Hes such a pro, an admiring voice murmured in her ear. Fiona immediately recognized the genteel Edinburgh tones of Mary Helen Margolyes and turned to greet her with a kiss.
Mary Helen, what a delightful surprise, she said, meaning it. In spite of hating her melodramatic Jacobite historical mysteries featuring Flora Macdonalds younger sister, Fiona had a soft spot for Mary Helen, not least because of her acerbic tongue. What drags you away from the Highlands?
Oh, I had to come down to talk to some dreadful wee man at the BBC whos making a TV series out of the Morag Macdonald books.
But thats good news, isnt it?
Mary Helens face puckered as if shed bitten a sour apple. You wouldnt say that if you knew who theyve cast as Morag.
Tell me the worst. Fiona had spent enough time around writers to know exactly what was required.
Rachel Trilling. Mary Helens voice was fat with disapproval.
Isnt she? Fiona struggled to make sense of the name. Shes the lead singer with Dead Souls, isnt she?
Mary Helens eyebrows rose. My God! she exclaimed. At last Ive found somebody whos heard of her. But then, what can you expect from a producer who thinks a white cockade is a tropical bird?
Oh, Mary Helen, I am sorry, Fiona said.
Ill just have to follow Kits perennial advice and take the money and crawl, Mary Helen said with a grim little smile.
Apart from that, hows life treating you?
It would be infinitely better if youd pass me another glass of wine, Mary Helen said. Fiona obliged, but before they could say more, the shop manager began his introduction to Adam Chester. Adam spoke briefly and wittily about his new book, then read a fifteen-minute extract. A few questions from the floor followed, then it was time for the signing.
As the purchasers formed a queue by Adams chair, Kit glanced across the room. Uh-oh, he said to Nigel Southern, the twenty-something writer of comic noir short stories hed been talking to. I better go and rescue Fiona from the clutches of Mad Mary Helen.
Nigel raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows. Id have thought your lady was more than a match for the Highland Harpie. Whats it like, anyway, living with somebody who spends her days poking around the perverted fantasies of psychopaths?
Funnily enough, we dont talk about it that much. Weve got a life, Kit said. Anyway, thats not what she does. She uses computer analysis, not psychoanalysis.
Nigel shook his head pityingly. I couldnt be doing with that. I mean, it must be like living with the control freaks control freak. Isnt she always telling you youve got it wrong?
Kit gave him a good-humoured punch on the shoulder. You havent got a fucking clue how the grown-ups live, have you? Listen, Nigel, if you are ever lucky enough to meet a woman with half the brains, the wit and the looks of Fiona, do yourself a favour. Go on a training course before you ask her out. Without waiting for a reply, Kit squeezed through the crowd and enveloped Mary Helen in a bear hug. Hows the queen of the glens? he demanded, landing a resounding kiss on her cheek.
All the better for seeing you and Fiona. If Im honest, the main reason I came to this do tonight was in the hope of seeing a few cheerful faces. This business with Drew Shand has cast a terrible pall over the Scottish crime-writing community. Weve all been phoning each other every day for the last two weeks, making sure were still alive.
Youre such a drama queen, Mary Helen, Kit teased her.
Im serious, Kit, Mary Helen protested. It came as a terrible shock to all of us.
But surely theres no threat to any of the rest of you? Fiona asked. I thought the police were pretty much convinced hed been killed by somebody he picked up that night in the gay bar, whats it called?
The Barbary Coast, Kit supplied. So unless youve got a secret life in sadomasochistic society that we know nothing about, the chances are youre safe, he continued, putting a reassuring arm round Mary Helens shoulders.
Would that I could lay claim to anything so exciting, Mary Helen said dryly. But its not that straightforward, is it? I mean, Drew was killed in the precise manner in which hed murdered one of his fictional victims. Its hard to avoid the conclusion that whoever killed him had some sort of morbid fascination with the genre. You know about these things, Fiona. Wouldnt you agree with me?
Put on the spot by Mary Helens sharp blue stare, Fiona shrugged. Hard to say. I know no more about the case than anybody else whos read the papers and surfed the Net.
You must have some sort of theory, Mary Helen pressed her. After all, this is your field. Come on, dont be shy, youre among friends here.
Fiona pulled a face. To my mind, it has all the hallmarks of a stalker murder. Someone who became obsessed with Drew and his work to the point where the only way he could resolve his compulsion was to destroy its object. And the fact that Drew had provided him with the perfect script was simply the most unfortunate element in the whole scenario. If Im right, then the rest of you are as safe as you ever were before Drew died. Stalkers dont by and large transfer their obsession to another target.
