The Writer (30 page)

“The writing is not what
now? Not telling you?”

“Tell me about Craigfield,
Sheriff.”

“I will, if you like, if
that will make you happy. Craigfield? Since you’ve been bugging me
about him, insisting I make inquires for you, I’ve ended up talking
to every living thing in the area. Not just Gendry, but all the
outlying farms and out-of-the-way loners who’d rather not be
disturbed, and in these parts we have quite a few of those. And you
know what they told me, what they all told me, as one and in
unison? Do you know what it was?”

“What?” Dan asked as he
expected something outlandish.

“They have never heard of
anyone called Craigfield. Or even anyone called Craig Field, or any
other kind of variation you want to come up with. Now, this was
before I went to explain the complications of his name to them, and
to tell you the truth, I doubt they’d be able to follow any of it.
But what’s the point if no bells are being rung with whatever
version they’re hearing? Go ahead and ask anyone you like, anyone
you see, in the street or door-to-door, and they’ll tell you the
same thing: No one with that name has ever been in Gendry. Not
ever. Sophie Trent never had any boyfriend here, was never seen
talking to any tall blond handsome stranger, or any other kind of
stranger. Her grandmother had no one staying in her house other
than Sophie for the past year. What else did you say? Oh, yes: This
dent you’ve spotted? Deer. Just a plague in these parts. Gave the
thing a good whack but didn’t kill it. Thing came from nowhere and
then ran off into the underbrush just as fast as it appeared. As
can happen in these parts. Need to watch for them. Bit of a
nuisance.”

He went back to his
cigarette, eyeing Dan carefully. “I suggest you do the same,” Andy
then said evenly. “Run off, not to be seen again.”

“I know you did it,” said
Dan, trying to clean dirt from his hands.

“And then what? You want me
to confess? Is that it? Tell me, this writing you have, to prove
what you say, wouldn’t have been written by Max Marshall, would it?
After I asked my people about Craigfield Johnson, I asked them what
they knew about Max Marshall. And you know what they told me? Fool
hassled them by ringing them up in the dead of night and asking for
town gossip. Told them all these outlandish lies about being their
old pal, or some city cousin, or a friend of a friend. Most of my
people knew he was some kind of fool and kept talking to him just
to be polite, as they do here. Too polite for their own good is
what they are. I believe some even told him some family stories
too, to keep him happy, to make him go away.” The last remark was
directed to Dan and they both knew it.

“I know it was
you.”

“And where’s your evidence
for such an allegation?”

Dan looked at him and then
the car, and realised that he didn’t have any. Not anything real.
Not anything that would prove his case in court.

“Didn’t think so,” said
Andy. “Now go back to your city and leave us alone. We like the way
things are done around here. City people, they cause nothing but
trouble, all their speeding and such. To put the blame on one of
them, no one thinks anything else, and nor do they want
to.”

Dan watched Andy walk back
to his office with a swagger. He looked again at the dent and knew
that it must have been caused by Longbottom. Andy was in his office
by the time he caught up to him.

“I’ll tell the whole town if
you don’t confess,” said Dan.

“Go ahead,” Andy said with
his feet up on his desk, his morning paper open. “And I’ll tell
them how you’re off the case and are, in fact, off any kind of
case. If you like, I can ask your boss to come up here specially to
detail how you’re not fit for work. What was it put you over the
edge, Dan? Was it the stress? From what I heard, it got to you real
bad this time. Been overeating a lot, they say. And they say you’ve
been on a diet. Just makes it worse when you go from diet to binge.
Shame there’s no evidence to that particular rumour, huh? Not like
you look a little overweight? And another funny thing your boss
told me: Did you know Max Marshall’s been calling him constantly,
asking if it’s all right to turn off his computer? Did you know he
printed out what you wrote and took it into your office? Some of
your kind colleagues pinned it to the cafeteria wall, and they all
had a real good laugh at it. All except your boss, of course, who
tore it to pieces and turned a colour not usually associated with
healthy people. That’s what I heard, anyway. So many rumours
around, these days.”

“But what I know about you
is true. Every bit of it, all true. The computer said it
was.”

“A computer now?”

“They both agreed it was
you. You can’t argue with that. That writing you’re talking about,
it’s all about you and how you thought you got away with
it.”

Andy looked at Dan without
expression. For the first time Dan realised that he could not get
his man. There was to be no confession gained by confrontation. The
lawman knew what to say and what not to say. He did not share Dan’s
belief in the power of the writing and it was now obvious that
nobody else would.

Andy saw Dan’s frustration
and sneered. “I don’t know what you do from here; where you go with
this idea of yours. But the fact is, no one cares. All they can see
is a detective losing his mind. There’s nothing for you here,
Ironwright. Have a safe trip back home, now, won’t you? You’re not
welcome here. Not welcome, not by anyone.”

Dan felt his chest tighten,
this time more painful than ever.

PROLOGUE:

THE TRAIN

The young woman noticed that
the man across the aisle was tapping away at his laptop computer
with a speed and confidence that she only dreamed she could have.
His computer was an older model, about twice the size of what you
could get now. She could never feel comfortable in using one like
that, in public, on a train, where anyone could read it. They were
the only two amongst ten rows of seats and she tried to be discreet
and she leaned closer to see the screen. She was surprised at how
much text there was; enough to distract anyone from the world
around them.

