for leave, and what we would do with the free time.

We stopped and did the phone thing, Jake’s warrant card helping speed the process along when I realised I had
no proof of address when it came time to transfer my old number to the new phone. I hurried through it. I had a lot to do. First on my list was deflecting questions about my injured face and hands at the office, so I stopped for a few minutes to talk to Bernie at reception, meeting her gasp as she took in the glory that was my scraped face with a shrug.

‘I was doored.’ Dooring is a standard cycling hazard, when someone in a parked car opens their door into a cyclist’s path. I’ve never been doored, but it’s common enough, and it wouldn’t be questioned.

It wasn’t. We had a quick run-through of Cycling Accidents of People We Know, finishing with a rousing chorus of Evil Smidsys, which is what cyclists call drivers who don’t pay attention and then attempt to absolve themselves of responsibility by saying ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t see you’. That would ensure a prosaic explanation for my scabbed and bruised face would be telegraphed through the building, necessitating nothing further from me than a sympathetic hearing of the circumstances of other people’s accidents.

Miranda wasn’t under any illusions. She’d seen me bruised and bashed about too often. She stood now, checking me over as I walked down the hall. She didn’t speak for a moment, letting her eyes slowly take it in. Then she shook her head. ‘Maybe it’s time for a safer hobby. Crochet might work for you.’

I didn’t stop. ‘You know I’d just put my eye out with the hook.’

She nodded regretfully. No argument there.

I made coffee and began to weed out my emails from
the weekend and the day I’d missed. I hadn’t had the energy to check in yesterday, so there was a backlog. I dealt with anything that needed yes/no responses, forwarded more to Miranda with instructions, and deleted or parked another batch. That left a dozen or so that required that I pay attention when I replied. And of those, just one was urgent. It was an email from the management consultants, reminding the editors that our session with them was booked for – I looked at my watch and managed not to scream – for five minutes ago.

I disconnected my new iPad, which had just finished syncing from my computer, and ran. By the time I arrived, T&R’s other seven editors, plus David, our editor-in-chief, were gathered around the table in the big meeting room. I slid into a seat, trying out my I’ve-been-here-all-along-what-are-you-looking-at face. It wasn’t very good, since I’m excessively punctual, so I don’t have to practise it very often.

I dumped my tablet, reached for some coffee and looked around. Two of the management consultants were the pair who had been at the initial meeting: Adam Rossiter and the woman he hadn’t troubled to introduce. The other woman was as dark as the dominatrix librarian was blonde, as flouncy-girlie-curvy as the librarian was severe. Now that senior management was represented only by David, Rossiter took a back seat as the two women set up their PowerPoint presentation. (Of course there was PowerPoint. Management consultants would wither away and die if they couldn’t show slides printed with the exact same words that were being spoken, mashed between old
New Yorker
cartoons. But I digress.)

The two women, who introduced themselves as Annie and Jessie, tag-teamed their introduction while Rossiter scrolled through his phone. The women, they told us, were thrilled to be yadda-yadda, excited to be something-or-othered, and in general, they were as enthusiastic as a basket of puppies to be working on this restructuring, which was, they promised, the start of ‘a journey we will take together as we learn to feedback our thoughts to produce new ways of growing an enriched product’. I tried to suspend judgement – all right, no I didn’t, I was as judgemental as hell, but I tried not to grimace. At least, I tried not to until I saw the first slide. Which was, they informed us, ‘a schematic of their plan for the new editorial department’s un-silo-ed way of working, mapped out as an organigram’.

I decided I could either return to childhood and make vomiting noises, or I could zone out for a while. So I zoned. I flicked through the calendars and the contacts on my new phone and tablet, to make sure both had synced. I checked my email. Sadly, nothing had appeared in my in-box that couldn’t wait. I opened the tablet’s book reader, to double-check that it had loaded the manuscripts I had on submission. And after the work side of things was taken care of, I began to play. The tablet had come preloaded with more apps than the old one, most of which I had no use for, and spent a few minutes deleting.

