The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(39)

‘Good idea,’ replied Lloyd. ‘Although I know exactly what I want,’ he added as the waiter reappeared and placed a Manhattan in front of him and a glass of white wine by Emma’s side; the drink she’d ordered at lunch. Emma was impressed.

‘Jimmy, I think we’re ready to order.’ The waiter nodded and turned to Emma’s guest.

‘I’ll have one of your juicy sirloin steaks. Make it medium, and don’t spare on the trimmings.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Turning to Emma, he asked, ‘What can I tempt you with this evening, madam?’

‘A Caesar salad please, Jimmy, but light on the dressing.’

Once the waiter was out of earshot, she turned her menu back over, although she didn’t need to be reminded of the first question. ‘The diary only covered eighteen months of your incarceration,’ she said. ‘But you served more than two years, so I hope we can look forward to another volume.’

‘I still have a notebook full of material,’ said Lloyd, relaxing for the first time. ‘I’ve been thinking about incorporating some of the more extraordinary events I experienced in a novel that I have planned.’

Because if you ever wrote them as a diary, any publisher would realize you weren’t the author, Emma wanted to say.

The sommelier appeared by Lloyd’s side, summoned by the demand of an empty glass.

‘Would you care to see the wine list, sir? Something to complement the steak, perhaps?’

‘Good idea,’ said Lloyd, opening the thick, leather-bound book as if he were the host. He ran his finger down a long list of burgundies, and paused near the bottom. ‘A bottle of the thirty-seven, I think.’

‘An excellent choice, sir.’

Emma presumed that meant it wasn’t cheap. But this was not an occasion to quibble over price.

‘And what a nasty piece of work Hessler turned out to be,’ she said, glancing at her second question. ‘I thought that sort of person only existed in trashy novels, or B-movies.’

‘No, he was real enough,’ said Lloyd. ‘But I did get him transferred to another prison, if you remember.’

‘I do,’ said Emma, as a large steak was placed in front of her guest and a Caesar salad on her side of the table. Lloyd picked up his knife and fork, clearly ready for the challenge.

‘So tell me, what sort of proposal do you have in mind?’ he asked as he dug into the steak.

‘One where you get exactly what you’re worth,’ said Emma, the tone of her voice changing, ‘and not a penny more.’ A puzzled look appeared on Lloyd’s face, and he put down his knife and fork as he waited for Emma to continue. ‘I am well aware, Mr Lloyd, that you didn’t write one word of The Diary of a Convict, other than to replace the real author’s name with your own.’ Lloyd opened his mouth, but before he had time to protest, Emma continued, ‘If you’re foolish enough to keep up the pretence that you wrote the book, my first visit in the morning will be to Mr Brett Elders, your parole officer, and it won’t be to discuss how well your rehabilitation is going.’

The sommelier reappeared, uncorked a bottle, and waited to be told who would be tasting the wine. Lloyd was staring at Emma like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights, so she gave a slight nod. She took her time swirling the wine around in her glass before taking a sip.

‘Excellent,’ she eventually said. ‘I particularly like the thirty-seven.’ The sommelier bowed slightly, poured two glasses and went off in search of another victim.

‘You can’t prove I didn’t write it,’ said Lloyd defiantly.

‘Yes I can,’ said Emma, ‘because I represent the man who did.’ She took a sip of wine before adding, ‘Tom Bradshaw, your deputy librarian.’ Lloyd sank back into his seat and lapsed into a sullen silence. ‘So let me outline the deal I’m proposing, Mr Lloyd, while at the same time making it clear that there is no room for negotiation, unless, of course, you want to go back to prison on a charge of fraud, as well as theft. Should you end up in Pierpoint, I have a feeling Mr Hessler will be only too happy to escort you to your cell, as he doesn’t come out of the book very well.’

Lloyd didn’t look as if the idea appealed to him.

Emma took another sip of wine before continuing. ‘Mr Bradshaw has generously agreed to allow you to continue the myth that you wrote the diary, and he won’t even expect you to give back the advance you were paid, which in any case I suspect you’ve already spent.’ Lloyd pursed his lips. ‘However, he wishes to make it clear that should you be foolish enough to attempt to sell the rights in any other country, a writ for copyright theft will be issued against you and the publisher concerned. Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Lloyd, clutching the arms of his chair.

‘Good. Then that’s settled,’ said Emma, and after taking another sip of wine added, ‘I feel sure you’ll agree, Mr Lloyd, that there’s no purpose in us continuing this conversation, so perhaps the time has come for you to leave.’

Lloyd hesitated.

‘We’ll meet again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, at forty-nine Wall Street.’

‘Forty-nine Wall Street?’

‘The office of Mr Sefton Jelks, Tom Bradshaw’s lawyer.’

‘So it’s Jelks who’s behind this. Well that explains everything.’