Poison Pen (6 page)

Graham considered. “It could well be a pseudonym. Many authors use them. The Brontë sisters were originally published under pen names, for example.”

“But Max isn’t a published writer.”

“No…” Graham said thoughtfully. “And yet there was that strange conversation between him and Charlie Deadlock.” He paused for a moment, then added, “You know, spectre is another word for ghost.”

“Ghost?” I seized on the word with interest. “Katie said something about Zenith’s book being ghost-written. What did she mean?”

“It’s when another writer is paid to do the work. I gather that most celebrity autobiographies are written that way. They have the celebrity’s name on the cover, but a different person entirely is responsible for the contents.”

“That’s like cheating!” I said crossly. “Does that mean Zenith might not have actually written her book?”

“It’s perfectly possible,” Graham agreed.

“And it got nominated for a prize! No wonder the others don’t like her…” I thought for a moment. “So where does Max fit in? Zenith didn’t recognize him, so I reckon they’d never met face to face. But she knew his name all right, didn’t she? It wiped the smile off her face when he said who he was. Maybe he wrote the book for her.”

“It seems a plausible assumption.”

“And if it’s true,” I said slowly, “that might explain all that stuff with Charlie, too! Sue said he had writer’s block
after
he’d completed the Sam the Striker series, and so did he. But Max said it was
before
he’d finished the last book. Suppose Max is right? Suppose he knows the truth? What if Charlie
did
get stuck? What would happen if you got stuck with a book? Do you get into trouble with your publisher? Is it like being late with your homework?”

“From what I’ve read, writers often have deadlines to meet. With a series like the Sam the Striker books, the publisher would have arranged events – signings, appearances, interviews, that kind of thing. They would have been booked months in advance. It would have been vital to have the book ready on time.”

“So … if Charlie was blocked in the middle of a book, could he have paid Max to finish it for him?” I asked.

Graham looked thoughtful. “It certainly sounded as if the two of them had some sort of contractual agreement. That would help explain why he mentioned the confidentiality clause – if Max did finish writing it, clearly he’s supposed to keep quiet about the fact.”

“And now Max has written something else – something of his own – and he wants help to get it published.” I frowned. “Charlie wasn’t at all helpful about that, was he? And Zenith looked at Max as if he was something she’d trodden in. It might all be enough to make him a bit unhinged. Maybe he’s written stuff for the others, too…”

“It’s possible,” Graham said. “And he may well be a little unbalanced. Yet his chief desire seems to be the publication of his manuscript. I don’t see how attacking authors would help him achieve that objective.”

We fell silent. I recognized signs of Deep Thought on Graham’s face, so I didn’t say anything more until he spoke again. “The thing that perplexes me,” he said at last, “is that there doesn’t seem to be a single consistent motive that unites all the different attacks. I suppose what we have to consider is the combined effect. That way, we might come nearer to discovering who’s orchestrating it all.”

“Well,” I said, “the festival has been virtually destroyed. I can’t imagine that Viola will want to organize another one.” The glimmer of an idea flicked across my brain. “I wonder…”

“What?” asked Graham.

“Whoever’s doing it… Is it really the authors they’re after?”

“On today’s evidence I’d have said yes, definitely,” Graham told me.

“Suppose someone’s using them to get to Viola? Has she got any enemies? Her festival’s been sabotaged from the word go. Maybe it’s her they’re trying to hurt. It’s like in a war when you bomb a military base or something and civilians get killed by accident. There’s a name for it…”

“Collateral damage,” Graham supplied helpfully.

“Yes – that’s it. Maybe the authors are just being used. You know how we always look for Motive, Means and Opportunity? Well, maybe they’re the Means.”

We Googled “Viola Boulder” but couldn’t find very much about her other than stuff related to the book festival. She’d given various interviews beforehand, but all she’d talked about were the visiting authors. She was also a member of the local choral society and helped out on alternate Mondays at a charity shop on the high street, but that was about it. She seemed to be a fine, upstanding member of the community. We couldn’t find a single reason why anybody would want to sabotage the Good Reads Festival. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling that Viola might be the real victim.

