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  ‘Has there been some sort of development?’ Lewis asked, looking briefly at Hobbs before averting his eyes. He hung between the two policemen like a toddler, tired from his silly tantrum. Lewis had to consciously keep an expression of disgust from his face. Sheffield, too, threw Hobbs a look of distaste.

  ‘You’re the alibi?’ he asked, surprising Lewis.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Lewis responded quickly. ‘He came to my flat after his dinner with Julie, but I don’t know what happened before that. In fact,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I’m not entirely sure that the timeline the police provided before was quite right. Ken was with me, though, when Hobbs arrived at my flat. He can probably confirm the time more accurately than I could. I was drinking, you see,’ he added this with a smile, and felt that it had enough charm.

  Ken didn’t appear to react to his sudden involvement and nodded at the inspector. Sheffield frowned but took out his pen and notebook and jotted something down.

  ‘Your full name and address?’ he asked.

  Lewis stared at Hobbs as Ken provided his details. Hobbs’ chest was heaving, yet his face was deathly pale. Lewis looked away.

  ‘And what time would you say Mr Hobbs arrived at Mr Carson’s home?’

  ‘It could have been any time, I suppose – he was waiting in the garden, and who knows for how long. We didn’t get back till past ten,’ Ken said, confident. ‘We’d seen in last orders. Me and Lewis, that is. We didn’t rush back. We must have met him no earlier than 10.20.’

  Sheffield noted this down, satisfied.

  ‘And you would agree this is more accurate than your previous statement suggested, Mr Carson?’

  Lewis made a point of smiling ruefully, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I’m certain Ken’s right,’ he said. ‘I apologise for my confusion yesterday. As I say – the demon drink!’

  At this, Sheffield smiled, and Lewis felt relief wash through him. Ken grinned, clearly established as his ally now.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carson, Mr McHardy. That’s actually very useful information. Certainly raises questions regarding Mr Hobbs’ timeline.’

  He had tucked his pen and notebook back into his pocket, signalled to his officers. As they made to move off, Hobbs seemed to realise the conversation had not gone as he expected. His eyes widened and he struggled wildly against the two policemen.

  ‘Carson! Will you tell them? Jesus, Lewis, please!’

  Lewis gazed at him regretfully, beginning to enjoy the spectacle somewhat.

  ‘Oh, Sheffield,’ Ken’s voice held a promise in it, and Lewis tore his gaze from Hobbs to look at him. The inspector turned back, his eyebrow raised. ‘I don’t know what he’s supposed to have done, but he was fair out of sorts when we bumped into him. Upset about something.’

  Lewis might have kissed him.

  ‘Upset?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Looked like he’d been through the wars, too. I thought maybe he’d been in a fight, to be honest.’

  ‘Would you agree, Mr Carson?’

  Lewis nodded. ‘I had quite forgotten, but now that Ken’s mentioned it, I do recall he seemed off when he arrived. I did ask if he was alright, but he didn’t want to talk about it. We spoke exclusively about work matters.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carson, Mr McHardy. I’ll be in touch with you both, of course.’

  He exited the lobby behind the struggling trio, Hobbs’ legs flailing horribly between the two policemen. A muttering rose amongst the staff, and Lewis felt a smile tug at his mouth. When he made towards the stairs, he realised that Ken wasn’t alongside him. He paused and looked back. Ken remained in his spot, staring out the door with a flat sort of expression. When he turned and met Lewis’s eye, his gaze was troubled.

  6

  In the days after Hobbs’ arrest, the offices became a virtual battleground. Lewis was careful to sit the fence during the many conversations that took place regarding Hobbs’ guilt or innocence. Curiously, it was the men of the office who condemned their boss, while the women generally expressed disbelief. Things climaxed when one of the old guard in accounts declared that Julie had ‘probably brought it on herself’, a comment for which she received a slap from her younger, scandalised desk partner. Both women were let go, and discussion turned to which woman deserved to be sacked most, if either.

