MURDER BRIEF (8 page)

She picked up the phone to call
Grimble and hesitated, afraid she might get into trouble. But she
told herself "no guts, no glory" and punched the numbers.

A receptionist answered and put
her call through to Grimble. Robyn told him she had a few more
questions and hoped he could find time for a chat.

He sounded a little annoyed.
"We’ve already talked."

"Yes. But there are a few more
things I want to cover."

"Oh, alright," he said
unhappily. "I’m very busy, but can probably fit you in some time
this afternoon. That alright?"

"Oh yes. What about four
o’clock?"

"OK. See you then."

The literary agency, Grimble
& Co, occupied a large suite on the seventh floor of a
red-brick office building on the fringe of Chinatown. Robyn stepped
from a lift into a large, sparsely furnished reception area. A
receptionist - in her early twenties, with a pale, acne-sprinkled
face - was reading a dog-eared Ludlum thriller. She put it down and
smiled sweetly. "Hi. How can I help?"

"I’ve got an appointment to see
Hugh Grimble."

"And your name is?"

"Robyn Parker."

The receptionist picked up a
phone and said Robyn had arrived. After listening for a few
seconds, she put it down. "Mr Grimble’s running a bit late. Be out
as soon as possible. Please take a seat."

Robyn sat on a long leather
couch. The receptionist picked up her novel and resumes
reading.

Robyn said: "Good book?"

"Not really. You know, with
thrillers, I can never follow the plot: everything happens so fast
and nothing fits together."

"I know what you mean. I suppose
you must be very upset."

The receptionist wore a blank
expression, which suited her. "Upset? About what?"

"Alice Markham getting
murdered."

The receptionist’s eyes widened.
"Oh, yes, Alice. Terrible, terrible. She was such a lovely woman.
Oh, yes, terrible. Did you know her?"

"No. I’m one of the barristers
representing Rex Markham at his murder trial."

"Oh, Mr Markham. It’s horrible
they charged him with murder, isn’t it? I’m sure he didn’t kill
her, I really am."

"Do you know him well?"

"Not really. But he sometimes
drops in here. He’s very sweet."

"Hopefully we’ll get him
off."

"That would be wonderful."

"Did you know Alice for
long?"

"About a year."

"And when did you last see
her?"

The receptionist still looked
vague. "You know, I can’t really remember. I suppose it was the day
before she was murdered."

"You mean, the Friday?"

"Yes."

The receptionist buried her head
back in the novel and Robyn flicked through a literary magazine for
a couple of minutes, until Hugh Grimble appeared. His polka-dot
bowtie and green suspenders were a very conventional way of looking
unconventional. Her eyes were tired of them already.

Grimble said: "Ah, Ms Parker.
Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come into my office."

He led her down a narrow
corridor, past a couple of open doorways, into a large office with
a wide mahogany desk and two red-leather couches. A whole wall was
festooned with photographs of Grimble with various celebrity
authors, including Patrick White, Salman Rushdie and Martin
Amis.

Grimble got Robyn to sit on a
couch and dropped down next to her. He crossed his legs. "You said
on the phone you’ve got a few more questions. How can I help?"

Robyn took a pad from her bag
and put it on her lap. "I’m really trying to find out more about
Alice Markham: dig around in her past, see if anyone else had a
motive to kill her. I thought I should talk to you first, because
you knew her so well."

"Yes, I did. I employed her for
about ten years. We grew very close."

"You must have been shocked when
she was murdered?"

"Absolutely stunned. And when I
heard Rex was charged, it just took my breath away.
Unbelievable."

"What exactly did Alice do for
you?"

"Well, I started this business
on my own. But as it expanded, I employed assistants. Alice was the
first. Then, about four years ago, I employed another woman,
Beverley Nolan. She’s still with me."

"Really? When we visited the
murder scene, Rex brought a friend called Tim Nolan. Any
relation?"

"Yes. They’re married. You see,
Alice and Bev worked very closely together and became good friends.
Then their husbands - Rex and Tim - got to know each other."

"OK. So Alice and Beverley were
your assistants. But what, exactly, did they do?"

