Past lying, p.6
Past Lying, page 6
Now there was a hubbub of voices. Rob felt like he’d been catapulted back to his high school years, when he was always the one on the outside of the secret. He had no idea who the woman was who had hijacked his moment in the sun. Nor what her particular problem was; though, knowing Jamie, he guessed it was something to do with sex.
He spotted his pal Lucy Brazil nearby and moved towards her. He’d never worked out how she managed it, living up in Manchester, but Lucy was always plugged in to the gossip hotline. Whenever an author had been dropped, or an agent betrayed by a client, whenever a newbie had been suckered into bed by the promises of a bigger name, Lucy always knew the inside story. She cheerfully purveyed her gleanings to her friends, but somehow there was never any malice in it. It puzzled Rob; if he’d been writing such a character, he wouldn’t have known how to avoid making her toxic, yet everybody adored Lucy. They even wore the ‘I love Lucy’ badges she’d handed out for the publication of her last book, her own image an ironic version of the late Lucille Ball.
When he reached her side, he spoke softly. ‘What the actual fuck was that?’
Lucy arched her eyebrows. They were normally hidden behind the thick black circle of her glasses, so raising them created a strange duplicating effect. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No, Lucy, I don’t know.’
‘That was Gala Faraday.’
The name rang faint bells with Rob, but he couldn’t remember why. ‘Should I know her?’
‘She used to be Jamie’s editor’s assistant. She left about six months ago for a plum editorial job at Samson House. One of the hot young editors, everybody agreed. Until the proofs of Jamie’s latest started making the rounds.’
Rob had a horrible presentiment of what was coming next. Needs Killing had landed on his doormat the previous week. It featured a female character who craved sexual humiliation, a craving whose satisfaction was outlined in the kind of gleeful detail that had made Rob feel more than a little queasy. He couldn’t in all conscience call himself a feminist, but he really couldn’t find a word to describe it other than ‘misogynist’. It had ended inevitably in rape, torture and murder. For the first time, he’d found himself skimming a Jamie Cobain novel. ‘You’re not telling me . . . ’
Lucy nodded, her scarlet lips a tight line. ‘Oh yes. Nobody who knows Gala could fail to recognise her. Physical description – well, I assume it’s accurate because the relevant piercings are not on show – and even her verbal tics. “Doomtastic” and “Born to chart”, stuff like that. Darling, surely even Edinburgh’s heard the horror story by now?’
Rob shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’ve not been out and about. I’m on deadline, you know how it is.’
‘But you play chess with Jamie. Did he not boast about it? Apparently, he’d been sniggering to the boys about teaching Gala who was in charge. But then she did the unforgivable and dumped him, you see?’
‘We don’t talk much when we’re playing. It’s all about the chess. He said nothing to me.’ He looked around, rueful. ‘So much for my celebration. The only thing anyone will remember about tonight is Gala Faraday lamping Jamie Cobain.’
Lucy put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry. You’re on the up and up. Not like Jamie.’
‘What do you mean, “not like Jamie”?’
Her smile reminded Rob of a cat contemplating a bowl of tuna. ‘Didn’t you know? His sales are on the slide.’
‘Surely not? His last book went straight in at number two. He only missed the top spot because it came out the same week as Jojo Moyes.’
Lucy shook her head, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘Honestly, Rob, you’ve still got so much to learn. It’s not the chart position that matters, it’s the sales numbers. Jamie went in at number two but he dropped straight out again. His sales have been on a downward curve for the last three books. You’re outselling him now.’
This was news to Rob. ‘Really? Me?’
Lucy tittered. ‘You sound like “The Ugly Duckling” song. “Me? A swan? Ah, go on . . . ” ’
‘I truly didn’t know that, Lucy.’
She nodded portentously. ‘He needs a big hit if he’s going to avoid being yesterday’s man.’
‘Poor bastard.’
