The Shooting in the Shop (32 page)

‘No, I thought she’d have enough on her plate
with her stepdaughter having been killed. Her husband
must be devastated.’

Ah, so it seemed Serena hadn’t heard about
Ricky’s death. Probably nothing to be gained by
telling her unless she asked after him.

‘What about Piers? Have you spoken to him?’

‘Texted him. Said how devastated I was. How
ghastly it must be for him. I mean, whatever he may
have thought about Polly, they had been together for,
I don’t know, twelve years, something like that.’

‘You say “whatever he may have thought of Polly”.
What do you mean?’ asked Carole.

‘Well, I gather from mutual chums that things
haven’t been too good between them recently. And
Piers always treated her a bit as though she was
second best. I mean, when we were doing Footlights
revues and things, Polly was always the hanger-on,
the outsider, you know, not at Cambridge, not part of the group. But maybe Piers’d treat any woman he was
going out with like that.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not lacking in self-esteem, our Piers. Biggest ego
on the planet. The only thing he really cares about
is his writing, his bloody career, and now with this
sitcom of his apparently going into production, all
his ambitions are going to be realized.’

‘The real reason why we arranged to meet you,
Serena,’ said Carole, ‘is that we wanted to find out
more about this book Polly had written. She was talking
to me about it when I met her the afternoon
before she died.’

‘Oh yes, the book.’ The agent sighed as this was a
subject that had already caused trouble.

‘She did offer it to you to read, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. Happens quite a lot. This terrible myth that
“everyone’s got a book in them”. And, in most cases,
that is precisely where it should stay. But because
people know I’m a literary agent, I get lots of manuscripts
passed on from second cousins and friends of
friends . . . you know how it is.’

‘So Polly sent her manuscript to you through
Piers?’

‘No, she didn’t. Apparently she’d suggested that,
but he wasn’t keen. Usual Piers thing – he didn’t want
any competition. He was the writer in that set-up,
didn’t like the idea of having a girlfriend with literary
pretensions – in case she might turn out to be more
talented than he was. From what Polly told me, he’d
positively tried to stop her contacting me. But she was very determined, and she’d met me enough times
back in Cambridge to make a direct approach herself.
Which is what she did.’

‘So you read it?’

‘Yes, every word. Which, let me tell you, I don’t do
with every manuscript that comes thudding into my
in-box. I have a fifty-page rule – which I think is
bloody generous of me, actually. A lot of agents don’t
even go that far. But with me, I give the author a
chance. If he or she has failed to engage my interest
in fifty pages, then it’s the standard rejection letter.’

‘So what did you think of Polly’s book?’ asked
Jude. ‘We’ve heard mixed reports.’

‘She told me you’d liked it,’ said Carole, ‘but Piers
implied you’d only told Polly that out of kindness.’

‘Huh. Bloody typical Piers again.’

‘Oh?’

‘As I said, he really hated the idea of Polly having
talent in her own right. OK, she was an actor, he
didn’t mind that. At least he didn’t mind it, because
she wasn’t a very successful actor. If she’d suddenly
become a star, I’m not sure the relationship would
have survived. He doesn’t like competition.’

‘According to Piers, the relationship wasn’t going
to survive, anyway,’ said Jude. ‘He said he was
going to wait till they got through Christmas and then
give Polly the old heave-ho.’

Serena Fincham smiled sardonically. ‘So typical of
Piers. Ever the sensitive soul.’ It was significant that
she used exactly the same phrase as Lola to describe
him.

‘Anyway, please tell us,’ Carole demanded
impatiently, ‘what did you think of Lola’s book?’

‘Bloody great,’ said Serena. ‘I’d have taken it on
straight away – I know a good few publishers who
would snap up something like that – and pay a decent
advance for it, even in these benighted times. But
Polly wanted to do a bit more tinkering with it, so I
told her to get back to me when she’d got a final draft
she was happy with.’

‘Which, of course, she never did.’

‘No.’

‘What kind of a book was it?’ asked Jude.