There, Mary Helen. Now you can sleep safe in your bed at night, Kit said.
Youre a patronizing wee shite, Kit Martin, Mary Helen said, giving him a mock-punch on the shoulder. Thank you, Fiona. I do feel better for hearing that, and Ill pass it round my colleagues north of the border.
Wait a minute, Mary Helen, Fiona protested. I dont know anything for sure. What I said was nothing more than guesswork.
Mary Helen beamed at her. Maybe so, but it makes more sense than the platitudes weve been getting from the police. Now, Im going to love you and leave you because I need to go into a huddle with my publicist, if she can tear herself away from Adam for a minute.
They watched her go, Fiona shaking her head in exasperation. I fall for it every time. She just fixes me with the twinkle and the dimple and twists me round her little finger.
Dont beat yourself up. She does it to everybody, Kit said, reaching past her for a fresh glass of wine. Were all suckers for Mary Helens little old lady routine. Anyway, I think she really needed the reassurance. Shes not joking about people being wound up by Drews death. Adams editor has just been telling me that Georgia is refusing to go out on her book tour next month unless her publisher provides her with a bodyguard.
Fiona snorted. The only way Georgia Lester would miss an opportunity for blatant self-promotion is if someone sewed her mouth shut. You know that. Dont you remember her turning up at Waterstones in Hampstead with a sniffer dog in tow after the Docklands IRA bomb?
Kit grinned. Youve always got the knife into Georgia, havent you?
Thats because I dont get the benefit of the charm like you do. Im the wrong gender.
He spread his hands. She cant help herself, love. You know Georgia. She gets an idea in her head and she gets carried away. Anyway, according to Adams editor, shes giving them hell. Threatening to move her next book to another house, threatening to tell the press that shes in fear of her life because her publisher wont protect her.
I know shes your mate, but if she devoted half as much energy to writing as she does to self-promotion, her books would have got better instead of worse over the years, Fiona said cynically.
Kit put a finger to his lips. Ssh. Dont say that so loudly. You might give her publisher ideas. After all, theres nothing like a dramatic death to boost your sales figures. I hear the advance orders on Drews new book have more than doubled since his murder.
Why am I not surprised? Fiona sighed. Maybe you should mention that to the cops. For all we know, Drew might have been planning to move publishers. An editor who was going to lose him anyway might well have considered giving her balance sheet one final hike.
Kit shook his head sorrowfully. Such a low opinion of the publishing trade. I cant imagine where you got that from.
Ive been hanging out with writers too long. It sours the milk of human kindness.
Kit acknowledged her barb with a faint smile. So, you really think Drews killer wont strike again? Or were you just being kind to Mary Helen?
Fiona shrugged. If I could predict the future that well, wed have won the lottery by now. I honestly dont know. But if he does, he wont go for someone who writes cheerful cosies like Mary Helen. Hell be looking for someone on the noir side of the street.
Kits face froze. Someone like me, you mean?
Are you seriously telling me it hadnt crossed your mind?
Ignored by those around him, the man in the tweed jacket watched Kit Martin from the other side of the room. Whatever he was talking about with his girlfriend, it had shaken him up, that much was obvious. His eyes had widened and his normally mobile face had turned into a still mask. Good, the man thought with deep satisfaction. He liked the idea of Martins discomfiture.
If everything had gone according to plan, Martin should have had good reason to be worried. The mans lip twitched in a tiny sneer, hidden from view behind his beard and moustache. He watched Martin take his girlfriend by the elbow and steer her through the crowded bookshop to the door. Hed barely paused to say farewell to his cronies, the man observed. The womans words had clearly made him very uncomfortable.
With the principal object of his hatred gone, the man slipped through the press of bodies to the table that held the wine. He held his glass out for a refill, nodded his thanks and faded into the background. There were a few authors left, but they were beneath contempt, unworthy of his attentions. His opinion of himself was such that he was only interested in the very best. That, of course, had been the problem all along. He saw that now. They were the ones under pressure to come up with the goods, which explained why theyd done what they had to him.
But that was history. What he was interested in now was retribution.
FIFTEEN
In the cab they took to Steves, Kit was uncharacteristically quiet. Fiona knew better than to try to force him to talk about what was on his mind. That would simply lead to a sullen and mean-tempered denial that anything was troubling him. Like most men, a sense of his own vulnerability made him uncomfortable. Rather than make him even more uneasy by pushing him, she placed her hand on one of his and said nothing. Halfway up Pentonville Road, he finally spoke.