The tablet had far more capacity than my old one. When I had time, I’d download more music. I flicked over to my photos. On the old tablet I’d kept them pared down, but now I no longer had to. Having decided that, I
further decided that New Tablet equalled New Sam, and I’d organise them. There were a bunch that were of people I could barely remember at events I’d rather forget. The photos of Viv’s jasmine that Victor, Viv and even Arthur now had. They were followed by a photo that must have been snapped by accident. I peered at it: dust bunnies and dirty socks. Photos of paintings: I take them in museums, then I forget who painted then, and where they were.

I was about to move on to the app store when I realised that no one in the meeting was speaking. I looked up. The diagram of our bright, shiny future editorial department was still up and had rendered our gabby group mute. Finally Jessie, the dark-haired, bouncier of the two women, spoke. ‘Initial thoughts?’

I’d lost track of where we were, so I had no thoughts, initial or otherwise. After an embarrassingly long pause, Roger cleared his throat. Rog runs our sports list, and if you had asked me before this meeting, I would have said it was impossible to rile him. He was so laid back that sometimes I worried he’s wasn’t merely horizontal, but dead. Now he did something I’d never seen him do before: he sat up straight. Then he carefully folded his hands and stared at little Jessie like a vicar about to pounce on a choirboy who’d been caught sneaking sweets during the organ voluntary. She managed to hold onto her bounce until he said what was, clearly, the last thing she’d expected. ‘Would you spell that, please?’ Roger asked.

‘Spell?’ The bounce was leaking away, a slow puncture.

‘An’ – he held the word out with metaphorical tongs – ‘an organigram?’

The puncture was patched. She was so happy to
elaborate. This was her favourite part. ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘It’s an
organi
sational dia
gram
, so it’s an organigram.’ She stressed the relevant syllables of each word for us slowpokes, and beamed. A little ray of organigrammatic sunshine.

Silence. Rossiter briefly looked up from his phone, but decided not to become involved and dropped his eyes again. Annie, the dominatrix librarian, leapt in to salvage the wreckage by moving us on from terminology to detail. How, she asked brightly, did we enrich our product? This appeared to mean, what did we do to make our books more valuable in the time between their acquisition and publication, and what indicators did we use to measure that increase in value?

We stared at the women. Then we stared at each other. They wanted benchmarks, things that could be checked off on a list. They didn’t want to know how, or even if, we made the books we acquired better. They wanted objective criteria that could be applied to every book in an identical way to indicate that these books were more valuable after they had been through the editorial process.

Silently, we came to a collective agreement: banging our heads on the table was not going to help. So for the next hour we attempted to explain what editing was, how it was done, and why. The more we talked, the less they understood. Roger, finally, in exasperation said, ‘If anyone except the author and the editor can tell that a book has been edited after it’s done, then the editor has done a lousy job.’

Now it was Annie and Jessie’s turn to stare blankly at us. I could see that they were managing not to whirl their
fingers by their temples in the universal sign for ‘nuts’ with effort. I tried an analogy to back Rog up. ‘Being an editor is like finding a station on the radio. You tune and fiddle until you get rid of the static. Once you’ve homed in on the station, the listeners don’t need to know about the fiddling you had to do to get there.’ I added, to kill off their benchmark fixation: ‘And you don’t leave the station just at the edge of the reception band, so the listeners will know how bad the static was before.’

I thought that was a nifty way of putting it, but the Three Musketeers weren’t buying any. At least, Rossiter wasn’t listening, while Annie and Jessie simply didn’t understand, and, furthermore, didn’t want to. A job where the height of excellence was to be invisible was incomprehensible to them. Worse, a job that left no trace was a job the output of which could not be measured. If the output couldn’t be measured, then it couldn’t be increased to make more money, or decreased to make savings. More terrifying to them, why would anyone hire management consultants if that were the case? We went round and round, chasing our tails. I decided it would be better not to share my own view of the publishing business: that manuscripts are acquired on instinct, and the rest of the job is spent creating a rationale to justify that gut response.