The Circle (7 page)

'Was that any use?' Bob asked Thomasine in the main bar at the Feathers. They'd left Tudor in his flat looking like a frog in a dried-out pond.

Thomasine was on Martinis. 'His ego was bruised, for sure.'

'Because of what Blacker thought of his book?'

'You want to hear him reading it out. It's all "my good friend the Duke" and "my old chum Ringo". Makes you want to puke.'

'Hasn't anyone told him this before?'

'That's one of the problems in the circle. We're too damned polite to each other. It takes an outsider like Blacker to speak the truth, and even he was pussyfooting really.'

'Except he was a publisher, and you knew he wasn't bullshitting if he took one of you on.'

'Which he didn't'

'He seemed to think Zach was all right. And he liked your stuff.'

'He wanted to get out without being lynched. Would he have published us? Would he, heck. He dropped poor old Maurice, didn't he?'

'Has anyone found out why?'

Her eyes widened. 'You were there when Maurice told us. Blacker's costs had spiralled, he said.'

'But there must have been something else. He must have had second thoughts.'

'If he did, Maurice didn't share that with us.'

'But he probably told his partner Fran.'

'Hey, smart thinking!' Thomasine said.

She made swift work of her third Martini, and they took a taxi out to Lavant.

When Fran opened the door and saw them, she said with disappointment, 'You again? I was hoping it was Maurice.'

'They charged him,' Bob said. 'They're keeping him there.'

Yes, but I was hoping they'd realise the mistake they made.'

He didn't comment. 'This is Thomasine.'

Fran managed a faint smile for Thomasine. 'I've heard about you from Maurice.'

'Like I said, we're trying to find out what really happened,' Bob said.

You'd better come in.'

Even on this second visit she still looked too old to be Maurice's lover. She dressed old, as well. Tonight she was wearing a white lace blouse with a cameo brooch at her neck. She offered tea and went to the kitchen to make it.

Thomasine glanced about her, at the Alpine scene above the fireplace and the willow pattern tea service in the china cabinet. 'Can't picture Maurice in this set-up.'

'Researching his unsolved crimes?'

She crossed to the bookcase. 'Even these are in a time warp. Nevil Shute. Hammond Innes.'

'They're bookclub titles. My old man had a set.'

'But what's in it for Maurice?'

'Wait till you try the fruit cake.'

In fact, it was Victoria sponge, and it came on a tray with a cloth and was placed on one of the nest of tables. Fran's hand was not too steady as she poured out the tea.

'We use this room for visitors,' she said, as if she'd overheard them. 'Maurice and I like to relax and spread ourselves out in the back room with our newspapers and magazines and my sewing. Then he has his study upstairs with his filing cabinet and all his crime books.'

'Do you help him?'

'Whenever I can. I know a fair bit about crimes that don't get cleared up. My first husband was one of the Richardson gang.'

Bob almost choked on his first sip of tea. She could not have amazed him any more if she had flapped her arms and flown around the room. This from a white-haired lady with a willow pattern tea service and a cameo brooch. Who would have thought it? The Richardson brothers ruled south London in the sixties, hard men notorious for torturing those who crossed them.

He tried to keep this as a normal conversation. 'You saw it on the inside, then?'

'He did. Women kept their distance.'

'What happened? Did you separate?'

'No. He died in prison - which is why I don't want Maurice going there.'

'It wouldn't be the first time, would it?' Seeing her reaction he added, 'It's all right, Fran. We know he's got form.'

She had gone deathly white. 'Who told you?'

'It was bound to come out.'

'He's no villain,' she said. 'Believe me. I was married to one.'

Thomasine said, 'We all know he's a lovely guy.'

'The police don't. To them he's a convicted fire-raiser.'

'It wasn't like that, was it?' Bob said. 'We're trying to find out who really should be banged up for this.'

'I wish I knew,' Fran said.

'But you know why Maurice's book deal with Blacker fell through?'

