Booked for Murder (14 page)

Lindsay stared at Lauren, food forgotten. “Did Penny say why she wanted to get into the offices?”

Lauren shrugged. “Not exactly. But she wanted to know if I knew if the computers were on a network and if people like Baz and Danny had their own separate terminals. I said I didn't know what the exact set-up was, but I sussed she was only mentioning Danny as a sort of diversion. It was Baz she was really interested in. I didn't give a toss anyway. I mean, you've seen what a shit that Baz can be. So I said all right, I'd hang on late one night and I'd let her in. We agreed that she'd lock up and drop the keys back round my flat when she'd done.”

“And did it all go off smoothly?”

“Course it did. She made it worth my while, didn't she?” Lauren said pointedly. Lindsay pulled out her wallet and looked inside. Apart from traveller's checks, she had about fifty pounds in cash. She took out a twenty and slid it across the table. Lauren looked at her pityingly. The second twenty followed, Lauren pointedly staring into the wallet as Lindsay dug it out. She continued to look expectant as she picked up the second twenty.

“Tube fare, Lauren,” Lindsay said. “I need tube fare. If your information pans out, I'll get you some more money from Meredith, okay?”

Lauren sighed. “I suppose.”

“What time did Penny bring the keys back?”

“It wasn't that late. About half ten, I suppose.”

“Had she found what she was looking for?” Lindsay asked.

“Don't know. She never said. And I didn't ask, neither. She must've left things the way she found them, though, because nobody said anything about somebody raking through their stuff or buggering up their computer.”

“Did she come in the office after that? I mean, officially.”

Lauren frowned as she gobbled the last of her lunch. “Yeah, now you come to mention it, she did. The day before she died. She had a meeting with Baz late morning. But Baz was out. Susan said there wasn't anything in the diary and Penny said Baz must have forgotten to write it down. Penny was a bit put out. She said it had messed up her whole day's writing, so Susan got Danny to take her out to lunch. He had a face like fizz when he came back, so I suppose it screwed up his day too. He gave Baz a right gobful, told her Penny Varnavides was a lot more valuable to Monarch than she was and next time she made an appointment with her, she'd better not forget it unless she wanted to start looking for another job.” Lauren sniggered. “Baz had a gob on her like a dried prune.”

“And that was the last time Penny was in the office.”

Lauren nodded. “Far as I know.”

Lindsay drank her water and wondered what to ask about next. Then she remembered the crucial question. “Do you do the incoming post?”

“Nah. That's Gary in the post room.”

“So you wouldn't know who had access to the manuscripts that Penny sent in?”

Lauren shook her head as she lit a cigarette, leaking smoke from her mouth like a damaged flue. “No idea. Sorry. Why d'you want to know? I mean, maybe I could find out for you.”

“You know how Penny was murdered the same way one of the victims dies in
Heart of Glass
? Well, I'm just trying to find out who exactly knew what happens in the book.”

Lauren gave a knowing smile. “You don't need to talk to the post room to find that out. Everybody knew.”

“What? About the beer bottle exploding?”

“Yeah, everybody knew about
that
.” Lauren looked very pleased with herself.

“How?”

“They had a bit of an argy-bargy about it. They were talking to Nigel, who does the covers, about what was going on the front of
Heart of Glass
. Penny told Nigel about the murder method and said
the cover should be just the title and her name and a splinter of glass, all on a black background. And Baz said no, she'd been meaning to talk to Penny about that, and the whole thing was just too far-fetched and she didn't believe in it and she wanted her to come up with a different idea. And Penny said no way, José, it was perfectly feasible and she thought it was dramatic and ironic and it was staying.”

“They got heated?” Lindsay asked eagerly.

“Not really. It was like it was part of the whole arm's-length thing. Baz just wasn't prepared to go head to head with Penny. She just backed down and said okay, if it was that important to Penny it could stay. Everybody was gobsmacked, because Baz never backs down with her authors. Like, never. That's why it stuck in my mind. So you see, everybody at Monarch knew about the murder method. And God alone knows who they went home and told.”

