‘Death Treads the Boards.’
It was a terrible title. But of course I didn’t say that. ‘I can look at it for you,’ I said. ‘But I can’t promise I can help you.’
‘All I want you to do is look at it. That’s all I’m asking.’ He looked me in the eye as if daring me to refuse. ‘I told Alan Conway my story,’ he went on. ‘I told him all about the murder I’d thought up. It was late and there were just the two of us in the room, no witnesses. He asked me if he could look at the manuscript and I was delighted. Everyone wanted him to read their work. That was the whole point.’
He finished his cigarette and ground it out, then promptly lit a second.
‘He read it very quickly. There were only two days of the course left and on the last day he took me aside and gave me some advice. He said I used too many adjectives. He said my dialogue wasn’t realistic. What’s realistic dialogue meant to sound like for heaven’s sake? It’s not real! It’s fiction! He gave me some quite good ideas about my main character, my detective. I remember one of the things he said was that he should have a bad habit, like he should smoke or drink or something. He said he’d get in touch with me again and I gave him my email address.
‘I never heard from him. Not a word. And then, almost exactly a year later, Night Comes Calling came out in the shops. It was all about the production of a school play. My book wasn’t set in a school. It was set in a theatre. But it was the same idea. And it didn’t stop there. He’d nicked my murder. It was exactly the same. The same method, the same clues, almost the same characters.’ His voice was rising. ‘That’s what he did, Susan. He took my story and used it for Night Comes Calling.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’ I asked. ‘When the book came out, what did you do?’
‘What could I do? You tell me! Who would have believed me?’
‘You could have written to us at Cloverleaf Books.’
‘I did write to you. I wrote to the managing director, Mr Clover. He didn’t write back. I wrote to Alan Conway. I wrote to him quite a few times, as a matter of fact. Let’s just say that I didn’t hold back. But I got nothing from him either. I wrote to the people who set up the course in the first place. I got a letter from them. They gave me the brush-off. They denied any responsibility, said it had nothing to do with them. I thought about going to the police. I mean, he’d stolen something from me. There’s a word for that, isn’t there? But when I talked to my wife, Karen, she said to forget it. He was famous. He was protected. I was nobody. She said it would just hurt my writing if I tried to fight it and it was best to move on. So that’s what I did. I’m still writing. At least I know I’ve got good ideas. He wouldn’t have done what he did if I hadn’t.’
‘Have you written any other novels?’ I asked.
‘I’m working on one now. But it’s not a detective story. I’ve moved on from that now. It’s a children’s book. Now that I’ve got a child it felt like the right thing to do.’
‘But you’ve kept Death Treads the Boards.’
‘Of course I’ve kept it. I’ve kept everything I’ve ever written. I know I’ve got the talent. Karen loves my work. And one day …’
‘Send it to me.’ I fished in my handbag and took out a card. ‘So what happened when you saw him in the restaurant?’ I asked.
He was waiting for me to give him my business card. It was a lifeline for him. I was in the ivory tower and he was on the outside. I’ve seen it in so many new writers, this belief that publishers are any different – smarter, more successful than them – when actually we’re just shuffling along, hoping we’ll still have a job at the end of the month. ‘I came out of the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I was carrying two main courses and a side for table nine. I saw him sitting there – he was arguing about something – and I was so shocked I just stood there. The plates were hot. They burned through the cloth and I dropped them.’
‘And then? I was told that Alan came over. He was angry with you.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s not how it happened. I cleaned up the mess and put a new order in to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back into the room but I had no choice – and at least I wasn’t serving his table. Anyway, the next thing I know, Mr Conway got up to go to the toilet and he walked right past me. I wasn’t going to say anything but seeing him so close, inches away, I couldn’t stop myself.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said good evening. I asked him if he remembered me.’
‘And?’
‘He didn’t. Or he pretended he didn’t. I reminded him that we’d met in Devonshire, that he had been kind enough to read my novel. He knew exactly who I was and what I was referring to. So then he got shirty with me. “I don’t come here to talk to the waiters.” That was what he said, those exact words. He asked me to step out of his way. He was keeping his voice low but I knew exactly what he would do if I wasn’t careful. It was the same thing all over again. He’s successful, with his fancy car and that big house of his up in Framlingham. I’m no one. He’s a member here. I’m waiting tables. I need this job. I’ve got a two-year-old kid. So I mumbled I was sorry and stepped away. It made me feel sick to my stomach doing that but what choice did I have?’
‘You must have been quite pleased to hear he was dead.’
‘You want the truth, Susan? I was delighted. I couldn’t have been happier if—’
He had said too much but I pressed him anyway. ‘If what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
But we both knew what he’d meant. I gave him the business card and he tucked it away in his top pocket. He finished his second cigarette and stubbed that one out too.
‘Can I ask you one last thing?’ I said as we moved back inside. ‘You said that Alan was having an argument. I don’t suppose you heard anything of what was being said?’
He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t near enough.’
‘How about the people at the next table?’ I had seen for myself the layout of the room. They would have been virtually rubbing shoulders.
‘I suppose that’s possible. I can tell you who they were, if you like. Their names will still be on the system.’
He left the terrace and went back into the restaurant to do just that. I watched him as he walked into the distance, remembering what he had just said. ‘… that big house of his up in Framlingham.’ He hadn’t had to look up the name of the town. He already knew where Alan lived.