"The global sales were good, weren't they?" I said.
She ignored that "-an open invitation to pretend they were Sara. You went into such detail about the White Devil's methods that you're probably responsible for dozens of murders." She turned away and murmured, "Good night."
Karen, used to seeing dead bodies at all times of day and night, despite her initial disquiet, fell asleep not long afterward. Eventually I dropped off, but not before I'd got out of bed to check the alarm system. I was vaguely aware of Karen rising at some ridiculously early hour and kissing me on the cheek. Then I dropped off again. At least I wasn't disturbed by nightmares.
When I finally surfaced it was after nine. I would normally have done half an hour on my exercise bike, but today I wanted to be sure that everyone was all right. I ran my eye down the morning e-mails. All my family and friends had confirmed they were okay. I thought about raising the level of alert after the murder last night, but decided against it. Karen was right-a single mention of the devil in Latin wasn't worth getting too worked up about.
I sat back in my?2000 desk chair and considered the name that Karen had mentioned. Shirley Higginbottom. There was something familiar about it. I looked at the row of reference books on the nearest shelf. Who's Who? Who's Who in the Arts? The Rugby League Year Book? None of them seemed likely, though there was probably no shortage of league players called Higginbottom. Farther along the shelf there was a small yellow booklet. It was the annual directory of members of the Crime Writers' Society. Something clicked. I grabbed the booklet and found the pages with names beginning in H. No Higginbottoms. Then I remembered the section that matched authors' real names with their noms de plume. I was in that-Matt Stone = Matt Wells. Back when I'd started writing novels, I thought Stone would give me a harder edge in the market. That had been one of my many delusions.
Then I hit pay dirt. There it was: Mary Malone = Shirley Higginbottom. Jesus-Mary Malone. She was a major bestseller. She was also notorious for staying out of the limelight. She'd been invited several times as guest of honor to crime-writing festivals and had always declined. There wasn't even a publicity photograph of her in circulation, leading to nasty speculation that she was a fearsome hag-or, perhaps, a man. She'd sent her editor to collect her two Historical Crime Novel of the Year awards.
I picked up the phone and called Karen.
"This isn't a good time, Matt," she said in a low voice.
"Yes, it is. What would you say if I told you that your murder victim last night was a bestselling crime novelist?"
"What?"
"I was expecting at least one expletive."
"Tough. So she had a nom de plume?"
"Yup. Mary Malone. She wrote about eighteenth- century Paris and she was a global bestseller."
"Interesting. Look, I'm in a case conference now. I'll pass that on to the team that's working the murder."
"Sure you don't want to take it over? I could be useful to you. Insider knowledge of the victim's milieu, personal experience of-"
"You just want to make sure crazy Sara's not involved, don't you, Matt? Talk to you later." The connection was cut.
"Bollocks!" I shouted into the phone. A few seconds later it rang. "It's all right, darling," I said. "I forgive you."
"Very kind of you, Matt. What did I do?"
I recognized the overcooked Cockney tones of Josh Hinkley, author of a popular series of gangster capers. He'd treated me like shit when my career was in the doldrums, but since my success he imagined he was my best friend.
"Sorry, Josh. I thought you were someone else."
"Not the delightful DCI Oaten, by any chance?"
My relationship with Karen was common knowledge in crime-writing circles. Some authors would have paid good money to go out with a senior police officer, and Hinkley was definitely one of them.
"What are you after, Josh?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if you knew one of our colleagues was brutally murdered last night."
"Of course I knew," I said hastily, surprised that he'd found out so quickly. He didn't waste any time telling me how.
"Journo on the Express, who I drink with, rang me up an hour ago. One of the cops told him they found a Crime Writers' Society membership card in the name of Mary Malone when they went through her desk. Wondered if I knew her."
"And what did you tell him?" I asked, wishing I could have told him I'd already tipped Karen off.
I heard Hinkley draw hard on a cigarette. "Well, what could I say? I never met her, did I? None of us ever met her. I did check the membership directory, though. Confirmed that Shirley whatever was her real name."
"And no doubt your name will get mentioned in tomorrow's paper," I said snidely.
"Of course, old cock." He laughed. "I don't need a column in the Daily Indie to show how smart I am. You can pass the pseudonym on to your girlfriend with my compliments."
"You're too late, Josh," I said, terminating the call. Sometimes he could be a gigantic dickhead. Then it occurred to me that Karen obviously wasn't being kept up to speed by Homicide West. Someone was going to get their ears burned. I considered calling her again, but decided against it. She would only have told me to get on with my own work. But the crime writer's murder was very much in my domain. Could the killer be making a point to me? That was exactly the kind of thing I'd been expecting Sara to do for the last two years.
I went over to the window that ran all along the south wall of my flat. Spring still seemed as far away as Acapulco, the Thames running gray and chill. On sunny days the view was great, but in winter London looked like a dead zone from the fourth floor. At my old place in Herne Hill, I hadn't had a view beyond the neighbors' overgrown Leylandii. I didn't miss it-the place in Chelsea had cost me a large part of my earnings from The Death List, but it already had happy memories. This was where Karen and I had begun to spend time together as a couple-the start of a new life for me. The problem was, I hadn't been able to write fiction since I'd moved in. It wasn't that I needed the money. The newspaper column covered most of my living expenses, and I'd been a journalist before I was a novelist. But something was missing. It was as if my involvement with a real serial killer had stolen my ability to write fiction. I'd lied to Karen and I didn't feel good about that. I hadn't written two thousand words of a novel. I had barely written one word.
I went to my workspace, an enormous, antique partners' desk in the corner of the living area. There were three computers on it, although I only used one. That was the problem when you made a lot of money unexpect- edly-you bought a load of unnecessary gear.
I booted up and logged on to my e-mail program. Among the new messages was one from my editor, Jeanie Young-Burke. I hadn't accepted an advance for the new novel, so there wasn't a deadline. But she was still pressing me about how I was getting on. There was also one from Christian Fels, my agent. Although he was nearing retirement, he still had the instincts of a great white shark when it came to making deals. He'd had several offers from publishers for another nonfiction crime book. The problem was, I didn't have any material.
Could the murder with the white-chalk pentagram be exactly what I needed?
"What's this about the victim being a bestselling crime novelist, Inspector?" Karen Oaten demanded, the phone pressed tight to her ear.
"How did you-" Luke Neville audibly gulped. "I was just about to ring you, ma'am…I mean, guv."
"I'm sure you were," Oaten said, frowning at John Turner. "Have you seen the preliminary CSI and postmortem reports?"
"They're just in."
"E-mail me everything you've got. The next time you hold out on me, you'll be talking to the AC. Am I clear?"
"Yes, guv."
Oaten slammed the phone down. "Wanker."