Brought to Book (28 page)

Over the next few days there were several comments such as:
This book is amazing! I wish I'd written it myself!
And
The talent he shows is truly staggering.
Then followed a couple of pages of short, disjointed sentences, indicating that Harvey's mind was elsewhere, and finally, at the beginning of September, he lapsed into code.

‘Damn!' Max said. ‘This'll slow us down, just as it's getting interesting.'

Rona pushed her hair off her face. ‘There's nothing to go on so far. We know what he's talking about, but no one else would.'

Slowly and laboriously they started to decipher, and Theo's anguish became plain.
This just isn't on,
he wrote at one point;
dead or alive, the boy deserves recognition.
It was clear from the following pages that he'd fought tremendous battles with himself before finally giving in to temptation. One day he'd decide to go ahead, the next he'd change his mind. The following day, he was swayed again. At last he wrote:

‘You can convince yourself of anything, if you keep at it long enough,' Max observed caustically. ‘Do you think this is proof enough of plagiarism?'

Rona shrugged. ‘The word “deception” is pretty conclusive, but we should probably try to get a bit more, just to cover ourselves. I don't foresee any problem.'

She stood up and stretched. ‘That's more than enough for today, and you're a love to give up your whole day to it. Shall we pop round to see Gus?'

They were shown to the back of the building, to the area set aside for surgery and recuperation. At the sound of their approach, Gus raised his head a little, and his tail wagged feebly. They bent down to him, stroking his head and murmuring comfort.

‘How soon can he come home?' Max asked the practice nurse.

‘Mr Standing says perhaps tomorrow, but he must be kept quiet for a week or two.'

‘What time's your flight to Scotland?' Max asked Rona.

‘Three thirty, from Luton.'

‘We can collect him together then, before you go.'

Later, she stood sipping her vodka and Russchian, watching Max grill a couple of chops for their meal. The kitchen was small but functional, its modern equipment blending agreeably with the general ambience. Beyond it, a bathroom extension had been added, its appearance, too, in keeping with the age of the house.

‘All home comforts,' Rona remarked, as he put the prepared vegetables in the microwave.

‘For most of the week, it
is
home,' Max reminded her. ‘I certainly use this cooker more than you do the one in the Avenue.'

‘I wouldn't argue with you there,' she conceded.

They ate at the small table at one end of the living-room, mindful of the time, since Max's evening class began at seven thirty. The studio, which occupied the entire upstairs area, had originally been a loft, and Max had engaged his next-door neighbour to convert it specifically to his purpose. Skylights had been let into the roof – the local planning committee having satisfied itself they could not be seen from the street – and the area was cleverly designed to allow maximum space both for his own work and that of his class.

Rona said suddenly, ‘You know, almost from the beginning I wondered if either Theo's block or his change of style could have somehow led to his death. If you remember, the literary pundits assumed they were two sides of the same coin – that he'd needed the block as a prelude to discovering a whole new style. Well, we know now that was not the case. We also know, since Gary didn't kill him, that the so-called style difference had no bearing on his death. But we still don't know what caused the block in the first place, and I'm convinced it has something to do with that woman who visited him at the cottage.

‘Perhaps he went back that August expecting the affair to continue – he was in good form when he first arrived. Then he must have heard from her that she was ending it or something, and – and was plunged into despair, which in turn led to the block.'

‘Sounds a bit Wagnerian,' Max commented. ‘If all affairs engendered such trauma, heaven help mankind! And don't forget he survived the end of the block by a good four years.'

‘All the same, the sooner we can start work on the '94 and '95 diaries, the better I'll be pleased. I'm sure that's where the answer lies.'

Max refilled her wine glass. ‘You haven't forgotten I'm away overnight on Saturday? It's this Academy Reunion thing; I missed it last year, and promised faithfully that I'd make it this. It might be an idea if you spend the night with Lindsey.'

‘Rob mightn't be too pleased, and I doubt if Gus could manage the stairs.'

‘Your parents, then. I'd rather you weren't alone.'

‘I'll be fine,' she said stubbornly.

But that night, having retired early with a novel, she was acutely aware of footsteps walking along the pavement only feet from the bed, and found herself listening tensely in case they should stop. And this with Max and a group of students in the room above, she chided herself. Perhaps after all she would sleep at Lindsey's on Saturday.

T
he plane was on time, and Rona arrived at the hotel just before five thirty. Max had booked her room via the Internet, and as she joined the queue at the reception desk, she recognized one or two people who had been on the flight. As soon as she reached her room, she phoned Scott Mackintosh's number as arranged.

‘The doctor has not yet returned,' an elderly female voice informed her, ‘but he told me to expect your call, Miss Parish. Which hotel are you staying at?'

Rona told her.

‘The car will pick you up at seven, if that's convenient?'

‘Perfectly, thank you.'

‘If you wait in the lobby, the driver will have you paged.'

No doubt this was established procedure with his business colleagues. Rona unpacked the few things she'd brought with her, hung her dress in the wardrobe to let the creases drop out, and ran herself a deep, hot bath, emptying the essence provided into the steaming water. She hoped very much that the doctor wouldn't object to being recorded; she'd spent the morning at Farthings working on Gary's story, and despite her verbal repetitions of it, there were parts where her memory had failed her. It was so much easier when everything was on tape.

