The Word Is Murder(59)

‘This is an adult book.’

‘It’s true crime! You’re not a true crime writer. And anyway, true crime doesn’t sell.’ She reached for her wine glass. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ve got The House of Silk coming out in a few months and you know how much I like that book. I thought the idea we agreed was that you were going to write a sequel.’

‘I will!’

‘You should be working on that now. That’s what people are going to want to read. Why should anyone be interested in this … what’s he called?’

‘Hawthorne. Daniel Hawthorne but he doesn’t use his first name.’

‘They never do. He’s a detective.’

‘He used to be a detective.’

‘So he’s an unemployed detective! “The Unemployed Detective”. Is that what you’re going to call the book? Do you have a title yet?’

‘No.’

She threw back the wine. ‘I really don’t understand what’s attracted you to this. Do you like him?’

‘Not terribly,’ I admitted.

‘Then why will anyone else?’

‘He’s very clever.’ I knew how feeble that sounded.

‘He hasn’t solved the case.’

‘Well, he’s still working on it.’

The waiter arrived with the main courses and I told her about some of the interviews where I’d been present. The trouble was, apart from the notes I’d taken, I hadn’t written anything down yet and, in the telling, it all sounded very vague and anecdotal … boring even. Imagine trying to describe, in detail, the plot of an Agatha Christie. That was how it was for me.

In the end she interrupted. ‘Who is this man, Hawthorne?’ she asked. ‘What makes him fun? Does he drink single malt whisky? Does he drive a classic car? Does he like jazz or opera? Does he have a dog?’

‘I don’t know anything about him,’ I said, miserably. ‘He used to be married and he has an eleven-year-old son. He may have pushed someone down a flight of stairs at Scotland Yard. He doesn’t like gay people … I don’t know why.’

‘Is he gay?’

‘No. He hates talking about himself. He won’t let me come close.’

‘Then how can you write about him?’

‘If he solves the case …’

‘Some cases can take years to solve. Are you going to follow him around London for the rest of your life?’ She had ordered veal escalope. She sliced into it as if it had caused her offence. ‘You’re going to have to change names,’ she added. ‘You can’t just barge into people’s houses and put them in a book.’ She glared at me. ‘You’d better change my name! I don’t want to be in it.’

‘Look, at the end of the day, this is an interesting case,’ I insisted. ‘And I think Hawthorne is an interesting man. I’m going to try and find out more about him.’

‘How?’

‘There’s a detective I met. I’ll start with him.’ I was thinking about Charlie Meadows. Maybe he’d talk to me if I bought him a drink.

‘Have you talked to Mr Hawthorne about money?’ Hilda asked, chewing on her veal.

It was the question I had been dreading. ‘I suggested fifty-fifty.’

‘What?’ She almost threw down her knife and fork. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You’ve written forty novels. You’re an established writer. He’s an out-of-work detective. If anything, he should be paying you to write about him and certainly he shouldn’t be getting more than twenty per cent.’

‘It’s his story!’

‘But you’re the one writing it.’ She sighed. ‘Do you really mean to go ahead with this?’

‘It’s a bit late to back out now,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure I want to. I was there in the room, Hilda. I actually saw the dead body, cut to ribbons, covered in blood.’ I glanced at my steak, then put down my knife and fork. ‘I want to know who did it.’

‘All right.’ She gave me the sort of look that said that no good would come of this but it wasn’t her fault. ‘Give me his number. I’ll talk to him. But I should warn you now, you’re still under contract for two more books and at least one of them is meant to be set in the nineteenth century. I’m not sure your publishers are going to be interested in this.’

‘Fifty-fifty,’ I said.

‘Over my dead body.’

After lunch, I headed off to Victoria, feeling like a schoolboy playing truant. Why was I suddenly hiding everything from everyone? I hadn’t told my wife anything about Hawthorne and here I was, slipping off to meet him again without having mentioned it to Hilda. Hawthorne was worming his way into my life in a way that was definitely unhealthy. The worst of it was that I was actually looking forward to seeing him, to finding out what happened next. What I’d just said to Hilda was true. I was hooked.

I don’t like Victoria and hardly ever go there. Why would I? It’s a weird part of London on the wrong side of Buckingham Palace. As far as I know, it has no decent restaurants, no shops selling anything anyone could possibly want, no cinemas and just a couple of theatres that feel cut off and separated from their natural home in Shaftesbury Avenue. Victoria station is so old-fashioned you almost expect a steam train to pull in and the moment you step outside, you find yourself lost in a haphazard junction of shabby, seedy streets that all look the same. In recent years, they’ve introduced cheerful guides who stand on the forecourt of the station in bowler hats, giving tourists advice. The only advice I’d give them is to go somewhere else.