Her voice took on a different note, harder and more angry. 'Because Blacker was a low-down, conniving shyster, that's why.'

'The five-grand demand?'

Fran rolled her eyes upwards.

Thomasine said, 'The man was a tosser.'

Fran said, 'You bet he planned it all along. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd played the same trick on other writers he published. They got so close to seeing themselves in print that they paid up. It's called vanity publishing in the trade, except it's worse than that because real vanity publishers tell the writers from the start that they're expected to meet the costs. He wasn't even honest about that.'

'No wonder he was touting for business at the circle,' Thomasine said. 'I could have been caught. I was over the moon when he said my poems were good enough to publish.'

'You'd have paid the printing costs, but you wouldn't have owned the book. You'd get six free copies, and that's all.'

'I'd have murdered the bastard,' Thomasine said.

'Someone did,' Bob said.

'One of his authors?'

'We'll find out. Do you have a copy of his catalogue?' he asked Fran.

'I think so. I'll look in the office if you don't mind helping yourselves to more tea and cake.'

While Fran was out of the room, Thomasine said, 'I'll be so relieved if someone outside the circle is the killer.'

Bob had been here already. 'If they are, there's not much we can do.'

'Why? Maurice is still our chair. We've got to help him.' No one was going to duck out while Thomasine was on the case.

Bob offered her a slice of cake and she pointed out that it must have been made for Maurice. 'We can't eat his cake and walk away.'

Fran returned with the Blacker List catalogue. It was modest in size, more of a leaflet than a brochure.

'Not a lot here,' Bob said when he'd leafed through the few pages. Two of the books were by the same author, memories of Chichester in the Second World War by an old lady who lived in Pennsylvania. She'd married a GI and never returned to England. Another was the illustrated book Blacker had mentioned, showing dog owners who resembled their pets. A note on the back cover stated that the author had died shortly before publication. And the only other Blacker List title was
Shinty, Bandy and Hurling,
by a former Bishop of Chichester now living in a retirement home in Scotland.

'Strong stuff for a bishop,' Thomasine said.

'Says here they're ball games,' Bob said, '"akin to hockey". I wouldn't think any of these are bestsellers. My guess is that Blacker conned the authors into paying for publication.'

'But it doesn't look as if we have a suspect among them,' Thomasine said. 'One deceased, one retired bishop and one old lady in Pennsylvania.'

The focus of guilt shifted back to the circle. No one said a word, but it was in their minds.

The phone was ringing when Bob got in around eleven.

'Thank goodness you're back. I've been trying on and off since nine. I didn't want to leave a message.'

He couldn't place the voice yet. 'Sorry. Who is this?'

'Amelia.'

Well, it was late, and it had been a long, taxing day. 'Come again?'

'Miss Snow.'

'Ah.'

'I - em - I need the video.'

'Why? What's up, love?' He called her love in response to the nervousness coming down the line.

'I know it's late, but can you possibly return it now?'

'Tonight?' Shouldn't have called her love, he thought. Naylor, you're getting in deep here.

She went on, 'Something has happened that I'd rather not discuss over the phone, and I'm not going to get any sleep if I don't do something about it'

He didn't believe there were things you can't discuss over the phone. Who did she think was listening? 'Do you know what time it is, Amelia?'

'Yes, and I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important.'

'Is it anything to do with Maurice?'

'Please come, Bob.'

What the hell? he thought. I can look after myself. 'Twenty minutes, then.'

'I can't thank you enough.'

Don't even try, he thought as he put down the phone.

He was coming out of the bathroom when Sue let herself in through the front door.

'Hi, Dad,' she called up.

'Hi, baby. Nice evening?'

'Not bad.'

He came downstairs. 'Got to slip out for an hour. Someone just phoned.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' He felt as if he was the teenager.

'Girlfriend?'

'Ha ha.'

'Well, you know the saying, Dad: if you're not in bed by midnight you'd better come home.'