If he had not previously
drawn her attention by commenting on how nice the scenery was, and
that he thought she was missing it, she would not have had the
confidence to say anything to him. Her answer was that she was
looking forward more to the end of the journey rather than the bits
in-between. The train journey was not a long one, but it had seemed
so when she was a girl. She had many childhood memories of watching
the world go by outside those windows. Now it looked different. She
hoped it was the scenery that had changed and not her.

“Catching up on your work?”
she asked him.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, not
expecting her to ask about his writing.

“Didn’t mean to disturb your
concentration. It’s just, I couldn’t help noticing your computer.
Looks like a lot of text to get through. All that would make my
eyes hurt.”

“I’m a writer, so the more
text the better; the more evidence I have that I’m working and not
wasting time in playing computer games or net surfing.”

“I’m a writer too. Trying to
be, anyway.”

He smiled and nodded, took
note of her nice figure and then decided to take a break and sit
back to enjoy the scenery, both inside and out.

“There are days I wonder why
I stick with it,” he admitted after a few moments. “To write, I
mean. Some days you can sit and stare and nothing happens, or
worse, you can write for hours and the next day delete it all and
wonder what I was thinking.”

“I know what you mean,” she
said. “You know what I do when that happens? I say to myself:
writing is easier than not writing.”

“I like that,” he said,
thinking that he may use the quote.

“But I don’t know how you
can write on one of those things.”

“My laptop? It’s a wonder of
modern science, I reckon. I’d be lost without it. That and my
spellcheck, but I hardly need to use it. You know what I really
like? The word count. Keeps me on my toes, knowing how many I’m
putting down. How fast I can go an hour.”

“What I’d really prefer is
one of those old-fashioned typewriters. Seeing the words forming on
the paper, with actual ink, makes me feel like I’m part of the
process of producing a book. Paper, ink, words, sentences. If I try
on a computer it doesn’t seem real.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.
Except those old typewriters have no word count. Or backspace. I
like my backspace. Delete is good too. Cut and paste.”

“Everything you need for
actual writing,” she agreed.

“I’m Max Marshall. You might
have seen one or two of my books.”

“Sorry, but I haven’t. I’m
Sophie Trent, and you wouldn’t have seen anything from me since
I’ve never had anything published. Maybe one day.”

“What sort of writing do you
want to do?”

“I want to try a novel.
Maybe something dark and mysterious. I know you weren’t expecting
me to say that.”

“Actually, I think it’s good
to get away from our comfort zones, and take on worlds we don’t
normal inhabit. As for myself, I’ve tapped all of what I know, and
I wish I knew what else I could write about.”

“Why not write about a girl
from the city going to live for a month with her grandmother in the
quaint town of Gendry, to write her great novel?”

“Yes, that is well out of my
comfort zone. Would this story be yours? Are you the girl from the
city going to Gendry?”

“It is my story, but not the
one I want to write about. But you can write that if you want
to.”

“Write about
you?”

“And all the interesting
characters who live in the town.”

“Actually, that sounds
interesting. But you couldn’t write about my life, it’s too dull.
Writer sits at his desk all day, sometimes managing to put a
sentence together, but mostly not. Massive attack of writer’s
block. Okay, I’m not really like that, since I can usually get
something done if I have to. Maybe for ten minutes once, I might
have been. Last June, I think it was.”

Sophie laughed. “That line
sounds better than anything I’ve come up with myself
lately.”

“Could we really do that?”
Max pondered.

“Do what?”

“If I wrote about you and
you wrote about me?”

“Do you have something I can
write about?”

“You want something dark and
mysterious? What about dark and sad?”

“Is that what your life
is?”

“Actually, yes, it is, I’m
sorry to admit. I think my wife is cheating on me. No, I know she
is. And you know what? It’s probably for the best. I don’t know if
we’ve ever been happy together. Write about that; I dare
you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Sophie couldn’t resist
asking, “Do you know who it is she’s seeing?”

“I do, actually. Craigfield
is his name.”

“Craigfield? What an odd
name.”

“Make him a bad guy, please.
Who throws on the charm.”

“I will.”

Max shook his head. “I don’t
know if this is a good idea or not.”

“No, it is. I like it. Why
not do it? We have enough time on this trip to exchange info about
all the interesting characters in our lives.”

“I mean if we get published.
It might look suspicious.”

“Don’t worry, I have too
much professional pride to admit to anyone that I’ve stolen my
ideas from a real person. Tell me more about this
Craigfield.”

“I might have to put him
into your story.”

“Then make him tall and
handsome, and he sweeps me off my feet.”

“I can do that, but only if
he betrays you in the end.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’d have to. I’m not one
for happy endings.”

“No, I like this idea, Max.
But for it to work you’d need to tell me everything you can, about
your life, your friends, their lives, as much as you want put into
a book for people to read. And I’ll do the same for you. Whoever
gets published first, the other one has to deny knowing anything
about it, and throw their work away.”

“That’s a hard bargain. But
you know, I think it’s intriguing enough to work.”

“We’ll see whose is the most
believable, the one that can fool people the most and make them
think it’s real.”

“What a devious mind you
have.”

“Would I be a writer without
that?”

When the train stopped at
the Gendry station they went their separate ways, both with more
than enough material. For some reason they both stopped and looked
back at the same time, then smiled and waved.