‘He would also have known that Tabitha’s proposal had a good chance of being accepted, because the state of the company finances at that time was fairly desperate. You will be able to see that yourself from the year’s accounts, which I took the precaution of including in my haul. Add financial insecurity, then, to McGanny’s proven willingness to engage in unscrupulous transactions, and you will see that he could hardly be expected to refuse Tabitha’s generous terms. And he would not even have baulked, as most men would have done, at her one extraordinary precondition.’ He looked up at me sharply. ‘You can guess what it was, of course?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
Findlay permitted himself a dry laugh. ‘Well, from her letter, it seems that she insisted – insisted, mind – that the book could only be written by you.’
This made no sense at all.
‘But that’s ridiculous. I haven’t even met Tabitha Winshaw. Back in 1982 we didn’t even … know of each other’s existence.’
‘Well, she obviously knew of yours.’
Findlay sat back against the wall, examining his fingernails and clearly relishing the confusion into which his information had thrown me. After a while – and, I suspect, more out of mischief than anything else – he speculated coolly: ‘Perhaps news of your literary reputation had reached her, Michael. She may have read a review of one of those widely admired novels of yours, and decided that here was a man whose services she could not afford to do without.’
But I scarcely heard this remark, because a number of new questions, distinctly uncomfortable ones, had just occurred to me.
‘Yes, but look, I told you how I came to be offered that job. There was this woman called Alice Hastings, and I met her on the train, quite by chance.’
‘Quite by arrangement, I think you’ll find.’ Findlay had produced a toothpick from somewhere and was now scraping out the dirt from beneath his thumbnail.
‘But I’d never seen her before in my life.’
‘And have you seen her since?’
‘Well no, I haven’t – not to speak to, anyway.’
‘That’s rather curious, isn’t it, in – what? – eight years of dealing with the firm.’
‘Actually,’ I said, on the defensive, ‘I caught a glimpse of her outside the office only a few months ago, getting out of a taxi.’
‘I seem to remember,’ said Findlay, now pointing at me with the toothpick, ‘that when you first told me this story, you furnished me with a brief description.’
‘That’s right: long dark hair, long thin neck —’
‘– and a face like a horse.’
‘I can’t believe those were my exact words.’
‘Equine, then. That was the detail that stuck in my mind. Or rather, that was the detail which came back to me when I broke into the house the other night and first saw a photograph of’ (bringing the toothpick even closer to my face) ‘McGanny himself.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Did you know that Hastings is the maiden name of McGanny’s wife?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘And that he has a daughter called Alice – an actress?’
‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.’
‘You knew her name was Alice?’
‘I knew she was an actress. She phoned him up the last time I was in there, a few months –’
I stopped short.
‘The same day,’ Findlay suggested, ‘that you thought you’d seen Miss Hastings getting out of a taxi?’
I didn’t reply to this; just got up and walked to the window.
‘If the name Alice McGanny,’ Findlay continued, ‘is not one which is widely known in theatrical circles, this is because the young lady’s career has, from what I was able to piece together of her CV, obstinately refused to take off. She’s understudied, she’s dressed, she’s ASM-ed, she’s had walk-on parts, one-line parts and no-line parts, and in between these triumphs she’s been in and out of a drug rehabilitation centre and posed naked for one of the sleaziest magazines in the business. (There was a copy in McGanny’s safe, which I was considerate enough to retrieve on your behalf: it did nothing for me, I’m afraid, but they tell me that this sort of thing can sometimes provide a small frisson to those who share your rather sad and routine inclinations.) And so it’s hardly surprising, given all of this, that she’s repeatedly been obliged to borrow large sums of money from her father; and I dare say that on this occasion she was willing enough to undertake a little role-playing on his behalf, if the price was right.’
I stayed over by the window. It was too high up in the wall for me to be able to see anything, but that didn’t matter: my mind’s eye was focused on our meeting in the railway carriage all those years ago. I replayed it again and again, fast-forwarding, rewinding. They must have found out my address somehow – from Patrick, maybe, or from my literary editor at the newspaper – and then she must have kept watch on the flat for hours, perhaps even a day or two, while I sat inside writing my precious review … Followed me to the tube station, followed me to King’s Cross, and then that stupid story about going to visit her sister in Kettering, and not needing her own suitcase. How could I have fallen for it: what, precisely, had been blinding me?
‘Well, you’re not the only man who would have walked into that trap, I’m sure,’ said Findlay, appearing to read my thoughts. ‘She is rather attractive, after all; even I can see that. Still, they were taking a bit of a gamble, when you think about it, if her looks were all they had to rely upon. I’m surprised they didn’t try to bait the hook with something else while they were about it.’
‘They did.’ I turned, but was still unable to look Findlay full in his questioning face. ‘She was reading one of my novels. It had never happened to me before. She didn’t have to approach me. I introduced myself.’
‘Ah.’ Findlay nodded wisely, but there was no mistaking the amusement in his eye. ‘Of course. The age-old appeal. And McGanny would know more about authorial vanity than most. After all, he had built a whole business on it.’
‘Quite.’ I paced the cell briskly now, anxious for the conversation to be over as quickly as possible. I waited for what seemed like an age for Findlay to break his silence, and then could contain my impatience no longer. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘So what’s the missing link?’
‘Missing link?’
‘Between me and Tabitha. How had she found out about me, why did she choose me?’
‘I’ve already told you, Michaeclass="underline" unless your name had become a watchword, in those days, among Yorkshire’s many discerning readers of contemporary fiction, I haven’t the vaguest notion.’
‘But you’re a detective: I thought that’s what you were trying to find out.’
‘I have found out a great deal,’ said Findlay sharply, ‘much of it on your behalf and all of it at considerable personal risk. If some of my discoveries have upset you then perhaps there are lessons to be learned from your own conduct in this affair. Don’t blame the messenger.’