I didn’t like him. I’m sorry to say it but he just struck me as a bit of a cold fish. You’ll have seen photographs of him on the book jackets; the slim face, the closely cropped silver hair, the round, wire-frame glasses. On television or on the radio he’d always had a sort of eloquence, an easy charm. He was nothing like that then. He was puffy and a little overweight, wearing a suit with chalk marks on the sleeves. His manner was at once aggressive and eager to please. He wasted no time telling me how much he wanted to be a published author but he showed almost no enthusiasm now that the moment had come. I couldn’t work him out. When I mentioned some of the changes I wanted him to make to his book, he positively bristled. He struck me as one of the most humourless people I had ever met. Later on, Katie told me that he had never been popular with the children and I could understand why.
To be fair though, I have to say that I can’t have made a great first impression either. Some meetings just happen that way. We’d arranged lunch at a smart restaurant – him, Charles and me. It was pouring with rain that day, really chucking it down. I’d been at a meeting on the other side of town and my taxi hadn’t arrived so I’d had to run half a mile in high heels. I turned up late with my hair plastered down the side of my face, my shirt sodden and my bra showing through. I knocked over a glass of wine as I sat down. I really wanted a cigarette and that made me ratty. I remember we had an absurd argument about one section in the book – he’d gathered all the suspects in the library and I just thought it was too clichéd – but actually this wasn’t the right time to talk about that. Afterwards, Charles was quite angry with me and he was right to be. We could have lost him, and there were plenty of other publishers who would have taken the book, particularly with the promise of a series.
In fact, Charles took over and did most of the talking that day and the result was that he was the one who ended up working with Alan. Which is to say, it was Charles who went to all the festivals: Edinburgh, Hay-on-Wye, Oxford, Cheltenham. Charles had the relationship. I just did the work, editing the books with a nifty software programme that meant we didn’t even have to meet face to face. It’s funny to think that I worked with him for eleven years and never once visited his house: a little unfair considering I actually paid for it.
Of course, I saw him from time to time, whenever he came into the office and I have to admit, the more successful he got, the more attractive he became. He bought expensive clothes. He went to the gym. He drove a BMW i8 coupe. These days all writers have to be media performers and Alan Conway was soon touring the studios on programmes like The Book Show, The Wright Stuff and Question Time. He went to parties and awards ceremonies. He talked at schools and universities. He had been forty years old when he found fame and it was as if it was only then that he began to live his life. He changed in other ways too. He was married with an eight-year-old son when I met him. The marriage didn’t last long.
Reading what I’ve written I sound disenchanted, as if I resented the success that, to a large extent, I had created for him. But that wasn’t how I felt at all. I didn’t care what he thought about me and I was perfectly happy to let him and Charles hang out together at literary festivals while I set about the serious business, editing the text and overseeing the production of the books. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered to me. And the truth is that I really did love them. I grew up on Agatha Christie and when I’m on a plane or on a beach there’s nothing I’d rather read than a whodunnit. I’ve watched every episode of Poirot and Midsomer Murders on TV. I never guess the ending and I can’t wait for the moment when the detective gathers all the suspects in the room and, like a magician conjuring silk scarves out of the air, makes the whole thing make sense. So here’s the bottom line. I was a fan of Atticus Pünd. I didn’t need to be a fan of Alan Conway too.
I had to field quite a few phone calls after I left Charles’s office. Somehow, even before we had made the police aware of the letter, the news had got out that Alan had committed suicide and there were journalists chasing the story. Friends in the industry called to commiserate. An antiquarian bookshop in Cecil Court wanted to know if we had any signed copies as they were mounting a window display. I thought about Alan a lot that morning – but I thought more about a whodunnit that was missing its solution and, for that matter, a summer publishing schedule that had a huge hole at its centre.
After lunch, I went back in to see Charles.
‘I’ve spoken to the police,’ Charles told me. The letter was still in front of him with the envelope next to it. ‘They’re sending someone round to collect it. They say I shouldn’t have touched it.’
‘I don’t see how you could have known that before you opened it.’
‘Quite.’
‘Did they tell you how he did it?’ I asked. By ‘did it’ I meant ‘killed himself’.
Charles nodded. ‘There’s a sort of tower attached to his house. The last time I was there – it must have been March or April – I actually had a conversation with Alan about it. I said to him how dangerous it was. There’s only a low wall and no railings or anything. It’s funny, because when I heard there’d been an accident, I instantly assumed he must have fallen off the bloody thing. But now it looks as if he jumped.’
There was a long silence. Usually, Charles and I know what the other is thinking but this time we were deliberately avoiding each other’s eyes. It was really quite horrible that this had happened. Neither of us wanted to confront it.
‘What did you think of the book?’ I asked. It was the one question I hadn’t asked, the first thing, in normal circumstances, I would have wanted to know.
‘Well, I read it over the weekend and I was enjoying it very much. It seemed to me every bit as good as all the others. When I got to the last page, I was as irritated as you must have been. My first thought was that one of the girls must have made a mistake here in the office. I had two copies made – one for you, one for me.’
That reminded me. ‘Where’s Jemima?’ I asked.
‘She’s left. She handed in her notice while you were on the road.’ Suddenly he looked tired. ‘She couldn’t have chosen a worse time. This business with Alan – and there’s Laura to think about too.’
Laura was his pregnant daughter. ‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘She’s fine. But the doctors are saying it could happen any time. Apparently, with the first one, it’s more likely to be early.’ He went back to what he’d been saying before. ‘There are no missing pages, Susan. Not here anyway. We’ve checked the copy room. We printed up exactly what Alan gave us. I was going to call him to ask what had happened. And then, of course, I heard the news.’
‘He didn’t send you a copy electronically?’
‘No. He never did that.’
It was true. Alan was a pen and paper man. He actually handwrote his first draft. Then he typed it into his computer. He always sent us a printed copy before he emailed it to us, as if he somehow mistrusted us reading it on the screen.
‘Well, we have to find the missing chapters,’ I said. ‘And the sooner the better.’ Charles looked doubtful so I went on. ‘They must be somewhere in the house. Did you manage to work out who did it?’
Charles shook his head. ‘I was thinking it might be the sister.’
‘Clarissa Pye. Yes. She was on my list too.’
‘There’s always a chance he didn’t actually finish it.’