  Goldstein was appointed interim Director and did not hide his pleasure over the fact. Dickson easily assumed the role of his second in command, and while the two made a good show of being aggrieved by the situation in an emergency editorial meeting, their glee was palpable.

  There were mutterings of redundancies and closure, and the arrival of Hobbs Snr in the office triggered a flurry of new anxieties. The tension was such that Lewis felt his own role in the matter had been largely forgotten. No-one asked him why Hobbs had seemed so sure that he would provide him with an alibi, their minds shifting quickly from Julie’s murder to their own job security, a blessing for which Lewis was thankful.

  Over the span of those few short days, he thought perhaps things had come good. And then he received a visitor.

  6

  Lewis was aware of a strong sense of déjà vu.

  He was sitting behind his own desk, the man opposite him occupying the lower seat across from him, which marked the situation as somewhat different. But the natural liberty this seating arrangement would typically offer felt somewhat challenged by the hard stare Charles Hobbs was directing at him.

  Frederick Hobbs was very much his father’s son, Lewis thought.

  Hobbs Snr had let himself into the office without announcing himself, a tall, imperious-looking man with very neat, thinning fair hair. He was wearing what Lewis thought might be an extremely expensive suit. He self-consciously smoothed his own shirt.

  ‘My son has of course been granted bail. My solicitor will call on you tomorrow morning to discuss the conflicting details you have thus far provided the police.’

  Lewis felt his jaw clench but he said nothing. Hobbs had not yet deigned to ask him a single question but spoke to him in a tone that indicated a deep level of disdain. Oh, yes. Frederick Hobbs was his father’s son.

  Hobbs watched him in silence as he withdrew a cigarette from his desk drawer. He was careful that the first plume of smoke was directed far to the left of Hobbs, but the old man’s eyes followed its grey journey across the desk with clear irritation. Lewis moved forward to lean on his elbows, the second plume of smoke snaking hazardously towards Hobbs Snr.

  ‘After you have spoken to my solicitor and made clear that your original statement to the police was accurate, you will clear out your desk. I hereby provide notice of termination of your employment with Hobbs. I will arrange for your final salary to be delivered to your home address.’

  This took Lewis by surprise.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  Charles Hobbs’ smile did not reach his eyes. He leaned forward and plucked the cigarette from between Lewis’s fingers, stubbing it out in the glass ashtray. Lewis stared at his empty hand before placing it flat on the desk.

  ‘I am not a fool, Mr Carson. Frederick thinks that his secrets are his own, but he is quite mistaken. I know what you are. I know what my son is.’

  Hobbs paused, allowing this to register.

  ‘I know,’ he repeated. ‘And I won’t tolerate it. The moment Frederick’s lifestyle begins to impact on my business is the moment I put a stop to it. He has already made a hash of his university career. He won’t be doing the same to his prospects at Hobbs.’

  Lewis swallowed, uncomfortably warm under Hobbs’ stare.

  ‘You assume that I will revert to my previous statement – my motivation being what? You have insulted me and taken my job from me. You can’t expect a man to feel he owes something to such an aggressor.’

  It was a cheap gambit, perhaps, but his only one. If there was some power to be h
ad, he must take it. But Hobbs appeared amused.

  ‘Your motivation being not to cross me. Frederick tells me you’re an ambitious man, Mr Carson. If you have any hope of working in this industry, you will ensure that Frederick’s stated timeline matches yours.’

  For a wild moment he fantasised that he might leap across the desk and choke Hobbs with his bare hands. The thought of Hobbs’ pulse battering against his fingertips seemed a wildly pleasurable thing, but of course, he merely sat mute, some leaden thing like misery seeming to weigh him down on the chair.

  Hobbs seemed to take his silence as acquiescence. He nodded curtly and stood to leave. ‘My solicitor will be here at nine sharp tomorrow, Carson. Do tell him everything he needs.’

  The door closed behind him, and Lewis allowed himself a small snarl. He picked up the glass ashtray and lobbed it at the door. It didn’t shatter and instead thumped dully against the wood and dropped to the carpet, leaving a grey, ashy mess across the room. The rap on the door that followed made his stomach lurch slightly, as he imagined the satisfaction Hobbs would take from walking back in on the small mess. He was spared the humiliation, for it was a woman.