"Basically looked after any
clients I didn’t have time to handle."

"Looked after? How?"

"Oh, stroked their egos, edited
their manuscripts, negotiated with publishers, handled their PR,
passed on royalty cheques…"

"After deducting your
commission?"

"Of course. This isn’t a
charity."

"How many writers did Alice
handle?"

"About twenty or so."

"Big names?"

"A few. But I handled most of
them."

"Like Rex?"

"Yes."

"He didn’t want his wife to act
for him?"

"They wanted to keep their
professional and private lives separate. Understandable, I
think."

"So who looks after her writers
now?"

"I do, except for one."

"Who?"

"A novelist called Richard
Olsen."

"Why not him?"

Grimble smiled ruefully.
"Because I’ve got absolutely no goddamn idea who he is."

"How come?"

"‘Richard Olsen’ is his
pseudonym; I don’t know his real name."

"Why not?"

"Because Alice somehow
discovered him and brought him to this firm. She promised him she
wouldn’t divulge his identity to anyone, including me. And now
she’s taken that secret to her grave."

"You’re kidding?"

A tight smile. "I wish I
was."

"And he hasn’t contacted your
firm since she died?"

"Correct."

"Forgive my ignorance: what’s he
written?"

"Only one novel, called
Waiting for Rain
. It’s about a small country town in the
grip of a drought. Everybody goes crazy and someone starts
strangling little old ladies. Eventually, the cops find the culprit
is the local priest, who’s lost his faith. The book came out a few
years ago. Won several awards. It’s brilliant. Just brilliant.
Richard Olsen - whoever the hell he is - is a major talent."

Robyn knew this was a big
detour, but was intrigued. "If he’s so good, why doesn’t he want
anyone to know his real name?"

Grimble shrugged. "How would I
know? I’ve never met him."

"It seems rather strange."

"Of course it does. But
novelists are strange people. They spend years writing manuscripts
that rarely get published and, when they are, often get mauled by
critics and dumped into remainder bins. Anyone who’ll go through
that wringer must have some very big screws loose."

"Including Rex Markham?"

Grimble laughed. "He’s saner
than most, but I wouldn’t give him a clean bill of health."

"Did Alice Markham give you any
clues about who Richard Olsen might be?"

"Not really. I mean, at first, I
suspected he was one of her existing novelists. Then I realized he
couldn’t be. None was good enough to write something like
Waiting for Rain
. Nor did they have Olsen’s style." Grimble
shrugged. "Of course, I could be wrong on both counts: judging
novels is a very subjective art."

"Did you ever ask to meet this
guy?"

"Of course. But Alice said he
wouldn’t see me. She said I should be glad, because he was
difficult to deal with."

"Difficult? In what way?"

"For a start, she claimed he
lusted after her."

"Really? And how did she
respond?"

"According to her, she brushed
him off."

"Has he written anything else,
since
Waiting for Rain
?"

"Yes, but I haven’t seen
it."

"What do you mean?"

"I kept pestering Alice about
when he’d produce another novel and she kept saying he was hard at
work, but she didn’t know when he’d finish it. So I started to
assume he was a one-novel wonder, when …"

Robyn was completely hooked.
"When what?"

"A couple of weeks before Alice
died, she said he’d sent her another manuscript."

"Wow. Did you read it?"

"No. But Alice did and was very
disappointed; said it needed a lot more work before it could be
published."

"Did she explain what was
wrong?"

"No, and I didn’t ask. She said
Olsen was very upset when she gave him her verdict."

"Does that surprise you?"

"No. Novelists are very touchy
people. They think everything they’ve scribbled deserves a Nobel
Prize."

"And what happened to the
manuscript? Where is it now?"

Grimble frowned. "I don’t know.
After Alice died, I searched her office and didn’t find it."

"Got any idea where it might
be?"

"Nope. Maybe she sent it back to
Richard Olsen with her comments. I don’t know."

Robyn slowly exhaled. "That’s
quite a story. So maybe Richard Olsen killed Alice?"

Grimble looked surprised.
"You’re kidding, aren’t you? Why would he kill her?"

