Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“Oh, shit,” Kit muttered under his breath, hastily turning the pages. What struck him most forcibly was Anthony’s reaction. To have reported Georgia missing to the police suggested this was no stunt on Georgia’s part. And Kit couldn’t quite believe that Georgia would have kept Anthony in the dark, leaving him to worry and fret needlessly. Causing deliberate pain to those she cared about just wasn’t part of Georgia’s make — up.

Almost the whole of page eleven was taken up with a feature article, illustrated with a large photograph of the instantly recognizable Agatha Christie. Inset into it was a smaller shot of Georgia, looking haughtily glamorous as ever, her artfully blonde hair swept up in a convoluted arrangement on top of her head. The Lady Vanishes The mystery surrounding the whereabouts of contemporary Queen of Crime Georgia Lester has strange echoes of another famous disappearing act. The most distinguished crime writer of them all, Dame Agatha Christie, went missing for eleven days in 1926 before being discovered in a hotel in Harrogate where she had registered under the assumed name of her husband’s mistress. Agatha’s disappearance followed a row with her philandering husband Colonel Archibald Christie. He had packed his bags and gone to spend the weekend with his mistress, Nancy Neele. That evening, leaving their daughter Rosalind asleep in bed, Agatha drove off from her Sunningdale mansion in her grey Morris Cowley. She left a letter for her secretary, saying her engagements should be cancelled and that she was off to Yorkshire. But she also posted a letter to the Deputy Chief Constable of Surrey, claiming she feared for her life and asking for his help. Her car was found abandoned next morning. Like Georgia Lester’s Jaguar, Agatha’s Morris was found near a local beauty spot, Silent Pool. Inside the car was Agatha’s fur coat and a small suitcase containing three dresses, two pairs of shoes and her expired driving licence. The newspapers of the time fell upon the story, speculating on whether the missing mystery writer had been murdered or committed suicide. This newspaper even offered a 100 reward for information leading to her discovery. Suspicion naturally fell on her unfaithful husband while the manhunt continued. Silent Pool was dredged, light aircraft flew low over the area looking for traces and a pack of Airedales and bloodhounds were tracked over the ground, all to no avail. The police of four counties coordinated a mass search of the Downs, in which 15,000 volunteers took part. Criminologist Edgar Lustgarten wrote a piece for the Daily Mail, commenting that Agatha was indulging in “a typical case of ‘mental reprisal’.” Sales of her books boomed, naturally. Meanwhile, at the Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate (now the Old Swan) a woman registered as Mrs. Neele was enjoying all the facilities the hotel had to offer for seven guineas a week. She was chatting to guests, claiming to be from South Africa, taking meals in the restaurant and enjoying the ballroom dancing. But a sharp-eyed banjo player in the hotel band recognized her from the press photographs. Police were called in and watched her for two days before her husband arrived and confirmed that the mysterious Mrs. Neele was in fact his wife. The press accused her of publicity-seeking, although two doctors testified that she was suffering from a genuine case of amnesia brought on by stress. Agatha Christie carried the truth behind her vanishing act to her grave. We will never know if she really lost her memory or if she was taking public vengeance against her husband. And today, similar questions must arise from Georgia Lester’s disappearance. With her new book due out, is she simply seeking publicity? Is she taking her revenge against her publisher for not taking her fears of a stalker seriously? Or has something more sinister happened to Britain’s contemporary Queen of Crime? Her legions of fans anxiously await the answer.

They weren’t the only ones, Kit thought. He wouldn’t mind some answers himself. What’s more, if Georgia had indeed staged her disappearance, he felt he deserved them. They were supposed to be mates, him and Georgia. She had been one of the first crime writers he’d ever met once he was himself a published author.

He vividly remembered the first event they’d done together, at a literary festival in the Midlands. His first novel had just come out in paperback, and it was only the third public appearance he’d ever made as an author. He was overawed to find himself on the same platform as Georgia, already a bestseller, and another writer whose books had leapt to prominence on the back of a particularly classy TV adaptation. In the green room before the event, the TV-tie-in author had gleefully spotted Kit’s nerves and was indulging himself in a pernicious mixture of patronizing put-downs and the sort of event-disaster anecdote calculated to trigger a fit of panic in any but the most sanguine.

Georgia had swept in on the tail end of one of these, all white silk and Chanel No. 5. She’d taken one look at Kit’s anxious face, then shot a shrewd glance at the other author. “You really are a bastard, Godfrey, upsetting this poor sweet boy,” she’d said, then settled like a stylish swan on the arm of Kit’s chair. She put a manicured hand on his arm. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Kit. I thought The Dissection Man was absolutely the best thriller I read last year. I just know you are going to be a mega-star.”

He’d mumbled something awkward and complimentary in response.

“And you absolutely mustn’t be nervous, darling. Just remember, those people are out there because they love what we all do. They want so very much to like you as much as they like your books. You’d have to be an utter monster for them not to take you to their bosoms. And you’re clearly not that, my dear.”

It had been what he needed to hear. Thanks to Georgia, he relaxed into the event and, to his astonishment, actually began to enjoy himself. He watched and listened as she and Godfrey worked the room and by the end of the evening, he’d come to realize that he too could perform. All he’d lacked was the technique that provided the confidence to allow him to sail through.

Afterwards, he’d gone for supper with Georgia and her publicist. It had been the start of what had developed into a surprisingly close relationship. Surprising because, although one strand of Georgia’s work incorporated some of the grisliness of his own serial killer thrillers, they could not have been more different in temperament, outlook and lifestyle. But their mutual respect and affection had always carried them over their differences in everything from politics to social background. The amused tolerance he sometimes felt for her more scandalous pronouncements had never even dented their friendship. His only regret was that Fiona never seemed to see beyond Georgia’s public face to the warmth behind it. Somehow, Georgia always seemed to get under Fiona’s skin, though he could never quite grasp the source of the friction. What seemed like an innocuous remark to him could provoke a sudden flash of irritation in Fiona’s eyes, leaving him baffled. In the end, he put it down to bad chemistry and tried to keep them apart wherever possible.

Kit wished he could work out what was going on with Georgia. While she was perfectly capable of something as outrageous as staging a disappearance to embarrass her publishers, he really didn’t believe she would let Anthony suffer too. In spite of Georgia’s frequent indiscretions and infidelities, she relied on Anthony’s dogged devotion for the stability she needed. Over the years, he had cultivated an air of studied nonchalance about her predilection for young Latin lovers, but there was no doubt in Kit’s mind that however bizarre a marriage it might seem to outside eyes, theirs was a union that was built for survival.