Heathen/Nemesis

Twenty-Three

Martin Connelly sipped at the glass of white wine and peered out of the window of Silk’s restaurant. He was seated at his usual table, to the right of the main door. The menu lay close by his elbow and a waiter came over to ask if he was ready to order. Connelly said he was waiting for a guest. The waiter nodded and passed on to another table.

Connelly glanced at his watch; it was almost 1.15 p.m. He wondered where his guest was.

The phone call had been completely unexpected. He’d arrived at his office in Kensington at around ten that morning, the drive in from Beckenham having taken him a little longer than usual. After listening to the messages on the answerphone, he’d returned those calls he thought important and decided that those not so important could call him back. Then he’d settled down to read an unsolicited manuscript he’d begun the day before. Unlike most unpublished material, it showed promise; Connelly was already beginning to wonder whether to invite the author into the office for a chat.

The phone call from Donna Ward had come about 10.30.

Could she meet him for lunch that day?

Connelly had agreed immediately, and told her he’d book the table at Silk’s for one. He’d spent the rest of the morning wondering what she could want; she’d mentioned nothing over the phone. The fact that it was to be over lunch pleased the agent. It was less formal than her coming into his office. He smiled to himself, taking another sip of his wine.

He saw the taxi pull up outside and watched her clamber out. As she paid the driver, he took in as much detail as possible of her appearance.

She was wearing a black silk jacket over a white blouse. A short black skirt and black suede high heels showed off her shapely legs. The wind ruffled her blonde hair as she walked and Connelly felt his heart beating faster when she entered the restaurant. She was met by a waiter and then noticed the agent sitting close by. She smiled and joined him, kissing him on the cheek before she sat down.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, running a hand through her hair and dropping her handbag beside her. ‘The traffic was terrible. I had to leave the car parked in Golden Square and get a cab.’

Connelly waved away the apology. Unlike the previous day when he’d seen her, she looked tired but she was made up and her clothes were immaculate. She looked wonderful, considering the circumstances.

He told her so.

‘Thanks,’ she said. She smiled briefly at him and ordered a mineral water from the hovering waiter.

‘I hope you like it here,’ he said.

Donna glanced around the restaurant. The walls were covered in jockey’s silks, riding caps, whips and pictures of racehorses. Paintings or photographs of famous jockeys vied for space on the walls. Rotary fans turned slowly like the blades of a helicopter.

‘I usually bring clients here,’ he said. ‘This isn’t business, is it, Donna?’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Sort of.’

‘And I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company.’ He smiled and studied her across the table, gazing into her eyes a little too intently.

‘How are you managing?’ he wanted to know.

‘Everything’s organised, thanks to Julie. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.’ She sighed. ‘I’m terrified, Martin. I’m dreading the funeral. Part of me wants it over; the other part hopes tomorrow never comes.’

‘I understand that. Like I told you before, if there’s anything I can do, call me.’

‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here now,’ she told him.

The waiter returned and they ordered. Donna shifted position in her seat and looked at Connelly.

‘How much did Chris tell you about the books he was working on, Martin? How much did you know about them?’

‘Very little, until I saw the finished manuscript. You know how Chris liked to work, keeping everything to himself until the book was finished. Even after the book was finished it was sometimes a job to get him to talk about it. The publishers always wanted him to do promotional tours, interviews and that sort of stuff, but you know, he wouldn’t do that for two of the books.’

‘So he never talked to you about his projects?’ she said. ‘You never even had a clue what he was writing about, or what he planned to write about next?’

‘He mentioned things here and there, rarely anything specific, though. Just plot outlines, ideas sometimes. That was it.’

‘And his research? How much did you know about that?’

‘Only what he told me.’

Donna shook her head gently.

‘You were his agent, Martin, and you’re trying to tell me you never knew what he was writing about, what research he did? Nothing?’ She looked at him challengingly.

‘Only what he told me,’ Connelly insisted. ‘It seems we’ve had this conversation before, Donna. I can’t tell you anything different.’

The starters arrived. Donna prodded her avocado with the fork.

‘What did he tell you about this new book?’ she wanted to know.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Connelly said irritably, ‘he didn’t tell me anything. How many more times?’

‘You arranged some of the interviews he did, didn’t you? Or can’t you remember that either, Martin?’ she said cryptically.

‘What is your problem, Donna?’ he hissed, keeping his voice under control but not his anger. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’

‘The truth.’

‘I don’t know the truth. You asked me what Chris was working on. I don’t know, but that’s not good enough for you. Why did you mention his interviews?’ he asked.

Donna reached down beside her and fumbled in her handbag. She produced Ward’s diary and flicked it open, turning it around on the table so that Connelly could see it.

‘October 25th,’ she read aloud. ‘Interview in Oxford.’ She turned a few more pages. ‘November 16th. Interview in Edinburgh.’ She looked at Connelly. ‘He was gone three days that time. And here, London, December 2nd. He was gone two days then.’ She turned more pages. ‘January 6th. Dublin.’

Connelly shook his head.

‘Did you arrange those interviews, Martin?’ she wanted to know. ‘Or weren’t they interviews? Was he with her, then? Did you know about it? Who usually went with him on promotional trips? Someone from the publishers, wasn’t it? Someone from the publicity department? Or was it her?’

‘Donna, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Connelly said wearily. ‘What you’re talking about or who you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about Suzanne Regan. My husband’s mistress. Did she go with him on any of these trips?’

‘I don’t know. Really. Trust me.’

‘What about these?’ she said, pointing at other entries in the diary. Beside every single interview in London, Oxford, Dublin or Edinburgh was the initial D.

‘Who was “D”?’ she asked. ‘Was that his pet name for her?’

Connelly could only shake his head.

‘I really don’t know what any of it means,’ he said. ‘I didn’t arrange those interviews, if that’s what they were.’

‘Did you know he was going to be in those places?’ she persisted. ‘I thought you and Chris usually let each other know if you were going away, in case one had to contact the other urgently.’

‘Donna, I wish I could help you. I can’t remember if Chris mentioned those trips or not.’

Donna reached into her handbag again, this time pulling out the photos she’d found of Ward and the five other men.

‘Who are they, Martin?’ she asked.

Connelly didn’t speak.

‘Recognise any of them?’ she persisted.

He ran his eyes over the pictures.

‘Where did you get them?’ he asked finally.

‘I found them in Chris’s office,’ she said, realizing it prudent not to mention she’d found identical ones in Suzanne Regan’s flat. ‘I want to know who they are and I’m going to find out.’

‘How?’ he enquired.

She flipped through the diary to another entry.

DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY

and beneath that

JAMES WORSDALE

The date was about a week later.

‘I’m going to Dublin,’ she announced defiantly.

‘What the hell for?’

‘To find out exactly what Chris was working on. To find out who these men were.’ She tapped the photo. ‘I think they’re linked in some way. And I think they’re linked to his death. I want to know how and I’m going to find out, no matter what I have to do.’

The rest of the meal was eaten in virtual silence and Donna finally left without having a coffee, having carefully gathered up the photos and the diary. She said goodbye to the agent and hurried out, flagging down a cab that was dropping off nearby.

Connelly paid the bill quickly and ran out after her, calling to her across the street.

Donna hesitated as he approached.

‘When are you leaving for Dublin?’ he asked.

‘In five days,’ she told him. ‘Why?’

Connelly shrugged and smiled awkwardly.

‘I thought you might like some company,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there a few times. Perhaps I could help you.’

Donna eyed him with something close to contempt.

‘I’ll manage,’ she said and climbed into the cab. Connelly watched as it pulled away.