8

Write something, even if it's just a suicide note.

Anon, quoted in
The Writer's Chapbook,
ed. George Plimpton (1999)

'I
can't tell you how grateful I am.'

Bob nodded and stepped inside. Miss Snow showed him into her writing den and closed the door behind her. She was as strung out as a line of washing.

'Did you bring it?'

He handed over the video.

Her voice shook as she said, 'The police were here this afternoon. They said they needed this as evidence. Maurice must have told them about it.'

'What did you say?'

'That it was being passed around the circle and I'd have to make some phone calls.'

'Fair enough.'

'I promised to take it in to the police station tomorrow.'

'And now you can.' He didn't understand why she needed it tonight. He could have delivered it in the morning, taken it to the nick himself if she wanted. And he couldn't see why a visit from the police had got her into such a state.

It was obvious he wasn't going to be offered a chair, so he took a step back, preparing to leave. His leg nudged a low table and a couple of magazines slipped off. He picked them up and replaced them. One was the
TV Times
and the other was
The Bodybuilder,
with a muscleman on the cover. We all get our kicks some way, he thought, amused, and warming a little to Miss Snow.

She was too wound up to get embarrassed. 'Poor Maurice must be at his wits' end,' she was saying. 'He wouldn't have told them about the video unless he was desperate.'

'Why not?'

'It's like informing on his friends. So out of character. Not the way Maurice would behave unless he was up against it.'

'If you or I were on a murder rap, we'd do the same. Anything to muddy the water.'

'But he's innocent,' she said.

'If he is, then someone else is guilty, and the odds are that it's one of the people on that video.'

Her eyes held his, and she said in a mystified voice, 'You still sound doubtful, as if you think he might have done it.'

'Open mind. I've talked to a couple of people this evening and I'm still in the dark.'

'Who?'

'Tudor and Fran. But I learned a bit more about Blacker and his dealings. He was a crooked publisher. None of his authors made any money. He took money off them.'

'Do the police know that?'

'Maurice knows. He will have told them.' He stifled a yawn. 'I'll be off, then.'

She put her hand to her throat and fingered her bead necklace. 'There's something I haven't told you.'

'What's that?'

'Later, after the police had been, I had a phone call. A man's voice. He didn't say who he was. He asked me if I was the secretary of the circle and when I said yes he said he could prove Maurice is in the clear, but I must keep it to myself. Those were his words.' She took a ragged breath, as if the memory was all too stressful. 'He said he wanted to help and he would hand me the proof tomorrow. I was to meet him at eight in the morning in the boat house near the canal basin.'

'That was all?'

'Yes. He sounded very definite. I believed him.'

'The voice. Was it disguised, muffled?'

'A bit indistinct. I didn't recognise it. Bob, I don't know what to do. Should I tell the police? If this is going to help Maurice, I don't want to jeopardise anything. I'm scared.'

'You want me to take over?'

She looked as if the sun had just come out. 'Would you?'

'Eight at the boat house. No problem.'

Bob didn't feel so confident walking to the boat house next morning. His guess was that Miss Snow's mysterious caller was some nutter who had read about the case in the papers. Every murder brings a few out of the woodwork. But it had to be checked. And nutters can be nasty.

The only boat house he knew was on the side of the canal opposite the towpath, which meant making an approach along the lane skirting the Chichester High School grounds. It took him past the police station where, presumably, Maurice was still being held - poor old soul, innocent or not.

At this time of day the choice of meeting place was clever. You had to go along a footpath past a tennis court and a couple of scout huts with acres of school field on your left. It all looked deserted. The boat house was in fact two buildings used for storing canoes. The simple wooden huts with pitched roofs stood side by side above some steps and a launching area. On previous walks along the towpath Bob had more than once stopped to watch the kids on the water attempting to roll the canoes completely over.

