"Charlie, this is David Tyrell, Programme Director of Shots in the Dark. Detective Inspector Resnick, CID."
Tyrell was tall, taller than Resnick by an inch or more, bespectacled, his already slim body made slimmer by a suit that Resnick wagered cost more than a season ticket to County plus change.
"Inspector, good to meet you."
Tyrell's handshake was strong, the eyes behind the glasses unblinking, but his skin had the pallor of someone who has spent too long out of the light.
"This is Mollie," Tyrell said.
"My assistant."
"Mollie Hansen. Assistant Director, Marketing." Her grip was quick and cool and those five words enough to mark her as a Geordie, strayed from home. She stood there a moment longer, taking in Resnick with slate-grey eyes, the pinch of blood where he had nicked himself shaving, the speck of something yellow crusted to his lapel. A widening of her mouth, not yet a smile, and she stepped back scarlet T-shirt, Doc Martens, jeans.
"You know this festival, Charlie? The one Mr Tyrell's responsible for."
Not really. "
Over by the side wall, Mollie Hansen sighed.
"Why don't we all sit down?" Skelton suggested.
"See what we've got."
Tyrell crossed his legs, drew a cigarette packet from his pocket and, almost in the same gesture, pushed it back from sight.
"Shots has been running four years. It's a crime and mystery festival, films mainly, TV, more recently, books as well. Each year we invite special guests, stars, I suppose you'd call them, to some extent built the programme around them. You know, Quentin Tarantino, Sara Paretsky, people like that."
Knowing neither of them, Resnick nodded. He felt the strength of Mollie Hansen's gaze, weighing him up for what she thought he was.
"This year," Tyrell continued, 'we've got Curtis Woolfe. The director. His first public appearance in fifteen years. "
"Sixteen," Mollie said quietly.
Tyrell ignored her and carried on.
"For the book side of things, we've managed to get Cathy Jordan to come over from the States. Which is great."
"Except…" began Mollie.
"Except she's been receiving threatening letters."
"Which is why we've come to you."
Cathy Jordan, Resnick was thinking. Jordan. He wondered if he should know the name, wondered if he did. The last crime novel he'd tried to read had been an old Leslie Charteris found inside a chest of drawers he'd bought in an auction at the Cattle Market. He had never finished it Skelton was holding the faxed copies out towards him and Resnick stood and took them from his hand. The words were typed and faint, not easy to read.
You know, I really do think you've been allowed to pursue what is after all a very limited talent altogether too far.
It's one thing, of course, for people who should know better to be taken to the point where they will award you prizes, quite another for you to have the brazen effrontery to accept them.
Remember Louella Trabert, Cathy, remember what happened to her?
Resnick looked up,
"Louella Trabert?"
"She's in one of her novels," Tyrell said.
"A character."
"A victim," Mollie said.
Resnick was watching her, the tilt of her chin, the flushing high on her cheeks.
"What does happen to her?" he asked.
"She gets dragged from a car in the middle of the night, with her children left strapped in the back seat. These guys haul her off into the woods, strangle and rape her. Next morning one of the kids gets free and finds her upside down, tied by her ankles to a tree, her body slit from neck to belly with a hunting knife. Gutted."
"Not exactly," Tyrell said.
"Jesus! How exact do you want it to be?"
Resnick glanced at the other letters and set them back down.
"You're taking these seriously? She's taking them seriously? Cathy Jordan."
"Seriously enough to let us know," Tyrell said.
"But not enough to prevent her coming."
"They were posted in America?" Resnick asked.
Tyrell nodded.
"New York. Where she lives."
"And she's no idea who sent them?"
"Apparently not."
"Well," Resnick moved back to his seat.
"Maybe she feels she'll be safer over here anyway."
Tyrell looked over at Mollie, who was already reaching down towards the black leather bag by her feet.
25 "This arrived this morning," Mollie said, the envelope in her hand.
Seven Dear Cathy, I keep waiting for you to make the announcement, go public, seize the moment during one of those chat shows you're always on whenever I switch on the TV. You know, one of those quiet moments, snuggled down on the set tee with Letterman, or laughing with Jay Leno and then, out of the blue, leaving aside all the fun and the gossip and you are funny, Cathy. I have to give you that you'll come right out with it. Let me tell you something now, you'll say, looking right at us with those big, blue eyes of yours, the truth is, David, Jay, I am the most talent less bitch that ever got up on her hind legs and walked. Real talent, that is. Leaving aside self-promotion and back stabbing plagiarism all the things I'm really good at.
Oh, and of course it helps to have the morals of the well-known alley cat, best not forget that.
The trouble is, Cathy, the richer you get, the more units isn't that what you call books nowadays, dear? – you sell, the less likely this is to happen. So I'm going to have to stop it now, myself, over here in England. Put an end to this farrago, once and for all. You do understand me, don't you, Cathy?
You do realise I am serious? Poor little Anita Mulholland, Cathy. remember what happened to her.
The letter was on a single sheet of white paper, A4 size, un watermarked undated, almost needless to say, unsigned. At first glance, a good bubble jet or laser printer had been used. The envelope in which it had been delivered was self-sealing, slim and white, manufactured by John Dickinson and with the words
"Eurolope Envelopes' printed over and over in a grey diagonal across the inside. Centred on the front of the envelope, the words " Cathy Jordan'. No postmark, no stamp.
"You found this where?" Resnick asked.
Tyrell glanced at Mollie. 'in the office," Mollie said. " At Broadway.
It was there with the other mail when I arrived. "
"What time?"
"I usually get in at around a quarter to ten. This morning it was earlier, half past nine. I was sorting through the post and I found this."
"Who else was in the office beside you?"
Mollie gave it a little thought
"The cleaner would have been and gone. If the mail arrives before she leaves, usually she'll put it on the desk, but this was still on the floor. The only other possibility is Dick McCrea, he's the finance director. He's sometimes in ahead of me, but…"
"But today he's in London," Tyrell put in, 'a meeting at the BFI. He would have gone straight to the station, the 7. 38 train. "
"If he'd forgotten something, though," Resnick said, 'at the office, something he needed. "
"Dick McCrea," Mollie said, 'got his memory in a direct deal with God. Forget is a word he doesn't admit exists. "
"Miss Jordan," Skelton said, 'you've told her about this? "
"Not yet," said Tyrell.
"We thought… I thought first of all we should speak to you. See if there wasn't something you could do. Not a bodyguard, exactly…"
"Heaven forbid!" Mollie said, not quite beneath her breath.
"I don't know," Tyrell continued, 'some kind of police presence, maybe. Low key. Something that would reassure her. "
"The last thing we want," Mollie said, 'is for people to be put off attending because they think there's going to be some kind of incident. "
Or, Resnick thought, for one of your star guests to get back on the plane and fly home.
"When's Cathy Jordan due to arrive?" Skelton asked.