5
You’re always so impatient, Sergeant Warwick, said the pathologist as he studied the body more closely.
But are you at least able to tell me just how long the body has been in the water? asked the detective.
Harry was crossing out the word just and changing has to had, when the phone rang. He put down his pen and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes,’ he said somewhat abruptly.
‘Harry, it’s Harold Guinzburg. Congratulations, you’re number eight this week.’ Harold rang every Thursday afternoon to let Harry know where he would feature on the bestseller list that Sunday. ‘That’s nine weeks in a row in the top fifteen.’
Harry had been at number 4 a month ago, the highest position he’d ever managed, and although he didn’t admit it even to Emma, he still hoped to join that select group of British writers who’d made it to the top on both sides of the Atlantic. The last two William Warwick mysteries had been number 1 in Britain, but the top spot in the States still eluded him.
‘Sales figures are all that really matter,’ said Guinzburg, almost as if he was reading Harry’s thoughts. ‘And in any case, I’m confident that you’ll climb even higher when the softback comes out in March.’ Harry didn’t miss the words even higher and not to number one. ‘How’s Emma?’
‘Preparing a speech on why the company shouldn’t be building a new luxury liner at the present time.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a bestseller to me,’ said Harold. ‘So tell me, how’s Sebastian coming along?’
‘He’s in a wheelchair. But his surgeon assures me not for much longer, and they’re allowing him out for the first time next week.’
‘Bravo. Does that mean he’ll be going home?’
‘No, Matron won’t allow him to travel that far yet; perhaps a trip to Cambridge to visit his tutor, and have tea with his aunt.’
‘Sounds worse than school to me. Still, it can’t be too long before he finally escapes.’
‘Or is thrown out. I’m not sure which will come first.’
‘Why would they want to throw him out?’
‘One or two of the nurses have begun taking a greater interest in Seb as each bandage comes off, and I’m afraid he isn’t discouraging them.’
‘The dance of the seven veils,’ said Harold. Harry laughed. ‘Is he still hoping to go up to Cambridge in September?’
‘As far as I can tell, yes. But he’s changed so much since the accident, nothing would surprise me.’
‘How has he changed?’
‘Nothing I can put a finger on. It’s just that he’s matured in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago. And I think I’ve discovered why.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘It certainly is. I’ll fill you in on the details when I next come to New York.’
‘Do I have to wait that long?’
‘Yes, because it’s like my writing, I have no idea what will happen when I turn the page.’
‘So tell me about our one girl in a million.’
‘Not you as well,’ said Harry.
‘Please tell Jessica that I’ve hung her drawing of the Manor House in autumn in my study, next to a Roy Lichtenstein.’
‘Who’s Roy Lichtenstein?’
‘He’s the latest fad in New York, but I can’t see him lasting too long. In my opinion Jessica’s a far better draughtsman. Please tell her that if she’ll paint me a picture of New York in the fall, I’ll give her a Lichtenstein for Christmas.’
‘I wonder if she’s heard of him.’
‘Before I ring off, dare I ask how the latest William Warwick novel is progressing?’
‘It would be progressing a damn sight faster if I wasn’t continually interrupted.’
‘Sorry,’ said Harold. ‘They didn’t tell me you were writing.’
‘Truth is, Warwick has come up against an insurmountable problem. Or to be more accurate, I have.’
‘Anything I can help you with?’
‘No. That’s why you’re the publisher and I’m the author.’
‘What sort of problem?’ persisted Harold.
‘Warwick’s found the ex-wife’s body at the bottom of a lake, but he’s fairly sure that she was killed before being dumped in the water.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Mine, or William Warwick’s?’
‘Warwick’s first.’
‘He’s being made to wait for at least twenty-four hours before he can get his hands on the pathologist’s report.’
‘And your problem?’
‘I’ve got twenty-four hours before I have to decide what needs to be in that report.’
‘Does Warwick know who killed the ex-wife?’
‘He can’t be sure. There are five suspects at the moment, and every one of them has a motive . . . and an alibi.’
‘But I presume you know who did it?’
‘No I don’t,’ Harry admitted. ‘Because if I don’t know, then neither can the reader.’
‘Isn’t that a bit of a risk?’
‘Sure is. But it also makes it a damn sight more challenging, both for me and the reader.’
‘I can’t wait to read the first draft.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your ex-wife’s body in the lake. I’ll call again in a week’s time to see if you’ve worked out who dumped her there.’
When Guinzburg hung up, Harry replaced the receiver and looked down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He tried to concentrate.
So what’s your opinion, Percy?
Too early to make an accurate assessment. I’ll need to get her back to the lab and carry out some more tests before I can give you a considered judgement.
When can I expect to get your preliminary report? asked Warwick.
You’re always so impatient, William . . .
Harry looked up. He suddenly realized who’d committed the murder.