She thought back to the morning, and to Gus's uncertain return. He had flopped the moment they'd got him inside, but at least he was back with them, and even managed a little of his favourite dog food for lunch. She was sorry to leave him his first night back, but Max would look after him.

Lying in the scented water, she thought back over what she knew of Scott Mackintosh. Neither old Mr Harvey nor Meriel had cared for him; according to Reginald, he'd belonged to ‘a wild bunch' and been a bad influence on Theo, while Meriel considered him too conscious of his own good looks. He'd also been regarded as a confirmed bachelor, only to surprise his friends by marrying a much younger woman, who had died after a miscarriage. It would be interesting to see whether his brusqueness over the phone was maintained at the interview.

Her first impression was that Scott Mackintosh was indeed good-looking. Several inches over six feet, he had thick fair hair fading barely noticeably to grey, a long, thin nose, and deep-set grey eyes with a disconcertingly steady gaze. But she could also appreciate Meriel's reservations; there was an air of detachment about him, almost of arrogance, and she had the distinct impression of being kept at a distance.

‘Miss Parish,' he said, civilly enough, and held out his hand. ‘I hope you'll feel your journey has been worth while.' His voice was deep and the Scottish accent only faintly discernible.

‘I'm sure I shall,' she answered. ‘It's kind of you to fit me into your busy schedule.'

The room to which he escorted her was decorated in warm reds and browns, and its patterned carpet gave it an old-fashioned air. An open fire burned in the grate; the armchairs on either side of it were of leather, worn in places, while the desk and side tables were solid walnut. Heavy velvet curtains hung at the windows. It was, Rona thought, very much as she imagined a gentlemen's club to be. To her surprise, no photographs were in evidence, nor, perhaps more understandably, were there any house-plants.

Scott Mackintosh broke into her inventory. ‘What may I offer you to drink?'

Doubting that he'd be able to supply her customary vodka, Rona said, ‘Since I'm in Scotland, I'd like a small whisky, please.'

‘An excellent choice. I'll join you.'

Having placed two heavy crystal glasses and a jug of water on the table between them, he seated himself opposite, leaned back in the depths of the chair, and crossed his legs.

‘I suggest we go straight into the interview. I don't care to discuss business matters while I eat, it gives me indigestion.' The suspicion of a smile.

‘Fine.' She took out the recorder. ‘Is it all right if I . . .?'

He was shaking his head, and regretfully she replaced it. ‘There's really no need for that,' he said firmly. ‘I believe I explained that with one brief exception, I haven't seen Theo for about thirty years.' He paused, apparently thinking back across those years. ‘Is his father still alive, do you know?'

‘Yes, I interviewed him last week. He's over ninety, but was in excellent form.'

‘He would be,' Mackintosh said dryly. ‘He was a regular old tyrant, a stickler for discipline, though I fear he had his work cut out with me; any hint of authority brought out the worst in me.' He shot her an amused glance over his whisky glass. ‘He was not best pleased when Mike and I took it on ourselves to bring Theo out of his shell. Mike Pennington, that is. Have you been in touch with him?'

‘Not yet, no.'

‘I've not seen
him
for years, either, but the three of us formed an unholy alliance that lasted through school and university. It served its purpose.'

He stared down into his drink, and Rona did not like to ask what that purpose had been. ‘How old were you when you first met Theo?'

Mackintosh shrugged. ‘Twelve, thirteen.'

‘Can you remember your first impressions?'

He gave a brief laugh. ‘Uncomplimentary, I'm afraid: in a nutshell, I thought him a wimp. He was a tall, thin boy, very much of a loner and the regular butt of the form bully. To be perfectly frank, Mike and I only took him under our wing to thwart the Head, though to be fair he improved mightily under our auspices.'

He took a drink of whisky, and Rona tried to imprint on her memory the patronizing cadences of his voice.

‘He was an inveterate writer, though, even then – always sitting in corners, scribbling away. Not to mention his diary; we teased him mercilessly about the time he used to spend on it. God knows what he wrote, but it always ran to several pages. I've often wondered whether he kept it up?' He looked at her with an enquiring eyebrow.

‘I believe so, yes,' Rona said cautiously. That was not a road she wanted to go down.

He nodded and took another sip of his drink. ‘He was also a regular contributor to the school magazine, and in the sixth form took over as editor. By that time, of course, he had much more self-confidence.'

‘Thanks to you and Michael Pennington?'

‘Indeed. We'd turned him from a spineless nobody into a rebel like ourselves, skipping classes, never doing prep, being generally bolshie.' He smiled, remembering. ‘It drove the masters wild. There they'd been, telling us if we didn't work, we'd never make anything of ourselves. Then, when the exam results came out, the three of us were streets ahead of the class swots. Ain't no justice, I suppose.'

‘And you all went on to Cambridge together?'

‘Yes; we carried on our roistering there, only more so; out all hours of the night, masses to drink and an endless succession of girls. At least, Theo and I did; Mike met a pretty undergrad in his second year, and dropped out of our wilder excesses. They married after graduation, and as far as I know, are still together.'

‘Theo married fairly young, too, didn't he?'

‘Yes; that was what signalled the parting of the ways. We'd kept in touch up till then, but while I continued to pursue my bachelor existence, he transmogrified into a family man with three young sons.'