Peter Lovesey - The Circle

She pointed the flashlight down the wall she was looking over. A chair stood against it, directly below her. She came to a quick decision, hooked the lamp over the top of the ladder, climbed up a couple of rungs and got one leg over the tie beam at the top and then the other. It was a short drop to the chair. She managed it without mishap.

Some people might have been spooked by entering a room where someone had been asphyxiated. Not Naomi. Opening drawers and cupboards, she listed what was inside and made diagrams. She felt in the pockets of all the jackets, but the only things she found were a soggy cloakroom ticket, a pack of three condoms, marked 'extra safe', and a toothpick, none of which she kept.

Still attached to the wall facing the wardrobe was a framed photo of a much younger Blacker with a blond man, grinning inanely, their arms draped over each other. They held cans in their hands, so it was probably some lads' night out, but they weren't in the T-shirts that were standard wear on such occasions. They were in suit trousers and the shirts with heavy stripes that were essential wear for young executives at one time. As she was lifting the picture off its hook the cardboard backing fell out and the frame disintegrated. No fault of hers, she decided, slipping out the photo. She popped it into her backpack. It would soon have fallen off the wall anyway.

Nothing else was worth bothering about. The thrillers and science fiction beside the bed were unusable. The socks and underclothes in the chest of drawers were heavy with damp. She opened the bedroom door and looked into a burnt-out ruin black as sin, with only stumps where the stairs had been. To take one step on what remained of the landing would have been madness. The smell of burnt wood was overpowering. She closed the door and prepared to leave.

Leave?

She had not foreseen that the only way out would be by standing on the chair and climbing up the wall to where the ladder was. It had been simple letting herself down, but the reverse was more than she could manage. Standing on top of the chair back she could only just get her fingers over the beam she'd dropped from. An Olympic gymnast would have found it a trial. She looked around for something taller to stand on. The chest of drawers, like the wardrobe, was a built-in fixture. The bed was too heavy to move. She struggled with the mattress and dragged it off the bed, but it was so wet she couldn't shift it to the wall.

'Stupid,' she said. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.'

She was trapped. The window was boarded up and the door led into a black void. The cottage was isolated and surrounded with notices telling people to keep out. To shout for help would be useless. Unless she thought of something, there would be a second death in this bedroom.

To everyone's relief, Maurice McDade was sitting in the pub, a wide smile across his face, when they arrived that evening. All the members who had been there the previous night turned up except for Naomi; a fine show of solidarity.

Tudor — the one who had practically had Maurice stitched up — was the first to clap a hand on his shoulder and say, 'Good to see you, boyo. We knew you had nothing to hide.'

'So what happened?' Anton asked, when they all had their drinks.

'A few crossed wires, that's all,' Maurice said. 'They thought they had something on me. Well, I might as well tell you, since it's bound to come out. Edgar Blacker and I had a thumping great row on the day of his death. He told me the production costs of my book had spiralled and he needed five thousand pounds. If it wasn't forthcoming he'd be forced to back down on his agreement to publish.'

Miss Snow said, 'Extraordinary.'

Basil said, 'Oh, my hat.'

Zach said, 'What a wanker.'

'Naturally I was devastated,' Maurice went on. 'He was supposed to pay me some money. The advance — and it wasn't much of one anyway — was due to be paid on the day of publication, which was only days away. I'd done a lot of extra work on the script at his request and he hadn't paid me anything. I told him straight that I didn't have that money to spare, and anyway it wasn't in the contract that I'd pay anything. He said if that was my attitude he had no choice but to pull the book. I was speechless. He didn't even say he was sorry.'

'This was the day someone torched his cottage?' Tudor said.

'The morning after he talked to the circle. He called me up and asked me to come and see him without a hint as to what it was about. I've toiled away at this bloody book, if you'll excuse me, ladies, for years. I really believed it was about to get into print at last. I say it myself, and it's true, that book is worthy of publication.'

'We all know that,' Tudor said. 'You've read the best bits to us.'

'Did you stick one on him?' Zach asked.

'We had an exchange of views. There wasn't a fight, if that's what you mean. I'm not a violent person.'

'Lord, no,' Miss Snow said.

'I told him what I thought of him in no uncertain terms. I don't think I've ever been so angry.'

'But you didn't torch the cottage?' Tudor said.

'Of course not!'

'How did the police get onto you?'

'They won't say.'

'Someone must have seen you. Was there anyone around when you were there?'

'At the cottage? No.'

'The cottage?' Anton said. 'He ran the business from a cottage?'

'Yes. We spoke in the living room where he has his desk.' He spread his hands. 'That's about it.'

'You convinced the police you're innocent?'

'I hope so. They gave me quite a grilling. About three hours. It was getting on for midnight when I got home last night. I felt drained.'

'Don't they have any theory as to the killer?' Anton asked.

'I was the theory. I guess the subject of my book made them suspicious.'

'Well, it would.'

Bob spoke up. You'll have to write another chapter now.'

Everyone laughed and it eased the tension.

'Incidentally,' Maurice said, 'some of you may be called in for questioning.'

This announcement went down like garlic bread in Transylvania. Miss Snow knocked over her lemon shandy and there was a short interval while they mopped up.

'Whatever would they want to question us for?' Anton asked.

'Surely they don't regard any of us as suspects?' Dagmar said.

'They're taking a lot of interest in us,' Maurice said.

'In what way?'

'They questioned me closely about the evening he came to speak to us, wanting to know if anyone spoke to him afterwards.'

You could almost hear the memories ratcheting through the events of that evening.

'Several of us did,' Tudor said. 'It was a heaven-sent opportunity. A friendly publisher in our midst, for Christ's sake! You don't let him get away without testing the water. I don't mind telling you I talked to him about my autobiography.'

'Don't tell me. Tell the police,' Maurice said, winding Tudor up a little. His sense of relief was making him mischievous. 'They're the ones who are looking for suspects.'

Tudor fell for it, eyes bulging. 'Telling him about my book doesn't make me a suspect'

'What did he say?'

'Well, if you want to know, he wasn't very encouraging. He said it needed a lot of work.'

'There you are, then. That's your motive.'

'My what?'

'Your motive for killing him. He tells you your life story isn't worth publishing. That's a slap in the face.'