Peter Lovesey - The Circle

'I don't have a computer.'

'Oh.' There was too much disappointment in that 'Oh'. He made an effort to brighten up. 'Well, perhaps you should invest in one and write a chapter about the difference it makes to your life.'

'It would take me years to learn. I suffer from technophobia. My book is meant for people like me who are trying to survive in a world where every other person in the street is holding something to his ear and shouting things nobody wants to hear.'

'Then perhaps this is a "How to Survive" book.'

'Possibly.'

'There are other technophobes out there,' Blacker said. 'Plenty of others. The secret of successful publishing is all about identifying a market. Let me think about this.' He set the typescript on the stack. 'Is there anyone I missed?'

Maurice said, 'I think not. Several of our members chose not to submit anything at this point in time.'

Anton said, 'Chairman, that is one of the most deplorable of all cliches.'

'Thank you, Anton.' Turning to Blacker, Maurice said, 'Anton is our vigilante, ever on the lookout for lapses of speech.'

'You'd make a useful proofreader, then,' Blacker said. 'I didn't notice a script from you, sir.'

'I wasn't ready,' Anton said.

'And the young lady. .?'

'Works long hours at a hairdressing salon and finds it difficult to put together anything of any length,' Maurice said with a smile in the direction of Sharon. She looked up, content to stay silent. The camera zoomed in on her notepad. Some of the doodles looked artistic.

'Length is not important,' Blacker said. 'I'd be willing to look at anything, however slight.'

'As the actress said to the bishop,' Thomasine said in an undertone that the mike on the camera picked up but Blacker did not.

'Any questions, then?' he said.

Dagmar was the first to come in. 'When can we expect to see Maurice's book in print?'

'Ah, Maurice's book,' Blacker said and for a moment he was caught off guard. Watching him now, it was obvious there was a problem. 'Yes, Unsolved. As soon as I saw it, I thought this is right for us. We must publish it. As to when, I don't have my schedules in front of me.'

'The first Thursday in September,' Maurice reminded him.

'There you are, then,' Blacker said. 'It's in the pipeline. Nearly through the pipeline, in fact. Another question?'

You talked about the tips in Jessie's book,' Anton said. 'Do you have any tips of your own to pass on to the circle?'

'To assist your writing, you mean? The one thing I would recommend is to get the tools for the job. I don't mean expensive computers or reams of paper. I'm talking about a decent dictionary, for example, a modern one, not something handed down by your grandfather, and some basic reference books connected to your topic. Some sort of filing system also helps because you'll be cutting things out of newspapers and magazines. Keep everything you are ever likely to use. I'm a hoarder, and not ashamed to say it. My house is filled with cuttings and photos from years back. Letters, notebooks, videos. I wish I was better organised because I'm starting to write a memoir of my chequered career and I have to keep stopping to look for things, but it's all there somewhere. I expect you have the same problem, Maurice. You must have stacks of material on unsolved murders.'

'Quite a bit,' Maurice said. 'I've only used about a tenth of it.'

'Ah, it's the iceberg principle. What is on view isn't the whole story. There's a huge amount underpinning it.'

Anton said, 'Mixed metaphor.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Another question,' Maurice said.

'How much do you pay?' This from Tudor, still unhappy that his script hadn't been discussed.

Maurice said at once, 'I don't think that's appropriate.'

'Why?'

You don't ask that sort of question.'

'He's in business. We're the people offering the goods. We're entitled to know what he pays.'

Dagmar said, 'Tudor, we're not selling tins of beans.'

'That's debatable.'

'Tudor, how could you!'

'The whole thing about writers is that if they knew anything about business they wouldn't be writers anyway.'

Maurice said, 'Equally you could say that a genuine writer doesn't do it for the money. You know very well, Tudor, that a publisher and his author come to a private agreement.'

'You mean you don't want to tell us how much you're getting?'

Blacker tried to take some heat out of the exchange. 'What a publisher pays is an advance on the royalties of the book. If it sells well, more is paid to the author. Of course a new writer is an unknown quantity, so the publisher can't be expected to risk a large amount up front, so to speak. We publishers are notoriously bad payers, and it isn't just the writers who suffer. We pay peanuts to our employees. There's a story of Billy Collins, the famous publisher, kneeling to receive his knighthood from the Queen. When she tapped him on the shoulder with the sword and said, "Rise, Sir William," he didn't get up. She tried again. Still no response. Then someone said, "Ma'am, why don't you try, 'Stand up.' Rise is not a word he understands."'

The audience enjoyed that. Maurice waited for the laughter to end and said, 'That seems a good note on which to stop. Thank you, Edgar. I think we'll leave it there, but before we do, I believe someone would like to say a few words?' He looked towards Miss Snow. She looked to her left.

Tudor, of all people, had been asked to give the vote of thanks.

He was on his feet. 'This has been very instructive. Let's face it, we're just a bunch of wannabes — with one exception — so the chance to meet a living, breathing publisher doesn't often come our way, and you'll have to forgive some of our dumb questions — if that isn't an oxymoron. You've given us the kid-glove treatment, sir, praised our modest efforts — for the most part — and handed down enough encouragement to keep us dreaming our dreams of rising up the bestseller lists. We wish your publishing venture every success, especially as some of us might have a stake in it. And now someone has a token of appreciation tucked away somewhere.' He glanced towards Miss Snow, who produced a glittery bag containing a bottle. 'Ah. This, then, comes with our thanks, and I invite you all to show your appreciation in the traditional way.'

Bob continued to watch until the image vanished after a few seconds. He switched off. He would run it again some time. Enough had emerged to give him new angles on several of the circle, and the murder victim, Edgar Blacker. The talk wasn't quite the buttering up he'd been led to expect. Tudor's ego had taken some knocks and so had Jessie's. Naomi had seen through the waffle about the witchcraft book. But was there enough to trigger a murder?

The expectations had been high. They'd handed in their best work wanting to hear good things. It wasn't like getting back an essay they'd written at school when they knew their place in the pecking order. These were grown-ups. No one with clout in the publishing world had judged their work in years — except Dagmar's. All those rejection letters must have been tough, but even she hadn't seen her critics face to face until now.

So what did Blacker's verdict amount to? Well, he'd wrapped it up as prettily as he could, but only Zach's science fiction got the nod. Basil's gardening stuff needed expanding, and was going to bring unwanted publicity. The reverse was true of Thomasine's poems. They needed thinning out. Miss Snow's biography had no bite to it. Jessie's tips were old-fashioned. It was obvious he hadn't read Naomi's witchcraft book or Dagmar's latest romance and whatever he thought of Tudor's life story wasn't fit to be heard by everyone else.

A few tears must have been shed that night.