Mum arrived back at that point, so we shut the computer down quickly and jumped to our feet to help with the food. She crashed out on the sofa and switched on the TV while Graham and I took the bag into the kitchen and dished special chow mein and crispy beef onto plates.

“Nigella’s been pretty poisonous to Viola, hasn’t she?” I said, crunching on a prawn cracker.

Graham nodded. “Whoever’s behind the whole thing has a very detailed knowledge of the authors’ works, which would certainly be consistent with them being a children’s book specialist.”

“And those notes were cut out from headlines – I wonder if they were from her own newspaper? I reckon we’re going to have to keep a close eye on Nigella Churchill. But if she’s doing it to get to Viola, I can’t see her seriously hurting anyone,” I concluded. “She practically worships Charlie, for a start. Maybe those death threats were just that – threats. The attacks might just be stupid, sick jokes. I mean, no one’s actually been seriously hurt, have they? Perhaps they weren’t meant to be.”

As I tucked into my Chinese, I felt pretty confident that there wasn’t anything much to worry about – but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The very next day we had a corpse on our hands.

When
Graham and I arrived at the town hall the following morning, the pavement outside was awash with pale-faced, moody-looking goths dressed in flowing black velvet, desperate to grab front-row seats for Esmerelda Desiree’s event.

We squeezed through the massed vampire-lovers and into the town hall, where Viola was preparing her troops for the forthcoming day’s action. We noticed that she’d heavily increased the festival’s security – there were a good few extra guards looking macho in dark corners, as well as two uniformed police constables standing to attention in the entrance.

The original schedule had me and Graham down for helping out with the glueing and sticking at the make-your-own-pop-up-book event in the library. After that we were supposed to assist with crowd control at Esmerelda’s signing. But after yesterday’s catastrophes, it seemed that Nigella Churchill had made a few phone calls. The Good Reads Festival was now the object of intense interest to every journalist in the country. Viola had been forced to organize an emergency press conference, and Graham and I were reassigned to handing out tea and biscuits to the mob of reporters and photographers.

When they interviewed Viola, barking out questions as she sat rock solid on the stage, she looked cool, calm and collected. I could tell from her neck and shoulders that she was tense, but she spoke clearly and concisely and refused point-blank to speculate about who was behind “what I can only assume to be malicious practical jokes perpetrated on some of my authors”.

There wasn’t really much else she could tell them: she just kept repeating that no, she didn’t know who was responsible and yes, she had taken every precaution to ensure that no further unpleasantness would occur. The police had been through the building with a fine-toothed comb and hadn’t found any further booby traps. I have to say that most of the journalists looked a little disappointed.

The conference lasted about half an hour and was followed by a photocall. Every newspaper in the country seemed to want a picture of swollen-nosed Charlie Deadlock and poor bruised Basil Tamworth, the imprint of a trotter showing up nicely purple on his right cheek. They were less interested in Katie, Muriel and Francisco, who didn’t have any actual wounds to display. Basil and Charlie obliged, smiling awkwardly on the town hall steps and looking slightly embarrassed. But the clicking and flashing of dozens of cameras drew the now manure-free and immaculately groomed Zenith out of the hotel like a moth to a flame. She strutted her stuff, posing and pouting, her lizard lips fixed in a broad, reptilian grin.

When the photographers had finished, the authors returned to the green room. They were all running creative writing sessions that day and needed to be thoroughly topped up with coffee and chocolate biscuits first. Zenith, on the other hand, was way too important to sully her hands with a workshop. Or maybe – if we were right about the ghost writing – she just didn’t have a clue how to run one. She climbed into a violently pink limousine and returned to her country mansion, and I can’t say anyone seemed even remotely sorry to see her go.

Following Viola’s instructions religiously, we made sure that our authors were warm and comfortable and well supplied with nourishment. No one was going to starve while we were there. And while we were busy topping up cups and opening more packets, we also managed a bit of eavesdropping.

Katie and Francisco were sitting together on a sofa. Muriel was curled in a nearby armchair. Opposite her, Charlie was apparently engrossed in the Sunday papers. Trevor was biting his fingernails whilst trying (and failing) to reassure Basil that pigs wouldn’t invade his workshop sessions.

“I see that strange little man is hanging around again this morning,” Katie said to Francisco. “The one with the carrier bag.”

