Complain he did. And so encouraged was he by the unexpected strength of his voice, and the apparent interest at the other end of the line, that he was asked the same question three times before the query registered. ‘You say the man’s name is Ewan Alexander?’
‘Yes, yes. That’s right.’ At this point Seb understood that the name was already known to the local constabulary.
‘Stay on the line, please. I’m putting you through to the DCI.’
After returning home from the Berry Head Nature Reserve, Seb had drunk steadily throughout the previous day and rendered himself unfit to contact the police at that time. Unable to countenance another night in his own home, he’d also taken a cab across the bay and checked into a hotel in Torquay. He’d then spent a night in a large and comfortable room. A night that passed without the kind of disruption he now dreaded to the point of nausea. After a long and heavy sleep he’d woken refreshed at noon.
He still retained a sense that his sleep had been marred by hectic activity at various times during the early morning. Though he had no recollection of any specific details of what had bustled within his sleeping mind. For that he was relieved, and he hoped for a repeat experience at the same hotel tonight.
If Ewan had returned to the house while Seb hid in Torquay, the spare key that Ewan had stolen would no longer fit the front door lock. Emergency locksmiths had been busy the previous afternoon. While they worked, Seb had pretended to neaten the edges of his lawn with the moon implement. So Ewan wasn’t setting foot inside the house again, at least not physically.
Seb had also called and requested a comprehensive clean of the property for the coming afternoon. He’d dispose of the bed linen that Ewan had used while the cleaners were on site. Anything his uninvited guest had messed with in the kitchen would be recycled.
He was regaining control, at last.
Inside his hotel room, sat by the window and staring at the bay, he’d also begrudgingly contemplated the prospect of working again, something he’d not considered for a fortnight. Ewan’s disruption had been catastrophic, to his life and writing. But, as a man prone to anxiety over deadlines and contracted commitments, even in circumstances such as these, Seb ruefully mulled over the fact that only four months remained until his new book was expected at his publishers.
If he didn’t resume work on the novel soon, and he couldn’t see how that was possible, an extension would be needed. Perhaps a schedule change would be required and he knew how his publisher loathed those.
Nor could he guess how he’d find a way back into the problematic first draft, or how he’d recover the voice of the female narrator. Another impression formed: that the ideas, story and characters of his work in progress had been rendered thin and unconvincing by recent events.
At least he knew what his next story would be about. Maybe for that alone he owed Ewan.
Perhaps he should abandon the work in progress and just write the story of the past few weeks? After all, it was all that he could think about now. But in four months? It usually took him over a year to write a book. An extension would buy him some time, and he needed to find out how much time. He also had to know what his editor thought about him delivering a different book to the one contracted two years before.
A voice appeared inside the ear he’d pressed into the phone’s handset, and addressed him by name, ‘Mr Logan.’ The police officer was taking the call outdoors and introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Brian Leon, CID. In the background Seb heard the swish of traffic and two other people conducting an intense conversation nearby. A dog barked and was reprimanded by its owner. ‘You say this chap has been making a nuisance of himself?’
‘Yes.’ Seb was ready to repeat what he’d told the officer at the station, but didn’t have an opportunity.
‘Where are you now, sir?’
Because of nerves, his mind blanked and he couldn’t recall the name of the hotel. As each second passed, he also felt as if he was implicating himself in a police matter. He found the room service menu and gave the detective the name of the hotel.
‘I see, but you live locally?’
‘Yes, in Brixham. But it’s precisely because of Ewan Alexander that I’m staying here.’
‘Is that right?’ The detective took his time digesting the information, which increased Seb’s perturbation. ‘You told my colleague that you saw Mr Alexander yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was the last time you saw him yesterday?’
‘Between four and five a.m., I think. That was the last time I saw him, but not since.’
‘Bit early?’
‘Yes . . . he was, er, staying with me.’
‘Staying with you?’
‘Well, in a manner of speaking. But the circumstances were not entirely satisfactory. To me, that is. Which is why I am making a complaint.’
‘Can I ask you to stay where you are, sir? I’d like to ask you a few questions in person.’
‘Of course,’ Seb said, and suddenly wished that he could take a drink.
‘I’ll come and meet you.’