She groaned. ‘You’re far too nice, Rob. Think about the way he’s just used Gala to create a storm. Obviously the mainstream media won’t join up the dots, but they’ll make headlines out of the sadism and general nastiness of it all. And the socials won’t hold back. Gala’s basically fucked in this industry now. That’s what happens to women who refuse to play by the rules. So don’t waste your kind heart on feeling sorry for Jamie. He’ll come out the other end of this relatively unscathed. But Gala? This’ll be the first thing everyone ever says about her. “Isn’t that Gala Faraday? The one Jamie Cobain . . . ?” ’
Rob understood the truth of Lucy’s words. But he also understood the power of desperation. He knew how much Jamie valued his standing in their world. It would have hurt him deeply to see that threatened by falling sales. He’d hit on a quick and very dirty way to give them a boost – nothing sold better than scandal. Rob couldn’t help wondering how far he’d go himself to preserve his own lesser but equally treasured status. Hopefully, he’d never have to find out.
Karen stood up and headed for the coffee machine. ‘I need stimulation,’ she said. ‘If this is Jake Stein’s attempt to resurrect his career, it’s not working for me. I can see why he left it unfinished.’
‘I think his natural readership will love the peek behind the curtain.’ Daisy yawned and stretched her arms over her head. ‘They’ll be trying to map his characters on to real people and relishing the inside track on how their favourites really behave. And the slap? That really happened. There was a mention of it in the cuttings I read. No details, just a couple of lines about an incident where an unnamed woman assaulted Stein at a party.’
‘That makes it look a helluva lot more autobiographical. You’d think Stein would want to sweep that under the carpet, not resurrect it in all its gory detail.’
‘Maybe he thinks there’s no point in trying to hide it when it’s an open secret? We don’t know yet how he’s going to spin it. I’ve heard writers say nothing is ever wasted.’
‘What I’m struggling with is how this relates to Lara Hardie. She was studying English, her family said she wanted to be a writer, but nothing anybody said about her suggested she was the kind of lassie who’d be daft enough to think she could sleep her way to a book deal. I still can’t quite see why Meera’s connecting this to Lara’s disappearance.’
Daisy got to her feet and headed for the fridge. She peered inside and came out with a can of Sugar-Free Irn Bru. ‘What day is it, by the way? I’ve totally lost track.’
‘Thursday? I think it’s Thursday.’ Karen tapped her phone screen. ‘Yeah. Thursday.’
Daisy grinned. ‘We’d better keep an eye on the time. It’s Clap for our Carers at eight o’clock. I had a thought about that. We don’t need to go all the way down to the street, we can just hang out of the windows and bang a pot with a wooden spoon.’
Karen scoffed. ‘Clap for our Carers. It’d be a damn sight more meaningful if the government paid them better.’
Daisy popped the top off her drink and took a swig. ‘Don’t be such a grinch. I think it’s nice. It’s about solidarity. And it’s a way to show people they’re appreciated.’
Karen shook her head. ‘They’re taking their lives into their hands every time they turn in for a shift. You must have seen the footage of them wearing bin bags because they’ve no proper protective gear? They’re heroes, right enough, but some of them can’t even afford to feed their kids. Sure, I’ll bang a pot, though I don’t think there’s many nurses or cleaners or ambulance drivers or care home workers living in this part of town. The best thing we can do for the health service workers is to avoid catching COVID. Wear our masks and follow the rules.’
Not for the first time, Daisy could think of no effective riposte. She was slowly learning that her boss was a woman of strong opinions. And they were opinions it was hard to knock holes in. She picked up the next page and carried on reading about the secret life of crime writers.
5
Six months later
Rob set out the chess pieces and put the two bottles of whisky on the side table. He stepped back to take in the whole scene. He still wasn’t accustomed to his new home, a generous detached villa south of the city centre. Over the years, the area had housed so many authors it had been dubbed ‘Writers’ Block’ by journalists.
He’d been reluctant to move from his cramped one-bedroom flat, scared that his success was a flash in the pan, but his agent had told him he deserved better and his accountant had told him there was no better investment for the money that was flowing in. His father had told him not to get above himself, and that had been the deciding factor. Rob had spent his life hearing he would never make anything of himself; the house on Somerville Place was the perfect riposte.
