LITMIR.BIZ

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various editorial offices.

      ‘By the way, congratulations on the promotion,’ he said.

      ‘Thanks. It’s brilliant isn’t it? I still can’t believe it.’

      He could, however. She was only twenty-nine, but then magazine publishing was a young person’s business and in her field Karen was the best editor he knew. They’d met about a year earlier when he’d first started casting around for commissions. She knew his work and though she’d expressed surprise at his change of direction, she’d been happy enough to give him the odd lifestyle piece. He’d accepted two before he’d decided that writing features about liposuction and country hotels didn’t do it for him. This time she hadn’t been surprised, and though they hadn’t worked together since, they had remained friends.

      They came to a door with a plate bearing Karen’s name and her title of Publishing Editor.

      ‘Impressive.’ He ran his finger over the raised gold lettering.

      She grinned. ‘I think so.’

      ‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about now? Who’s the mystery person you want me to meet?’

      ‘Her name’s Helen Pierce, she’s an old friend. She came to see me a few days ago to ask for my help and after I’d listened to what she had to say I thought of you.’

      He was immediately wary. ‘What kind of help does she need exactly?’

      ‘I think it would be better if she explained that herself. Come and meet her.’

      He put his hand on her arm to stop her opening the door. ‘I get the feeling I’m not going to like this. Listen Karen, if this is about your friend’s missing child I can’t help. I’m sorry but I don’t do that any more.’

      She regarded him steadily, searching the depths of his eyes. ‘So, what are you going to do? Another hack job on some flash-in-the pan pop star?’

      ‘Ouch.’

      ‘I just can’t believe you’d waste your energy on something so frivolous.’

      He looked around with mock confusion. ‘Sorry, there must be some mistake. I didn’t realize this was The Times.’

      ‘Very funny. Look, you’re here now. At least come and meet Helen, hear what she has to say. Do it for me, please. She doesn’t know who else she can turn to. And incidentally there’s no missing child. Helen doesn’t have children. In fact nobody is missing.’

      This last part finally convinced him and he gave in, as he was sure she had known he would. ‘No promises though,’ he said.

      ‘Fair enough.’ She squeezed his hand briefly, then opened the door.

      A woman who had been standing at the window turned to face them. She was about Karen’s age and was wearing a dark-coloured suit. She was attractive, he thought, but not stunning. Her suit was well tailored, probably expensive, but not the sort of cutting-edge fashion favoured by most of the women who worked for Condor. She might have been a consultant of some sort, or maybe a lawyer.

      Karen did the introductions. ‘Adam Turner, Helen Pierce. Helen, this is the writer I told you about.’

      As he shook her hand he had the feeling it was his turn to be appraised. Her expression was guarded. ‘Karen’s told me a lot about you, Mr Turner.’

      ‘Don’t believe any of it,’ he joked. She offered a hesitant smile. She was nervous, he thought, and then revised his judgement. She was on edge.

      They sat around a small conference table where Karen held her meetings and wielded her power. On the wall behind her desk were the framed covers of the magazines under her control, including Landmark, which occupied pride of place and was the prize that went with her recent promotion. Condor published mostly gossipy coffee-table monthlies, but Landmark was the exception, mixing arts and social commentary along with the occasional investigative piece. It was the least profitable magazine in the Condor stable, but it conferred a degree of respectability on Ryan Cummings, Karen’s boss and the owner of the company.

      ‘Karen tells me you two are old friends,’ Adam said, breaking the ice. ‘Are you in the publishing business too?’

      ‘Actually, I work for a research company.’

      ‘Helen and I were at university in Exeter together,’ Karen explained. ‘We shared a horrible flat for two years.’ To Helen she said, ‘I told Adam that it would be best if he heard what you have to say first-hand.’

      ‘Alright, though I’m not sure where to begin, exactly.’

      ‘Take your time,’ Adam told her. He felt himself slip easily into his old persona. How many times had he sat with parents who needed his help to find their son or daughter, trying to get them to open up and talk freely about a subject that, despite them having sought him out, was inevitably painful for them. ‘If I need to clarify anything I’ll ask questions.’

      She nodded and dropped her gaze while she composed her thoughts. ‘About a month ago, at the beginning of September, I learned that my brother, Ben, had been killed in a car crash. The fact is that since then I’ve come to believe that his death wasn’t an accident.’

      She paused and met Adam’s eye. She was, he knew, trying to evaluate his reaction. She would have told her story before, most likely to people who hadn’t necessarily believed her, including the police. She would have been listened to politely at every level. Sympathy and condolences would have been offered, but in the end the disbelief she encountered would have become increasingly obvious. Frustration and a sense of isolation would have set in. He knew all this had happened otherwise she would not be sitting at this table now.

      A year ago he had decided that he couldn’t do this kind of work any more. At least not if he was trying to make up for something that had happened seventeen years earlier. After his divorce from Louise he had begun to seriously question the direction his life was taking. Louise wasn’t the first casualty of the guilt he felt about Meg Coucesco. There had been others over the years, all of them eventually driven away. Maybe getting married had been an expression of a subconscious desire to change, as writing the autobiography of a spoiled pop star had been a conscious one. Neither had worked. Besides, nothing was ever that simple. Even now as he listened to Helen Pierce he felt a familiar stirring of interest. He hadn’t felt that way for a while.

      ‘Why do you think your brother’s death wasn’t an accident?’ he asked, conveying no judgement either by his tone or expression.

      She took a visible breath. ‘Ben was killed with two of his friends when their car left the road and rolled down a hill. The police report said that Ben was driving and the autopsy showed that his blood alcohol level was four times the legal limit. But that can’t be right. Ben didn’t drive. I mean he couldn’t drive. He didn’t know how. And he didn’t drink either. At least not to the extent the police are claiming. I’ve never known him to have more than the odd beer.’

      ‘Then how do you explain the autopsy report? Mistakes are very rare.’

      She gave a quick impatient shake of her head, her eyes flashing a brittle defensiveness. ‘I can’t explain it. But I know, I knew, my brother.’

      ‘Tell Adam why Ben didn’t drink,’ Karen prompted gently.

      ‘Since he was a child he’d suffered from epilepsy. It was controllable though he still had the occasional seizure, but he had to take medication every day. Something called Lamictal. Drinking reacted with the drug and made him violently ill.’

      ‘Is it possible he had stopped taking his medication when the accident happened?’ Adam asked.

      ‘No. The autopsy report showed that it was present in his blood.’

      Her point, Adam thought, was interesting rather than compelling. At least from the point of view of a detached third party, which was always the role he forced himself to take, at least

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