‘Yes. And if I can increase my order, I’d expect to get a better deal. Perhaps we could-’
‘Nine thirty, then. Don’t be late.’
Sam put the phone down immediately on that injunction. That was the best thing about this trade. It was the seller, not the buyer, who called the shots.
‘It’s probably nothing, but I thought I should be on the safe side.’
Bert Hook nodded seriously. He gave no sign that he had heard this apologetic introduction a hundred times before as he said, ‘You did the right thing. It’s always as well to be on the safe side.’
‘I live on my own, you see, and things tend to get out of proportion when you’ve no one to discuss them with.’
‘I’m sure they do, Ms-?’
‘I’m sorry, I should have said. Sue Charles is the name.’
He wrote the name down on the sheet in front of him, then smiled encouragingly and said, ‘Not Sue Charles the writer?’
She was absurdly pleased, despite herself. After all these years, it was still a thrill to be recognized. It didn’t happen very often. She said, ‘Yes, that’s me. I’m surprised you know it — especially as a policeman.’
Hook smiled again, his weather-beaten, outdoor features exuding reassurance. ‘My wife is an addict of the detective novel. She speaks highly of your work. Library copies of Sue Charles appear regularly on our bedside table. She’ll be impressed to hear I’ve spoken to you.’
Sue tried not to show her almost childish joy in the compliment. ‘That’s nice to hear. Sometimes when you’re wrestling with some writing problem, you wonder if anyone actually reads your books.’
Bert gave no sign of his rising impatience. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be published if they didn’t. What can I do for you, Ms Charles?’
‘It’s Mrs, actually. But I’m a widow now. Well, as I said, this is probably a waste of your time. It’s probably nothing more than mischief.’
‘Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that, Mrs Charles. It’s part of my job to decide what is trivial and what might be more serious.’
‘Yes. Well then, I’d be very glad of your opinion on this.’ She opened her hand bag and produced the letter she had discovered on the previous evening. ‘I put it back into the envelope it was delivered in. My — my fingerprints will be on it from when I first opened it. I’ve worn gloves to handle it ever since then. I expect you’ll think that’s very over the top — I suppose it comes from being a crime writer.’
Bert shook his head and said very seriously, ‘On the contrary, I wish all members of the public would be so careful when handling what might eventually become evidence. You did exactly the right thing, Mrs Charles, just as you did the right thing in bringing this straight to us.’
‘Thank you. I live alone now, you see — well, alone except for Roland, my cat.’
Bert stared at the single sheet on his desk with its stark message and threat. ‘When did you receive this?’
‘Yesterday. I found it in the early evening, when I was about to have my meal. But it could have been dropped through the letter box at any time during the afternoon. I was working on my latest book in my study, you see.’
‘You didn’t hear or see anything?’
‘No. My study’s at the back of the house. I don’t even hear the post arriving, unless it contains something particularly heavy. All I can say with certainty is that it must have been dropped through the letter box some time between one p.m. and seven p.m.’
DS Hook went over to the dispenser at the end of the CID section and donned a pair of thin plastic medical gloves. He examined the printing of the words on the sheet of paper and then held it up to the light, holding it gingerly by its bottom corner. ‘No watermark on the paper. Standard issue A4 printing paper, sold all over the country for use with home printers, I’m afraid. And it will be difficult if not impossible to pin this with any certainty to a particular computer. The days of typewriters, which were almost as individual as fingerprints, are long gone, I’m afraid.’
Sue Charles gave her first smile since she had come into the room. ‘I know. A great boon to crime writers, the old typewriters were. We have to be much more ingenious now than in the good old days, the so-called golden age of the detective novel.’
Bert grinned. ‘I grew up with Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie as a teenager in a Barnardo’s home. The library wasn’t very up to date. For some reason, the people there thought murder was good safe reading for impressionable adolescents.’
‘Perhaps they did make an impression. You became a policeman.’
‘Yes. And eventually a detective, of sorts. I never thought there was a connection, though. I think the people who ran the home simply thought that a safe, steady job in the police represented a success for one of their lads.’
‘Perhaps they were right. I should think you’re much better at handling worried ladies of sixty-eight than most policemen.’
‘Two things, Mrs Charles. First, sixty-eight is no great age nowadays and you’re obviously in full possession of all your faculties. Secondly, you weren’t alarmist in coming to the police station today. You did exactly the right thing. We take threats like this very seriously. This almost certainly came either from some idiot who thinks it’s a good joke or from someone with a warped imagination who wants to give you a little scare. Either way, the probability is that the sender intends to do nothing further.’
‘That’s good to hear. Whoever sent this has already given me a sleepless night.’
‘I can imagine that. And although it’s statistically unlikely that the sender intends any further malice, we have to take things like this very seriously. We need to follow it up, if only to show the perpetrator of a tasteless joke that he or she can’t get away with it. I need to ask you some fairly personal questions.’
That’s all right. I’m relieved to have your help. I thought you might tell me I was overreacting.’
‘If anyone’s going to overreact, it will be us, Mrs Charles. We have to take precautions against even the most unlikely possibility. Have you any idea who sent you this?’
There was a slight hesitation before she said ‘No. I’ve thought about it, inevitably. Thought about it for most of the night, actually.’
To Hook, the hesitation was more significant than the reply. He let it go for the moment. ‘What have you been doing in the last few days? Have you offended anyone? Even a minor incident might be significant. People who write stuff like this usually have no sense of proportion.’
She gave a wry smile as she shook her head. ‘I lead a rather solitary life, since my husband died. People are very kind in general, but when they’re planning social gatherings they tend to think in terms of couples. I’m not a churchgoer — there have been moments in the last couple of years when for the first time in forty years I’ve wished I was, because any sort of religion puts you in touch with a group of sympathetic people.’ She was acutely conscious of not wanting to sound like a moaner with narrowing horizons. ‘But most of the time I love my privacy and the time it gives me to work. Writing is a lonely business, as I said, and I need isolation to work on my books.’
Bert Hook pulled her back to his question. ‘But you must have upset someone, even if it was to your mind in a very minor way.’
‘Not consciously, I’m afraid. Do you think that this could be the work of some schoolchild? Perhaps someone who’s been reading Agatha Christie, as you did? Youngsters don’t always draw very clear lines between fact and fiction.’
‘Not impossible, but unlikely. I think this is the work of someone who knows you and wishes to upset you, even if he or she doesn’t intend to do anything further. It may be a longer-standing grudge, of course, but the first thing to do is to check out the people you’ve seen recently. Let’s start with the people you’ve spoken to in the last week.’