  ‘What is it?’

  She looked behind her, somewhat taken aback and perhaps under the impression that his rudeness was directed at someone else. When she turned back, her face reddening with the confirmation that he was in fact speaking to her, he realised who she was.

  ‘Miss Watson,’ he said, frowning. ‘I apologise. I had quite forgotten about you.’

  He gestured to the seat Hobbs had recently vacated, aware that she was offended. Little matter.

  She sidestepped the ashtray and debris, and he realised that she had most certainly heard its feeble assault against the door. As she crossed the room, he noted the dropped hem of her skirt, and a sneer settled on him with comforting familiarity.

  She was not petite, but neither was she tall, and when she sat down she was some two or three inches below his eye level. He felt a sort of natural authority realigning, and he was calmer for it. He withdrew the Infinite Eden manuscript from his satchel. It was dog-eared from its travels between the office, his flat and the library, which was good because it looked as though he had read it.

  He slid it across the desk to her and leaned back in his chair with a smile. She appeared to be holding her breath. He waited.

  ‘Am I correct in assuming that we are the first publishers to see your sample, Miss Watson?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He nodded, allowed another silence to stretch between them. He wasn’t looking directly at her, but rather at a small catch on the shoulder of her cardigan. She shifted in her seat.

  ‘I do wonder if it would be wise to broaden your enquiries.’ His tone was delicate, but she baulked, inferring his meaning clearly. Lewis shifted, feigning discomfort, and he knew that he would enjoy this meeting.

  6

  It was after ten o’clock when Lewis finally left the Hobbs office. By the time he arrived at the flat, he had reached an exciting decision: he was going to take it from her.

  The idea came to him fully formed, fixed, solid and tangible, an idea which he did not question.

  Having finally read the text, he could see why Ken had been so excited by it. It wasn’t perfect, by any means. He could already see two or three different narrative strands that he could improve, an entire sub-plot that could be excised to clean up the narrative. He didn’t know or care how she might have ended the story herself – he only had a sample to consult – for he could visualise his own ending, and determined it would surpass hers. By the time he was done with it, it would be his and his alone. Fran Watson might have laid the foundations, but he would build the house.

  To take Infinite Eden, he would need to deal with Watson more adequately than Hobbs had dealt with Julie, and it was with some satisfaction that he concluded he could easily do so. He knew where she lived, for she had included her address on the contact information she left with him some weeks prior. He would act soon, tomorrow at the latest, though only if the circumstances were suitable. He would not approach her in daylight or if she were in company, though he imagined her as a lonely sort of person and decided the latter was unlikely. He would search her flat for a longer sample of Infinite Eden. He didn’t think she had been lying when she said Hobbs was the only publisher she had approached, which meant he didn’t have to fear discovery from some keen-eyed editorial assistant. He worried briefly that she might have told her family about the novel, perhaps even about their meeting, but recalled with a smile that she had told him he was the only soul to whom she had shown the work: ‘I wanted a professional opinion, first and foremost,’ she had said. ‘Lest I embarrass myself.’ At that, she had blushed deeply.

  And so it was decided.

  He would put his hands around her neck and take her life. And then, he would take her work.

  He was not sorry. He felt comforted by this new understanding of himself. Perhaps even intoxicated by it. There were people, he reasoned, who were due success. People who were ready for it, who had worked hard and were owed it. He was one of those people. Fran Watson was not.

  He supposed he would be a villain in Ann’s eyes. The thought made him smile.

  He did not sleep that night, but lay in a feverish sweat, his plans forming, evolving, solidifying into a clear narrative.

  Edinburgh, 1998

  Things were coming undone.

  Lewis could feel his sense of past and present – and his telling of them – shifting, changing, becoming less precise. The biography project had not been the exercise in control he imagined. Instead, he found himself battling his own shifting memories, Ken’s conflicting perspectives, Barbara’s keen nose for discrepancy.