"I don’t know: to protect his
identity; because he was infatuated with her; because she said his
second novel was crap. There are lots of possible reasons."

A hard stare. "I think you’re
grasping at straws."

Robyn knew he was right. Richard
Olsen, whoever he was, probably had nothing to do with Alice’s
death. But she had no other leads and was quite curious to know his
real identity. "Maybe. But Rex doesn’t have to
prove
that
someone else murdered Alice. He just has to create a reasonable
doubt."

Grimble nodded. "True."

Robyn got to her feet. "Well,
thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Do you mind if I speak to
Beverley Nolan?"

Grimble frowned and nodded
reluctantly. "No. It’s a free country. Let me introduce you."

He led Robyn down the short
corridor and stepped into a small, cluttered office. At a desk,
reading a galley proof, was a thin woman in her mid-thirties with a
blonde page-boy haircut, pert features and turbulent eyes. She gave
Robyn a probing stare.

Grimble said: "Bev, this is
Robyn Parker, one of Rex Markham’s barristers. She wants to chat
with you, if you’ve got time."

Beverley Nolan folded a wary
gaze into a tense smile. "Sure. No problem."

Grimble hesitated and shrugged.
"Alright then, I’ll leave you two alone."

As he disappeared, Beverley
Nolan took some books off the only other chair and asked Robyn to
sit.

Once seated, Robyn nodded
towards the galley proof. "Interesting book?"

"Hardly. It’s a gardening
manual."

"So you don’t only work with
novelists?"

Beverley grimaced. "No. In fact,
I usually handle our non-fiction writers. They write cookbooks,
gardening manuals, self-help books, travel guides, biographies and
stuff like that. Hugh and Alice usually handled the novelists."

"You're busy?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because the book industry ain’t
what it used to be: publishers are disappearing; book shops are
closing; everybody is publishing on-line and digital piracy is
rife. It’s a bold new world in which literary agents probably won’t
even have bit parts."

Robyn noticed a framed
photograph of Tim Nolan on the desk. "You know, I’ve met your
husband, Tim."

"Really?"

"Yes. He was with Rex when we
all visited the murder scene."

Beverley nodded. "Oh, yes,
that’s right. Tim went along to support Rex. They’re good
friends."

"How’d that come about?"

"Because Alice and I were close,
Tim and Rex kept bumping into each other, and eventually became
good mates."

"Are you close to Rex?"

Beverley shook her head. "Not
really. We’ve never hit it off."

"Why not?"

A shrug. "I’ve always found him
a bit arrogant, I suppose. And he used to bully Alice and criticize
her in public, which I couldn’t stand." Beverley smiled. "In fact,
I don’t even like his novels."

"Why not?"

Beverley smiled. "I think he
tries too hard to imitate Le Carre, but only proves he’s nowhere
near as good as The Master."

"Ouch."

Beverley smiled. "You
asked."

"Yes, I did. But your opinion of
him didn’t affect your friendship with Alice?"

"Oh, no. We were very close.
Told each other everything."

Robyn felt a hint of excitement.
Beverley was just the sort of person who might have vital
information. "You talked about her marriage?"

"Oh, yes, and I had a ring-side
seat when it fell apart. They agreed to divorce. Did you know that?
They even started talking - or rather, arguing - about dividing up
their assets. Alice thought he was trying to hide his money and rip
her off."

"And she wanted to stop
that?"

"Of course."

"Rex thinks she was having an
affair. That true?"

Beverley bit her lip and looked
out the window at the patchy grey sky. "I’d rather not
comment."

Robyn interpreted that as a big
"yes". She edged forward on her chair. "I’m afraid you must. Rex
has been charged with murder. So if you’ve got any information -
any at all - that might save him, you should tell me. I know you
don't like him. But you wouldn’t want that on your conscience."

Beverley hesitated. "OK. But if
I tell you what I know, it’s off the record, right? You won’t tell
anyone - including Rex - that I told you?"

Robyn couldn’t honestly promise
that, but was desperate for the information. "Yes, of course."

"Alright. But if you try to
involve me, I’ll deny telling you anything. Understand?"