The Writer (26 page)

“The one in which you’ve
described the life and times of Sophie Trent. You seem to know
quite a bit about her. Why is that?”

“The one I gave you? That is
hardly a book. It’s no more than a draft, and ordinarily I would
never let anyone see a draft. I gave it to you as an act of good
will, because you seemed interested, but I had no idea you thought
there was something malicious about it. Besides that, anything
that’s in my books that might align to real life is pure
coincidence. Surly you don’t think it’s anything else other than
fiction?”

“Coincidence of the pure
kind, is it? Tell me about Craigfield.”

“He is an obscure young man
who befriends Sophie.”

“Sophie Trent?”

“Actually, no, I haven’t
given my Sophie character a last name, and if I did, I don’t think
I would give her that name. Especially now you’ve said
it.”

“Why not? There something
wrong with the name?”

“Not at all, but since
you’ve said it, it’s kind of tarnished. And if I use it now, you
can claim you helped me write my book and you’d have to have
writing credit, should it ever be published. Besides, Sophie Trent
must be a real person, for you to have mentioned her. Am I in some
kind of trouble here? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“Your character Craigfield,
he’s based on a real person?”

Max looked uncomfortable.
“My wife’s gym instructor, actually. I liked the name, that’s
all.”

“Craigfield
Johnson?”

“You know him, then, do you?
And let me guess: you know more about him than I do, is that
correct?”

“Tell me more about
him.”

“The character in my book
isn’t meant to be the same Craigfield who’s my wife’s gym
instructor. What purpose would that serve?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you
can tell me.”

“Listen, I can see what your
problem is.”

“And what is my
problem?”

“The people in my book, most
of them, they are actually based on real people in Gendry. As for
Craigfield, I used his name and that’s all. He’s not meant to be
the same person my wife knows. Other than that, the names,
everything else is entirely fictional.”

“Then you’re saying the
Sophie in your book is a real person?”

“And her grandmother, and
family.”

“You’ve met her? You know
her?”

“The real Sophie I haven’t
met, no. I have talked to many others, the minor characters, but
Sophie I only heard about. I wouldn’t even know what she looks
like. I did some research, but not that much detail. And if you’re
trying to tell me I know Sophie
Trent
because I’m writing
about someone who happens to be called Sophie, you are
mistaken.”

“Tell me about this research
you’ve done.”

“It’s called a
phone
.
Gendry isn’t a big place and someone knows someone else, and not
many people move away, so if someone new comes along, everyone’s
going to hear about it sooner or later.”

“You’re saying you rang them
and asked them about the people they knew in Gendry? For your
story? Why would you do that, use real people, in your story? You
can’t go writing about their lives without their permission, can
you?”

“First of all, I straight
out ask them if they mind me using their names and story. Secondly,
I don’t use their actual story. I just use it for ideas, and if I
have to get close to reality then I will change it slightly. I’m
not much of a writer to go and dream it all up myself. If I hear
something I like I’ll use it, and add a twist to it so it looks
like it’s something else. That’s not hard, doing that; altering a
true story to get a new one, a new fictional one. Doing it that
way, basing it on real life, all the background is done for me, and
I’m free to build on it. It’s more realistic that way, since it is
real; or should I say, starts out real. Something my wife tells me
I’m not too good at, the realism. I do anything I can to
help.”

“Who’s your contact in
Gendry?”

“I don’t have a contact,
unless you mean the phonebook. I just rang people at random,
pretended to be an old friend, or distant cousin, get them talking,
asking what’s happening in Gendry, and let them speak. Nothing
illegal in doing that; we both know that. People just love to talk
about themselves, given the chance. You wouldn’t believe the
material you can get from just one of those calls. Fills in so many
blanks for me; it’s great.”

“I don’t understand where
Craigfield fits in. If he’s a real person here in the city, why add
him into your story?”

“No, I didn’t add him, I
just used his name, as I said. Check for yourself, I didn’t use his
surname.”

“This is meant to be a
different Craigfield in your story?”

“Entirely
different.”

“Why have a fictional
character if everyone else is based on real people?”

“You said it yourself: you
can’t go writing about real people and their real stories. Writing
real stories is not what I’m interested in. I added Craigfield in
to make it more interesting, to make it look like I was making up
something new. I don’t know what the real Sophie is like, and what
her life is; and I don’t need to know that. And in case you were
wondering, everything I have there about the Longbottom murder is
what I heard on the phone or found in online media reports. If I
have somehow interfered with your investigation then I apologise.
It’s not like I’ve actually published this work. The only people
who know anything about it are a few friends and yourself. How you
found out, I have no idea. I can guess, of course, but it’s too
late now, since you’ve read it and thought it worth your
investigation time to bring me in here. Actually, to be perfectly
honest with you: I find it humbling that you think it is real. That
means I succeeded in making it
seem
real. You don’t know
what an honour that is for a writer. Thank you for
that.”

Dan nodded, happy not so
much in the answer but that Max was starting to open up and talk
more. He went back to see how Sophie was doing.

“How long do I have to stay
here?” she asked him when she opened her door.

“You’re still telling me you
don’t know Max Marshall?”

“I’ve already told you. He’s
a part of my story, that’s all.”

“You know he’s a real guy?
Not only that, he’s a writer, the same as you.”

“So what if he is? I just
used his name. I really don’t know where you’re going with
this.”

“Want to know what he’s
currently writing?” Dan asked, slowly building aggression in his
voice. “A little story about Sophie Trent, who goes to Gendry to
stay with her grandmother and do a bit of writing. And she falls
for a mysterious guy by the name of Craigfield.”