‘Well, it was a novel, but one of those novels
which is clearly very thinly disguised autobiography.
About a girl – who wasn’t called Polly, but clearly was
Polly. And about the difficulties of her upbringing –
feckless father, parents both doing drugs, divorce,
mother’s remarriage to another unreliable male,
break-up of that relationship, second divorce, mother’s
death from an overdose . . . you know, all the cheery
ingredients of normal family life. Had it been nonfiction,
I suppose you would have called it a “misery
memoir”, but it was better than most of those are.
Better written, for a start. Polly really did write beautifully.’

‘And do you think, if the book were published, it’d
be successful?’

‘Oh yes. Though I say it myself, I do have an
instinct for these things – which is why I do the job
I do. I’ve represented a few turkeys – haven’t we all
– but, generally speaking, I’ve got a good nose for a successful book. And Polly’s fell straight into that
category, no question.’

‘Presumably, with a book like that,’ Carole began,
‘thinly disguised autobiography, there’s a potential
libel risk, isn’t there? I mean, if people in the book
recognize themselves, they could take the author to
court?’

‘Yes, but Polly had managed that very skilfully.
The characters were changed just enough to get
round the libel risk. But, of course, particularly because
she comes from quite a famous family, everyone
would suspect who the originals were. So, come the
publicity circus, Polly would have been asked all
those questions: “Is the irresponsible stepfather
Ricky Le Bonnier? Is the dominant grandmother
Flora Le Bonnier? Is the arsehole of a boyfriend Piers
Duncton?” And then, of course, in all the interviews
Polly would have hotly denied that was the case,
which would only feed more curiosity in the listeners
and viewers – and would sell more books.’

‘You used the word “arsehole” for the way Piers
came across in the book . . .’

Serena quickly picked up Jude’s cue. ‘Yes, and I
was being kind. I think Polly must’ve been saving up
her spleen for some years. The Edwin in the book is
Piers all over, very funny, lots of surface charm and a
cold-blooded eye to the main chance. But at bottom
a self-centred bully. If the book ever had been published,
I don’t think Polly’s relationship with Piers
could possibly have survived.’

Carole and Jude exchanged looks. Both knew how close they seemed to be getting to an explanation
of the tragedy at Gallimaufry, but both knew how
seriously they lacked evidence. ‘Serena,’ said Jude
softly, hardly daring to put the question in case their
hopes were to be dashed, ‘you don’t by any chance
have a copy of the book, do you? I mean, the draft
that Polly sent you?’

‘She actually emailed it to me.’

‘So you never had a hard copy?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did. When she sent it to me
I had a problem with my laptop – it was being
repaired – so I did a printout at the office and took it
home to read over that weekend.’

‘Have you still got the printour?’

‘Yes.’

Matching involuntary sighs of relief emanated
from Carole and Jude, as Serena reached into her
capacious leather briefcase and pulled out a dog-eared
pile of typing paper held together by a red
rubber band.

‘Would it be possible for us to have a look at it? Get
a copy made, if you like? We would look after it.’

‘Yes,’ said Serena ruefully, ‘in fact, you can have it.
Sadly, it’s of no use to me.’

Carole looked confused. ‘But I thought you said it
was publishable.’

‘Yes, it very definitely is. Even in this state. Polly
wanted to make more changes, but that was only
because she had a perfectionist streak in her. All this
manuscript needs is a little copy-editing and it could
go straight to the printers tomorrow.’

‘Then why do you say it’s of no use to you?’

‘Because,’ the agent replied, ‘amongst the many
emails I came back to on Saturday, was one from
Piers. He said the Le Bonniers had had a family conference,
and they’d decided they didn’t want Polly’s
book ever to be published.’

‘He said that, did he?’ Carole looked beadily across
at her neighbour. Unusually, there was a beadiness in
Jude’s eyes too.

The moment Serena Fincham had gone back to her
office, Jude rang through on her mobile to Fedingham
Court House. It was some time before Lola answered
the phone. She sounded weary to the marrow of her
bones.

‘I’m still alive,’ she replied to Jude’s solicitous
enquiries. ‘Mabel asked where Daddy was this morning,
and when he was coming back. I only just
stopped myself from bursting into tears in front of
her. God knows how I’ll break the news.’

‘You’ll find a way,’ said Jude, not for the first time.

‘Hope so.’ Lola made an attempt to pull herself
together. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’

‘I wonder . . . is Piers still there with you?’