It seemed as if his agent and accountant had been right. Rob had won the two major awards he’d been shortlisted for; pre-orders for Depredation were rolling in; principal photography for the TV adaptation of Dereliction was scheduled for the following month; if he’d accepted even half of the invitations in his inbox, he’d have had no time to write.
So now they played their chess games in Rob’s book-lined study. His rise had been matched by Jamie Cobain’s fall from grace. Rachel had filed for divorce the day after Rob’s party. They’d been married since before Jamie published his first book; Scots law awarded half their assets to Rachel. Their lavish lifestyle had eaten most of Jamie’s earnings; when the dust had settled, he’d ended up with little more than half the value of the house.
That wouldn’t have been so bad if his earning power had remained undiminished. But the Gala Faraday incident had grown legs and stalked a wider world than publishing. Combined with Jamie’s declining sales, it had made him toxic in a #MeToo world. After he delivered his next manuscript, the final book in his contract, his publisher told him they were done. The news spread schadenfreude throughout the crime fiction community. It turned out Jamie hadn’t had as many friends as he’d thought. Or not ones who were comfortable with having a pint with a man who chained his lover to a radiator then told the world all about it.
Now he was living in a tiny two-bedroomed flat in the no man’s land between Craigentinny and Portobello. He still talked a good game, saying how much he loved being within walking distance of the long prom that ran along Porty beach. There was talk that he’d found a new publisher willing to touch the untouchable, but the word was that it was a Scottish indie with a reputation for opportunism. When comedians were barred by the BBC, when historic racist tweets were excavated, when politicians were caught out, this was the publishing house where they ended up. There was no doubt in Rob’s mind that Jamie still had plenty of potential readers but convincing them this was the book for them might be a trickier proposition than Stramash Press could manage.
But Rob had remained quietly loyal. He thought there were plenty of other men who had behaved as badly as Jamie had. The main difference was that they hadn’t been caught out. And it was clear that Jamie was hurting. He’d tried to reach a rapprochement with Rachel, but she’d simply turned away. He’d grown so accustomed to his charmed life that it came as a bolt from the blue that Rachel had reached her limit and burned it to the ground.
So when the grand house in Ravelston Dykes had been sold, Rob had invited Jamie to continue their chess games at his new house. Over the months, he had watched his friend fray round the edges. Jamie started to go too long between haircuts. Sometimes he turned up unshaven, with the faint smell of badly dried clothes clinging to his hand-made shirts. He lost weight, which was fine to begin with, but then he began to look gaunt. He drank more of Rob’s whisky than had been his habit when it was his own. All in all, it was a swift decline.
But his mind remained sharp as ever across the chessboard. He neither gave nor expected quarter. Sitting at a board, brow furrowed in concentration, was the last remaining place the old Jamie Cobain held sway, Rob thought. It was as if he shed his disgrace with the same disdain he’d show an old raincoat.
Jamie arrived promptly and they started to play with little preamble. Asking Jamie how he was doing felt brutal and awkward to Rob; he imagined the last thing Jamie wanted Rob to know was how he was. Jamie went straight on the attack with the King’s Gambit, the most aggressive of white’s openings. So that was how it was going to be, Rob thought. He took the offered pawn to buy time. Out came the King’s Bishop, and it was game on.
When the struggle was over, leaving Jamie the victor, he said, ‘You see I went straight on the attack tonight?’
Rob poured the whiskies. ‘Hard to miss. I was on the back foot from the word go. I’m amazed I lasted so long with that block of pawns in the middle.’ He handed Jamie his drink. He swallowed half of it in one gulp. Rob tried not to resent the waste of a good whisky.
‘I’ve been thinking, Rob. There’s only one way I’m going to redeem myself. I can’t change the past. But I can make the world forget the damage that bitch Faraday has done to me.’ He finished the drink and held his glass out.