Chapter 10

L
indsay sat in the swaying tube train, her thoughts swirling in confusion. At breakfast, she'd had two suspects—three if she'd been prepared to include Meredith. But thanks to Lauren's revelations, she now had dozens. The publishing world was so riddled with gossip that if anything could be guaranteed, it was that half London would know Penny Varnavides and her editor weren't seeing eye to eye. The disagreement over the bottled beer murder method would have been discussed avidly among publishers, agents and, by now, probably authors too. Rather than narrowing down her list of suspects, Lindsay's visit to Monarch had swelled it a hundredfold.

As if that wasn't bad enough, she didn't have the faintest idea what to do next. But if six years in California had taught her anything, it was that there weren't many problems that couldn't be eased by some judicious retail therapy. For some, that took the form of trawling the department stores and boutiques for designer clothes at charity shop prices. For others, the gourmet food stores were the fount of all comfort. For Lindsay, shopping paradise took the form of second-hand book and CD stores, where she could browse for hours, then emerge with some obscure gem that cost next to nothing. It didn't matter when Sophie pointed out that in the time she had taken to find that single specimen, Lindsay could have written an article that would have earned enough to buy a dozen brand-new CDs or hardback books. The
hunt was the fun as much as the purchase, and fun was what Lindsay needed in her present mood.

However, given Sophie's decidedly stiff manner on the phone the previous evening, Lindsay realized a serious peace offering was going to be required at the airport when Sophie arrived the following week. There was nothing more calculated to win her round than some obscure object to add to her collection of historic obstetric instruments. Lindsay could hardly look at them without wincing and crossing her legs, but they fascinated Sophie. And if her memory served her well, one of the antique shops in Camden catered for such perverse tastes. Lindsay could find something for Sophie, then indulge herself in the second-hand stores around Camden Lock. And if she was really lucky, maybe the logical part of her brain, left in peace, would come up with a possible new direction for her investigation.

Just over an hour later, she emerged from the antique shop with an 1860s variant of a Higginson syringe, a fearsome object used by surgeons for aborting the unwanted foetuses of the gentry as well as for routine internal spring-cleaning. Just listening to the shopkeeper describe its function made Lindsay's flesh creep.

As she walked towards the canal, she started to review what she had learned earlier. She'd got as far as rerunning her conversation with Baz when a hand clamped heavily on her shoulder. Her stomach lurched, seized by the same panic she'd felt escaping from Derek Knight's flat. Startled, Lindsay swung round on the balls of her feet, ready to push her assailant away and run for it.

Familiar red curls swirled in front of her. “What are you doing here?” Helen demanded. “I thought you were off in darkest Shepherd's Bush making citizen's arrests on publishers.”

Lindsay closed her eyes and let out the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding. “Don't ever do that again,” she said. “Jesus, Helen, I've eaten too much cholesterol over the years. Another shock like that and I could drop down dead.”

“You know, sometimes I forget you were a tabloid hack for a million years. Then you go and sound like the front page of the
Sun
and it all comes flooding back to me. Never let the truth get in the way of a good exaggeration, eh? So what are you doing over here?”

“I decided I better arm myself for Sophie's arrival,” Lindsay said, unwrapping her package and waving it under Helen's nose.

“Yeuuch! That's disgusting. Take it away, you revolting little toerag. And don't tell me what it's for,” she warned.

“It's a peace offering.”

“A peace offering? Bloody hell, Lindsay, I know they do things differently in California, but I didn't realize the sex was that bizarre!”

“It's for Sophie's collection,” Lindsay said, casting her eyes upwards in mock exasperation.

“I know that. So, you finished over at Monarch, then?”

“I'm finished. Don't take it personally, but I really don't want to talk about it just now. This is one of those cases where the more I find out, the less I know. And now I come to think about it, what are you doing walking around the streets instead of looking important in your office?”