‘No, he isn’t.’

There was a harshness in Lola’s tone that made
Jude ask, ‘Has he been causing any trouble?’

‘You could say that. If you call coming on to a
woman who’s been widowed little more than twenty-four
hours causing trouble.’

‘Piers?’

‘Yes. He had the nerve to come into my bedroom last night. I didn’t have much prospect of sleeping
anyway, but he ensured my night was completely
ruined.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Oh, he sat on my bed, and he started pawing at
me, and he said our time in Edinburgh together was
the best bit of his life, and he’d always really loved
me, and now Polly and Ricky were out of the way
there was no reason why we couldn’t become an item
and . . . It was horrible. I couldn’t believe anyone
could be so insensitive, least of all someone who I’ve
always thought of as one of my closest friends. It took
me hours to persuade him that I didn’t love him, that
Ricky was the only man I’d really loved and . . . and
then Piers started hitting me. I actually had to call for
Varya and physically push him out of my bedroom.’
She sounded perilously close to tears.

‘So where is Piers now?’ asked Jude.

‘At his flat in London, I assume. I sent him off this
morning with a flea in his ear.’

‘You wouldn’t have his address to hand, would
you?’

‘Yes, I know it off by heart. Near Warren Street
tube. He’s been there a while. I used to spend a lot
of time with them there before I met Ricky.’ She
gave the details.

‘What time did Piers leave this morning?’

‘Varya drove him to Fedborough Station to catch
an early train, the seven-forty-two . . . leaving me to
somehow get across to my children that their father’s
dead, let alone start organizing his funeral . . .’

‘You’re allowed to do that, are you? The police
have released the body?’

‘Yes, they said they’ve had a preliminary report
from the surgeon who did Ricky’s post mortem.’ She
hurried over the words, not wanting to dwell on them.
‘And I can start making funeral arrangements. Ricky
died a natural death.’

In the teeth of the evidence, Carole and Jude were
still not convinced about that.

‘There’s something I’ve just remembered,’ said
Jude.

‘What?’

‘The morning after we heard that a woman’s body
had been found in the ashes of Gallimaufry I spoke to
Lola on the phone. I asked her if she had any idea
who the victim might be. She said she’d checked
that Anna and Bex were all right, and that Ricky
had checked that Polly was safely in London with
Piers . . .’

‘Are you saying that Ricky was lying?’

‘No. I’m saying that Piers was.’

The flat off Tottenham Court Road which Piers and
Polly had shared showed little signs of a feminine
touch. Its aggressive tidiness suggested more the
hand of a masculine control freak. Framed on the
walls were posters going back to Piers’s Footlights
days, and more recent stills for television shows he’d contributed to. Posters of plays that Polly Le Bonnier
might have been in did not feature. A smell of Piers’s
cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air.

He had sounded unsurprised when Jude had rung
to ask if he minded her and Carole coming to see him.
They had stayed in the coffee shop flicking through
the manuscript for half an hour or so, which had been
long enough to form a pretty clear picture of the
hatchet job Polly had done on her boyfriend. Then
they’d rung Piers.

On arrival at the flat, they were greeted with the
minimum of courtesy, no offer of a drink but instead
the immediate question, ‘What’s all this about?’

‘We were hoping you might be able to tell us that,’
replied Carole.

‘We’re interested in the deaths of Polly and Ricky,’
said Jude.

‘You’re not alone in that. Everyone seems to think
it’s their business to speculate on the subject.’

‘We particularly wanted to talk to you, Piers,
because we’ve just been reading the manuscript of
Polly’s book.’

He went pale as he demanded, ‘Where the hell did
you get that?’

‘From Serena Fincham.’

‘Damn! I should have rung her and told her not to
talk to anyone about it.’

‘What?’ said Carole. ‘And then you would have
suppressed every copy of it, wouldn’t you? Did you
know, incidentally, that Ricky had Polly’s flash drive
with a copy of the book on it?’

‘Ricky’s dead. He’s not going to pass it on to
anyone now.’

‘Perhaps not. But if it was in his possession when
he died – and we have reason to believe it was – then
it’s probably now in the hands of the police. They’re
going to be very interested in its contents, I would
imagine, given that they’re still investigating Polly’s
death.’