This Saturday morning there were no canoeists yet, but the large metal doors had been opened, so presumably there was a session planned for later. Someone must have unlocked and couldn't be far away.

Seeing no one outside, he stepped into the first hut where the canoes were ranged on racks.

'Anyone at home?'

No response.

He came out and looked into the second hut. This one contained a trailer loaded with more canoes. Nobody was in there.

He was beginning to think the whole thing was a hoax.

He checked his watch. It wasn't quite five to eight. Give them ten minutes, then I'm off, he told himself. He perched on the edge of the trailer, took a banana from his pocket and unpeeled it. He'd left home too early for breakfast.

Saturdays were special. He liked to watch sport if possible, the real thing, not TV. He didn't mind what. If there was racing at Goodwood or Fontwell, he'd be there. Through the winter it was football: the Portsmouth home matches. He'd played a bit as an amateur when he was younger and fitter.

He looked at the time again. Eight, spot on. All over the country people were sitting down to cooked breakfasts, and Bob Naylor was stuck in a boat house without even a flask of coffee. Thanks a bunch, Miss Snow.

There was a change in the birdsong outside, the urgent repetitive warning note a blackbird makes when a cat is about. Or a person. Better take a look, he thought.

He was on his feet and heading outside when it happened.

The door slammed shut - in his face.

It wasn't the wind. Someone was outside. This was a strong metal door. He heard the bar being drawn across to fasten it.

'Hey! I'm in here.'

He pushed at it and couldn't move the thing. He hammered his hand against it.

'Open up, will you? I'm inside.'

The place was in darkness. There were no windows.

'Oy!'

He gave the door a kick. Whoever was outside must have heard him. The door was solid iron and it rumbled like a beer keg when he struck it.

He shouted again.

No response.

He stopped shouting and started thinking. The doors to both boat houses had stood open. Why would anyone want to close them again? For one reason only: they knew he was inside and they meant to trap him there.

Kids, playing a prank? At this time of day he doubted it.

So what would it achieve, shutting him in here for a few hours until some member of the canoe club released him?

It was going to ruin his Saturday, that was all.

Bloody hell.

He hammered on the door and called out a few more times with an increasing sense that the effort was wasted. He'd do better to find his own means of escape. From what he could remember when the light was better, the place was well constructed. Kicking his way out through the wooden walls wasn't an option.

The floor? He stamped on it hard. It didn't feel solid. Probably it was raised on supports, as wooden buildings often are. If there was a space underneath, and he could prise up a couple of boards, he might squeeze out that way.

He guessed there were tools in here somewhere. They'd need to work on the canoes from time to time. Where would they keep them? Finding anything in virtual darkness was a challenge. He began groping his way around the trailer towards the far end, knocking over a couple of objects as he went.

Then he smelt something.

First he thought it must have come out of a pot he'd tipped over, maybe the stuff they used to waterproof the canoes. He was intent on looking for a toolbox so he didn't really care about odours. He didn't even register for some time that he was blinking more and his eyelids were smarting. Several minutes passed before it dawned on him that the smell was getting stronger.

Even so, he continued to fumble his way along the back wall of the boat house. He found some paddles and wetsuits, but nothing so useful as a screwdriver or a crowbar.

His eyes were hurting.

Then he felt his feet getting warmer through his shoes. Crouching down, he pressed his hand against the floorboards and they were warm.

A faint sound seemed to be coming from under the boards, something between a hiss and a wheeze.

Christ, he thought, there's a fire under here. I'm trapped in a wooden building that's going up in flames any second.

He knew enough about the action of fire to understand that the smoke and noxious gases already filling the boat house would kill him before the fire incinerated him. He was spluttering and coughing.

Forget the floorboards, he thought. There's only one way out of here now and that's through the roof. He grabbed a canoe paddle and reached out for the trailer. Its superstructure was a framework designed to support three tiers of canoes. If he could get to the top he had a fair chance of attacking the roof with the paddle.