Rob refilled it without comment.
‘I’m writing an absolutely stonking book. An irresistible book. With a twist that will leave everybody else in the dust. Something that will make The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Gone Girl history.’ He was almost feverish, his eyes bright and his cheeks pink.
‘Easier said than done.’ Rob sat down. ‘That’s what we’re all looking for, every time we sit down at the keyboard.’
Jamie smiled, an echo of his former bonhomie. ‘But I’ve cracked it. A perfect murder with a screamer of a twist in the tail.’
Rob shook his head. ‘There’s no such thing as the perfect murder in a crime novel. Because it has to be solved in the end.’
Jamie stood up and helped himself to more whisky. ‘But what if it’s the wrong solution? What if the perfect murderer also puts together the perfect frame?’
Rob frowned. ‘So what’s the twist? He gets away with it?’
‘He gets away with it, yes. But the man he frames is a bigger criminal than him. So where does the justice lie?’
Rob sipped his drink, giving himself a moment to find words that wouldn’t offend Jamie. ‘So you end the book with a moral dilemma that doesn’t get solved?’
‘Exactly. And here’s the twist. We go interactive. We invite the readers to vote on whether they think the killer should be caught or whether the victim of the frame should go to jail instead. We leave the poll up and running for, say, three months. And at the end of it, I write the final chapter based on the public vote.’ The shit-eating grin signalled that in his head, Jamie Cobain was back. ‘Nobody’s ever done anything like that before.’
And with good reason, Rob thought. ‘But how do the paying customers get the last chapter?’
Jamie shrugged, spreading his hands in a careless gesture. ‘That’s for the boffins to work out. Maybe each copy sold has a special one-off code you type into the website. Like in the olden days when you bought a download code for a computer game. I’m sure they can figure it out. I tell you, Rob, I’m writing like a runaway train. I haven’t put words down this fast since the early days. I’m doing twelve-hour days and the ideas are spilling out on the page as fast as I can set them down.’
There was something almost manic in his speech, Rob thought. It wasn’t surprising; few people would have been able to come out of the past year mentally unscathed. But the more he digested Jamie’s words, the more Rob could see a glimmering of possibility in what he was suggesting. It was true, nobody had ever done anything like that before. And the technology could certainly support it. ‘It’s a novel idea, I’ll grant you that. Do you think Stramash can handle something potentially that big?’
‘If they can get the books out there, I’m sure we’ll sell them. Think of the publicity, Rob. And we can milk it online like crazy. I’m telling you, this is the way back for me.’
Rob felt uneasy, but he managed a smile. After all, he needed Jamie to climb back to the top of the tree. That way, maybe he and Rachel wouldn’t have to keep hiding. All it needed was the perfect crime to set the wheels in motion. And who better to come up with it than Jamie?
‘Now we’re starting to get somewhere,’ Karen said. ‘Time to let the dog see the rabbit.’
‘I’ve never understood what that meant,’ Daisy said absently.
‘It means, we’ve been getting all excited about something we know is going on even though we couldn’t see any evidence of it. And now it’s time for the reveal. We’re getting to the bit where we come face to face with the lassie who’s vanished. Laurel Oliver.’
‘That internet vote’s a great idea,’ Daisy said. ‘I never heard about that.’
‘I suspect it never happened. Whatever the endgame was for this book, it never got that far. I’m guessing Jake Stein’s brain probably blew up before he got that far into the story. Don’t you think?’
Daisy frowned. ‘Either that or he gave up on it. He was trying to be really tricksy, and maybe he realised he couldn’t pull it off?’
Karen leaned back in her chair and considered. ‘Or maybe the enormity of what he’d done finally got to him? Killing someone isn’t as straightforward as Stein or his crime writing pals make it seem. Even if you manage it in the moment, if you don’t lose control when what you’ve done hits you . . . it’s got a way of creeping up on you. If he did kill her – and right now that’s a very big if – it could be he woke up one morning and the horror of what he’d done freaked him out.’
