The Atticus Adventures
I caught up with the man in the Fedora hat at the corner of Church Street, just where it met Market Square. Now that he had escaped from the cemetery, he no longer seemed to be in such a hurry to get away. It helped that the drizzle had finally eased off and there were even a few patches of bright sun illuminating the puddles. He was taking his time and I was able to catch my breath before I approached him.
Some instinct made him turn and he saw me. ‘Yes?’
‘I was at the funeral,’ I said.
‘So was I.’
‘I wondered …’ It was only then that it dawned on me that I had no earthly idea what I was going to say. It was all far too difficult to explain. I was investigating a murder which, as far as I knew, nobody else was aware had taken place. I had chased after him only because of his choice of headgear, the relevance of which was tangential, to say the least. I drew a breath. ‘My name is Susan Ryeland,’ I said. ‘I was Alan’s editor at Cloverleaf Books.’
‘Cloverleaf?’ He knew the name. ‘Yes. We’ve spoken a few times.’
‘Have we?’
‘Not you. There’s a woman there … Lucy Butler.’ Lucy was our Rights Manager. She had the office next to mine. ‘I talked to her about Atticus Pünd.’ Suddenly I had a good idea who I was talking to but I didn’t need to ask. ‘I’m Mark Redmond,’ he said.
Charles and I had often talked about Redmond and his company – Red Herring Productions – during our weekly conferences. He was a TV and film producer and it was he who had optioned the rights to the Atticus Pünd novels, which he was developing with the BBC. Lucy had visited him at his offices in Soho and had reported back favourably: a young, enthusiastic staff, a shelf full of BAFTAs, phones ringing, dispatch riders in and out, a sense that this was a company that made things happen. As the name suggested, Red Herring specialised in murder mystery. Redmond had started his career as a runner on Bergerac, presumably running all over Jersey, which was where it was set. From there he’d moved on to another half dozen shows before setting up on his own. Atticus would be his first independent production. From what I understood, the BBC was keen.
He was actually someone I was very glad to meet: his future and mine were intertwined. A television series would give the books a whole new life. There would be new covers, new publicity, a complete relaunch. We needed it more than ever, given our problems with Magpie Murders. I still had Charles’s offer to consider. If I really was going to take over the running of Cloverleaf Books I would need its star author – and posthumously was good enough for me. Red Herring Productions might make it possible.
He was about to leave for London – he had a car and a driver waiting for him in the square – but I persuaded him to talk to me first and we went into a little café, opposite the hotel. We had less chance of our being disturbed there. He had taken off the Fedora to reveal slicked-back dark hair and narrow eyes. He was a handsome man, slim, expensively dressed. He had built his career in television and there was something of the TV personality about him. I could imagine him presenting a programme. It would be about lifestyle or maybe finance.
I ordered two coffees and we began to talk.
‘You left the funeral early,’ I said.
‘I wasn’t sure why I came, if you want the truth. I felt I ought to be there, since I’d been working with him, but once I arrived I decided it was a mistake. I didn’t know anyone and it was cold and wet. I just wanted to leave.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
I shrugged as if it wasn’t important. ‘I just wondered. Alan’s suicide has obviously come as a great shock to us and we’re trying to work out why he did it.’
‘I saw him two weeks ago.’
‘In London?’
‘No. Actually, I went out to his home. It was a Saturday.’
The day before Alan died.
‘Had he invited you?’ I asked.
Redmond laughed briefly. ‘I wouldn’t have driven the whole bloody way if he hadn’t. He wanted to talk about the series and he asked me to dinner. Knowing Alan, I thought it best not to refuse. He’d been difficult enough already and I didn’t want to have any more rows.’
‘What sort of rows?’
He looked at me disdainfully. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Alan was a real piece of work,’ he said. ‘You say you were his editor. Don’t tell me he didn’t give you the runaround! I almost wish I’d never heard of Atticus Pünd. He was making life so bloody difficult for me, I could have murdered him myself!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I had no idea. What exactly was the problem?’
‘It was one thing after another.’ The coffees arrived and he stirred his, the spoon making endless circles as he went through the process of working with Alan Conway. ‘Getting him to sign the option in the first place was hard enough. The amount of money he was asking, you’d think he was JK bloody Rowling. And don’t forget, this was risk money as far as I was concerned. At the time, I hadn’t completed a deal with the BBC and the whole thing could have gone west. But that was just the start of it. He wouldn’t go away. He wanted to be an executive producer. Well, that’s not so unusual. But he also insisted on adapting the book himself even though he had no TV writing experience and, I can tell you, the BBC weren’t at all happy about that. He wanted casting approval. That was the biggest headache of all. No author ever gets casting approval! Consultancy, maybe, but that wasn’t good enough. He had ridiculous ideas. Do you know who he wanted to play Atticus Pünd?’
‘Ben Kingsley?’ I suggested.
He stared at me. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘No. But I know he was a fan.’
‘Well, you’re right. Unfortunately, it was out of the question. Kingsley would never take the part and anyway, he’s seventy-three – much too old. We argued about that. We argued about everything. I wanted to start with Night Comes Calling. It’s much the best book, in my view. But he wasn’t having that either. He wouldn’t explain why not. He just said he didn’t want to do it. The option comes to an end quite soon so I had to be careful what I said.’
‘Will you still go ahead?’ I asked. ‘Now that he’s gone?’
Redmond visibly brightened. He put down his spoon and drank some of his coffee. ‘I’ll go ahead with it because he’s gone. Can I be honest with you, Susan? I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but, frankly, his departure is the best thing that could have happened. I’ve already spoken to James Taylor. He owns the rights now and he seems pleasant enough. He’s already agreed to give us another year and by that time we should have the whole thing set up. We’re hoping to make all nine books.’