He grasped the metal side bars and started hauling himself up. The trapped smoke would be thicker up there, but this was the only option. With agility born of desperation, he made it to the highest level and swung the paddle blindly above his head. It made contact. Heavy contact. The roof was within reach, but it felt as solid as the floor.

He tried again. There was the sound of wood splintering and for a moment his hopes soared, then plunged. The end of the paddle was breaking up, not the boards across the roof.

Below him real flames had penetrated the floor. In a frenzy he thrust the broken paddle repeatedly against the same spot.

He guessed the boards were linked by tongue and groove, which was why they resisted the hammering they were getting. More splinters from the paddle fell on his head.

He paused to gather himself for a greater effort.

Bob Naylor, this is your life.

Go for it.

The wood rasped, as if there was movement. After several more thumps the board he was striking gave a little. Another crack and it eased upwards and tore through the felt covering. He caught a glimpse of blue sky. More furious blows detached a second board. Smoke was funnelling through the gap.

He pulled himself higher, teetering on the top rail of the trailer to get a handhold in the gap. With a huge effort he dragged himself up and through the roof and scrambled out into the daylight. For a moment he lay on the incline taking in gulps of fresh air. Then a flame ripped through the space beside him and he slithered down and dropped to the ground and sprinted across the turf to safety.

Even now, when a huge brown plume of smoke was defining the source of the fire for miles around, Bob could see nobody. Whoever had slammed and bolted that door had already quit the scene.

Bob decided to do the same. When you're in shock and filthy with smoke your first instinct is to get home. You're not ready for questions and explanations.

Then he spotted two teenage girls cycling along the path towards the boat house. He stepped out of view. Canoeists, he decided. They were in shorts and sweaters.

He walked around the other side of the blazing building and glanced back. The girls had stopped and one of them was using a mobile. It wouldn't be long before the fire service and police got here.

He legged it back to where he'd left his car in Canal Wharf Road. Inside ten minutes he was home taking a shower.

Over a strong black coffee, while the washing machine worked on his clothes, he tried to make sense of the experience. It all stemmed from Miss Snow's caller, the mystery man who had offered the proof that Maurice was not an arsonist. It was safe to assume, wasn't it, that the call was a trap? Miss Snow herself was supposed to go to the boat house at eight.

Was what happened the result of Bob's turning up instead? A fit of anger that Miss Snow had broken a confidence and sent someone in her place? He didn't think so. The fire in the boat house must have involved some preparation. It had started from outside, under the floor, in the space between the ground and the base of the hut. To get a fire going there, you'd need more than a struck match. You'd want combustible material like paper or oil-soaked rags. The stuff would have been in place before eight, ready to ignite when the victim was inside.

If Miss Snow had gone to the boat house she wouldn't have escaped. She wouldn't have had the strength to knock a hole in the roof. She was the intended victim, and it would have worked.

Why Miss Snow? He hadn't the faintest. Was she a threat to anyone? He couldn't see why.

Was it right to tell her she'd had a lucky escape? Bob didn't think so. The poor old duck was jumpy enough already, without finding out a killer was after her. Still, in a day or two she was going to read in the local paper that the boat house had gone up in flames, and she'd wet herself then.

For the time being, he'd tell no one. Except, maybe, Thomasine. He trusted Thomasine and she was his expert on the circle.

'What a crazy thing to do,' was her reaction when he phoned.

'You can say that again.'

'I meant you, going to the boat house.'

'I was doing someone a good turn.'

'You sure you're okay?'

'A few bruises.'

'And you haven't told anyone?'

'You're the first. I'm pretty certain I wasn't seen, except by the tosser who tried to murder me.'

'Oh, Bob - what a thing to happen. You must be cursing the day you joined the circle. No one is going to blame you if you walk away.'

'No chance,' he said. 'I'm going to find out who did this, and why.'

'You don't have much to go on.'

'Miss Snow said it was a bloke who phoned. That's a start.'