Helen scowled like a child caught playing truant. “I reached the point where if I'd stayed there a minute longer, even you wouldn't have been able to get me off a murder charge. Come on, I'll treat you to something long and cold and you can listen to me moan.” Without waiting for an answer, Helen linked an arm through Lindsay's and dragged her into a nearby pub which promised air conditioning.

“If you called this air conditioned in California, you'd get lynched,” Lindsay remarked as they stood at the bar. The stale air was admittedly a couple of degrees colder than the street outside, but it reeked of smoke and dead beer.

“I'd heard that about the American justice system,” Helen said sweetly, catching the barman's attention and ordering without consultation two bottles of Belgian raspberry beer. Lindsay looked dubiously at the brownish red liquid in her glass, shrugged resignedly and sipped.

“I've tasted worse,” she muttered as she followed Helen to a quiet corner booth.

“I picked up a tasty bit of goss this morning that might interest you,” Helen said, settling herself on the bench and fanning her face ineffectually with a beermat.

“About Penny?”

“Penny's books, actually. I was talking to a mate of mine, Kes, who brokers co-production deals, and I asked her what she was working on and she told me she's putting something together on Penny's books. Some transatlantic deal to do a TV series. Serious players, too. Galaxy Pictures in the States and an independent over here called Primetime, who've got it slotted in with the BBC.”

Lindsay stared. “The Darkliners novels? Is that what we're talking about?”

Helen nodded. “Apparently so. We're talking a big deal here. First series will be three books, three thirty-minute episodes per book. If it takes off, they'll do all the books, then they'll do like they did with Morse—use the characters and get other writers to do the storylines.”

Lindsay shook her head. “There must be some mistake. Penny hated the idea of her books being made into films or TV programs. Producers were always pitching her and she always turned them down. She said it wasn't like she needed the money, and she didn't want to see her characters trashed on the screen. I remember she used to say, ‘Any time I'm tempted, I say the magic words “V. I. Warshawski” and I waken from my enchantment.' Are you sure you got it right?”

Helen breathed heavily through her nose. “I'm sure I'm sure. I didn't realize Penny felt like that. I thought this was some routine agreement they were working out with her. From what Kes was saying, they've just got some final details to iron out, but the deal should be done and dusted within the next few weeks.”

“I just can't believe Penny would agree to this,” Lindsay said. “She said nothing to me about it, and I'm sure if she'd discussed it with Sophie, I'd have heard. Meredith said nothing about it either. I wonder how they persuaded Penny? It must have taken something really special to get round her objections . . .” Lindsay's voice tailed off and her eyes widened.

“Like murder?” Helen wondered.

“Like murder,” Lindsay echoed. “If you kill somebody, you don't need their consent any more. Particularly when you're their literary executor.”

There was silence for a moment while they both considered the implications of what Helen had learned. “That can't be right,” Helen said eventually. “This isn't something that's just been cobbled together over the last couple of days. Kes's company must have been in negotiation for months.”

“Would Penny have had to know that?”

Helen pondered. “Not necessarily, I suppose. Authors tend to get involved in negotiations if they want to write the script themselves or if they want to have a fair bit of input into the end product. But some of them just want to take the money and run, in which case they leave it up to their agents to do the business and they never actually meet the people who are planning to make the film.”

“So what you're saying—let me get this straight—is that Penny's agent could have been working out the terms of this deal without Penny ever having had to meet the other parties? And that's normal?” Lindsay asked, feeling slightly like Alice in Wonderland.

“Penny might not even have known there were negotiations going on. Quite often, agents just don't mention negotiations to their client authors till they're a long way down the road. TV and film companies are always scouting around for stuff. Out of every hundred approaches an agent gets from a film company, they might actually sign five options. And out of every hundred option contracts that get signed, maybe five get made. With those kind of odds, you can see why agents let things move quite a long way down the road before they mention them to authors. Otherwise their phone lines would be permanently clogged with clients demanding to know what the latest was on the deal and how soon they were going to be able to buy the house with the swimming pool. And then nobody would ever get any work done.”