“You’re out of your mind,”
Sophie said as she noticed how fat he was, particularly in both his
neck and stomach.

“And what are you writing
about, Sophie? Just a little story about Max Marshall, who suspects
his wife is secretly seeing a mysterious guy by the name of
Craigfield. Max then wants to kill this Craigfield but hasn’t got
the guts to go through with it. Am I right about it so
far?”

“I have no idea about any
real people or what they might be writing. Are you serious about
this? I find it most disturbing you’re wasting all this time with
such questions. Is this seriously how you run your investigations?
I don’t look like a killer.”

“You think?” he replied
sarcastically. “I’m going back to go see Max again. He’s here in a
neighbouring room, just like this one. I brought you both in at the
same time and he’s been sitting there telling me all about you.
He’s a bit more open than you are, though. Told me more about
Craigfield and what you were doing with him in Gendry.”

Dan returned to Max and he
carried his aggression with him. “You know how you’ve written about
Sophie in Gendry and how she’s writing a story? You know Sophie has
been writing about you?”

“What do you mean, writing
about me?”

“Sophie Trent. That’s right,
the woman you made your main character in your little tale about
Gendry, she’s in the next room. Want to meet her?”

“I would love to meet her,
if what you’re saying is true.”

“I can do better than
that.”

It was time for the big
moment. He tossed open the cover of the white folder in front of
Max and let him read the first of the crumpled pages, and then left
him alone in the room. Outside he stood next to Benny who had just
done the same thing with Sophie. They watched Max and Sophie read
each other’s work. Benny was surprised to notice that Max was
gleeful at the sight.

“So, are they telling you
who murdered Longbottom?” Benny asked with a tired sigh, trying to
understand what Max was up to.

“Haven’t got that far
yet.”

“Then you’ve got a lead on
Craigfield?”

“Probably, I think,
yeah.”

“What have you got for
certain?”

“Them. Look at their faces,
seeing what the other has written about them. Isn’t that beautiful?
Who’s going to crack first?” Without really thinking he took out
the ham and lettuce roll and started to devour it.

“Dan, I say this as a
friend. You need to get a grip here. You haven’t got anything on
them. We work with evidence, no airy-fairy fantasy, and certainly
not stories fit for woman’s magazines. Yeah, that’s right, I’ve
given them a bit of a read. I don’t know what all the fuss is
about.”

“How else do you explain
what’s happening here?” Dan asked with his voice too raised, and he
accidently spat some of his roll. “How could they both know each
other well enough to describe their lives in detail?”

Benny noted the pained
expression on their faces as they looked over the pages in front of
them. “Paranormal activity, is what it was. Unless they have actual
intel on Longbottom, you really need to think about giving this one
up. Danny, I’m saying this as a friend, you’ve lost all your cool
on this one. Drop it before Moore gets wind of it.”

Dan was having none of that.
He stormed into Sophie’s room, feeling his anger raging.

“See?” he said as he picked
up the page she was reading and held it closer to her, forcing her
to sit back in the uncomfortable chair. “Craigfield, isn’t it.
Explain that, please, Sophie. Tell me about Longbottom. Who killed
him?”

“This isn’t real,” she
insisted. “It’s about me but it isn’t me. It has my name, the names
of my family, the names of people in Gendry, but that’s the only
thing about it that’s real. Go ask anyone in Gendry, they’ll tell
you the same thing.”

“I plan to, don’t
worry.”

“This can’t be a real police
investigation …”

“You know something and I’m
going to find it.”

“Honestly, I know nothing.
Who’s your boss? What’s his name?”

“This isn’t some mystical
psychic nonsense,” Dan said with is voice raised. “We all know that
doesn’t exist!”

Sophie couldn’t help but
start crying as Dan left her room in disgust, returning to
Max’s.

“All right, Marshall, tell
me that’s not real,” Dan demanded.

“None of it is real,” said
Max, looking disturbed. “I don’t know where you got this,
but—”

“I’ll tell you, shall I?
That’s from Sophie Trent. You remember her; the girl you’ve written
about in minute detail.”

“That’s a very strange
thing. Have you read this? Look close here, I think you’ve missed
something. Sophie is writing about me, that is what it appears
anyway. And what am I doing in this story of hers?”

“I don’t know, what are you
doing?”

“I’m writing—my character in
her story I should say—is writing a story about a girl named Sophie
who goes to stay with her grandmother. And do you know what
else?”

“What else?”

“In my story I describe a
girl named Sophie who has gone to stay with her grandmother, who is
writing a story about a man named Max. You see? It just continues,
on an endless loop, forever. Who can explain such things? Perhaps
sunspots, perhaps the tides, or the moon? Perhaps
ghosts?”

Dan was enraged that Max
could talk to him that way. He kicked his chair so hard that Max
had to stand up.

“Tell me who Craigfield is,”
he said threateningly. “You tried to kill him? At night, while he
was sleepwalking. That part’s true, isn’t it.”

Max hurriedly grabbed a
handful of papers and held them up in defence, almost as a shield.
“This is just a story. You don’t think any of this is real, do you,
really? It’s fiction. It’s just fiction!”

“Tell me who killed
Longbottom!” Dan demanded.

“It was probably an
accident. A speeding car, hit and run. Have you thought of
that?”

“How would you know
that?”

“That was the official
report. That’s what the news reports said. That’s what most people
in Gendry think happened to him. I know, I’ve talked to them about
it.”