My ears pricked up at once. Graham and I glanced at each other and shuffled closer to the sofa.

“He told me hith name ith Maxth Spectre. Yestherday morning he athked if I’d look at hith manuthscript.”

“He cornered me, too. I made the mistake of nipping to the ladies during Zenith’s event. He even nobbled poor old Basil. There’s one at every festival, isn’t there? What did you tell him?”

“What I alwayth tell people. I’m justh a writer. I can’t judge other peopleth work. I advithed him to find an agent or a publisher.”

“Yes, me too. I gave him Fletcher, Beaumont & Grimm’s address and told him to send it there. He had a bit of a mad look in his eyes, though, didn’t he? I found him rather alarming. Didn’t he collar you too, Trevor?”

Trevor looked up, startled. “Yes, he did. I don’t know what he thought
I
could do.”

Katie shrugged. “I suppose he hoped you’d have some influence. You work for a publisher, after all.”

“Only in the publicity department. And I’m so junior!” he whimpered. “It’s not like anyone listens to me.”

“The man’s clearly desperate,” sighed Basil, passing his handkerchief over his brow. “Do you think he’s asked every author here?”

“He certainly asked me,” Muriel Black spoke up.

“How about you?” Francisco called across to Charlie Deadlock.

Charlie looked up from his newspaper and his eyes narrowed just a fraction. It was a second or two before he replied and, when he did, he said flatly that he didn’t know who on earth they were talking about. He’d never seen the man.

The conversation rolled on to other subjects and Charlie went back to his newspaper.

I looked around the room at the other authors chatting casually to each other. I was pretty sure none of them were hiding anything: in fact, I’d have bet my entire pocket money they hadn’t laid eyes on Max Spectre before yesterday.

On the other hand, I was one hundred per cent certain that Charlie knew who he was – Graham and I had heard their conversation with our own ears, after all. So why was he so determined to deny it?

Yesterday
the authors had arrived at the town hall under their own steam, but today Viola was taking special measures. It clearly hadn’t escaped her notice that all the victims were children’s writers. She was planning to be especially careful with Esmerelda Desiree.

Graham and I were despatched with Esmerelda’s welcome pack across the road to the hotel where all the authors were staying. We, along with two security guards and a uniformed police constable, were then to escort her back to the town hall for her event.

As soon as we reached the hotel lobby, the receptionist put a call through to Esmerelda’s room. Five minutes later she appeared at the top of the grand staircase … and my jaw literally dropped.

It wasn’t until I saw Esmerelda Desiree that I realized how deeply disappointing the other authors were. I mean, they’d all written brilliant books (with the possible exception of Zenith), but when you met them face to face they were nothing like their fictional creations. Sam the Striker, for example, was a superb footballer with the looks of a male model; Charlie Deadlock was fifty, fat and bald. Muriel Black didn’t possess an ounce of magic, and Zenith looked more like a pantomime dame than a princess. Katie Bell’s characters were young and beautiful with impeccable fashion sense; she was middle-aged, mousy and slightly scruffy. Francisco Botticelli wrote epic tales about evil sorcerers and noble knights, while he himself was small, slight and unimpressive: he’d probably fall over if he ever attempted to pick up a sword. And as for Basil Tamworth, the bruises on his face proved how incompetent he was at handling real, live pigs.

Esmerelda Desiree, on the other hand, was stunning. When she appeared, mine wasn’t the only sharp intake of breath – gasps circulated around the lobby like a Mexican wave. She wasn’t just young and beautiful, she embodied the essence of her book.
The Vampiress of Venezia
was about – you’ve guessed it – the forbidden love and doomed romance of a teenage bloodsucker in sixteenth-century Venice. Esmerelda Desiree looked as if she’d stepped straight out of the pages of her book, like a queen of the night or an empress of the undead – gorgeously fascinating but totally deadly. She was as pale as her gothic fans outside, but whereas they looked simply ill, her skin shone like a pearl. Her hair was so black it had the metallic sheen of ravens’ wings. Her lips and fingernails were painted blood-red and she was wearing a dress you’d only expect to see on Oscars night – it should have looked completely over the top that early in the day, but somehow Esmerelda could get away with it. She was so beautiful, she could get away with anything.