  He struggled to sleep, an affliction that had not bothered him for many years. He dreamt often about Frederick Hobbs, which was loathsome. When he woke from these dreams, too warm, too regretful, breathless and aroused, he would lie in the dark and remember conversations they had had. It unnerved him that he could remember these conversations with such clarity, that they unseated the sense of disdain he had so long harboured for Freddie. Lewis did not know what he was doing now, only that he had never served any time in prison for Julie Sutherland’s death. But his memories of Hobbs as a young man seemed to clutch at him of late, rising up in the darkness with an iron grip.

  He even cried one night, in the early hours, when the fact that he had been in love with Freddie became a certainty in his mind. It was with a particular ache that he recalled their conversation that night.

  They were on the bed, sleepy but drinking tea and smoking. Freddie was naked, his skin hot, and Lewis admired him.

  ‘Where would we live?’

  They were playing a dangerous game, but it was too enticing to abandon. First had been their home, which would be large but tasteful, with a library and a study big enough for them both to work in. Next had been what they would cook. Freddie had lived in Italy for three months after Cambridge and promised delicious, home-cooked Italiano. Lewis offered salted porridge and was pleased when Freddie laughed at that.

  ‘We’d live in Paris,’ he said.

  Freddie snorted. ‘Paris?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Paris?’ Lewis was defensive, but Freddie kissed his shoulder, and when he looked down at him, there was a playful look in his eyes.

  ‘Tell me why you think we should live in Paris,’ he said, his tone now very grave but with a hint of mockery lying beneath it.

  Lewis felt himself blush. ‘I’ve never been to Europe. Paris is…well, it’s romantic and dirty and cheap and expensive all at once. I think it might be an exciting place. Hemingway went there for a reason.’

  Freddie laughed, loud and unabashed, and Lewis covered his mouth with his hand, worried that Mrs Bell would hear. His blush deepened, but Freddie was too full of mirth to be angry with him,
and Lewis found himself laughing too. He leaned in and kissed Freddie deeply, and for a moment they were quiet.

  ‘You’re an innocent,’ Freddie said, breaking free and smiling at him. Lewis felt that he ought to be offended but he felt only a flush of pleasure at Freddie’s look. ‘You’re an innocent but you’re also ruthless. It makes you terribly enticing, you know.’

  This made him frown.

  ‘How can one possibly be both innocent and ruthless at once?’

  ‘You’re assuming that men can only be one thing or the other,’ Freddie answered, sounding thoughtful. ‘That can’t be true. Men are many things. I enjoy men who are contradictory, or confused.’

  ‘And which do you think I am?’

  There was a pause. Lewis didn’t look at Freddie; sometimes he would only reveal the truth when he was almost talking to himself.

  ‘You might not like my answer,’ he said.

  ‘Quite possibly. Neither would be flattering, I suppose. If I’m contradictory, that suggests something…calculated? If I’m confused, I’m also naïve, or foolish. But neither would offend me.’

  He was lying, but he wanted Freddie to be honest. He would be offended if Freddie thought him foolish. More than offended, he would be angry. But Freddie didn’t answer. Instead, he rose smoothly and manoeuvred his body so that Lewis lay trapped beneath him. He smiled, lust in his eyes, and Lewis felt a flash of irritation.

  ‘Have you spoken to Julie yet?’

  His question had the effect he wanted. Freddie’s smile vanished, and he rolled off Lewis with a sigh.

  ‘No. Must we discuss this again?’

  Lewis stared at the ceiling, silent and petulant.

  ‘You’re adorable when you’re angry, you know.’

  ‘Stop trying to distract me with sex. It’s cheap.’

  They lay in silence for some time, and after a while Lewis thought Freddie might have fallen asleep. He never slept through an entire night at the flat, and Lewis had a sudden urge to keep him from leaving. He remained still lest his movement disturb the mattress, trying to decide whether it was a vindictive impulse or one borne of need. He decided it might be a mixture of the two and let Freddie sleep on. He must have fallen asleep himself after a time, for when he woke early the next morning, Freddie was gone.