Just a Murder (3)

The two brothers sit and chat, catching up on trivia, and a little bit of gossip. It’s been a few weeks since they last met and Simon gives his brother a full run-down of his split with Sally.  They’ve spoken on the phone since then, of course, but it’s different talking face to face. Body language conveys approximately 93% of the message during normal communication, but more when you’re talking about relationship.

 

“Sorry to love you and leave you,” his brother says about an hour later, seemingly unaware that this is an appallingly ill-timed expression, “but I’d better be off. Only so many hours fishing in the day.”

 

“It’s only just gone eight.”

 

“Yeah, but I’ve only got the weekend and I told Kaz I’d be home early Sunday evening so we could cuddle up in front of that new ITV drama.”

 

“Gosh, and I burden you with my domestic trifles. At least I’m not forced to sit through two hours of Poirrot on a Sunday night.”

 

“Poirrot died I think, it’s one of those subtitled Scandavian crime things. You should write one of those, they’re really popular.”

 

“You think I should write in Swedish?”

 

“Worth a try, if your crime-busting doesn’t work out.

 

Kevin puts on his coat and starts out of the back door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

 

“What, you want a kiss?”

 

“No, idiot, your fishing gear.”

 

“It’s in the car.”

 

“No it isn’t.” his brother gestures to the rods and tackle littering the kitchen floor.

 

“Oh, no, that’s just my back up, in case I need it tomorrow. My main gears still in the car. It wasn’t worth unpacking.”

 

“But you’ve got three rods here.”

“Yeah, and three in the car.”

 

“Dad never used that many rods in a lifetime. How long are you planning on staying.”

 

“Just the weekend. I’m keeping my options open little brother. You hear things about the fish round these parts, cunning buggers, you have to be prepared for anything.”

 

“You realise they’re just fish.”

 

His brother laughs. “Carp, just fish. You’re so wrong. They’re like underwater chess grandmasters. Your only chance of winning is finding the right combination of bait, the right location on the lake, the right tackle, the right cast. That, and patience. A whole damn lot of patience and luck.”

 

“Huh, and here’s me thinking you just dangled some string with a worm on the end.”

 

“I’ll be back about nine. Have a great day solving crime.”

 

“I am not solving crime,” Simon says, but it’s too late, his brother is already out the door, off to play underwater chess with a 27lb grandmaster.

 

He makes himself another coffee. Christ, it’s early. Well, not that early, it’s true, he should probably start work soon, but it feels like he’s on holiday, a nice little cottage by the sea, he’s forgotten that he’s here to work, here to write an entire bloody novel in three months in order to stop his publishers demanding their advance back.

 

He takes out his laptop. Sets it up on the murder bench. He checks his facebook page, Nathan’s facebook page that is. There are already three separate denials, all worded slightly differently, all saying that he is not here to write about the murder, all plugging the ‘forthcoming novel’. Terri has been busy, now there’s a woman that doesn’t think eight in the morning is early. Or that midnight is late. Does she even sleep he wonders.

If he had her work ethic the novel wouldn’t be ‘forthcoming’. He’d have started it by now, at the very least, probably finished, and its sequel, and started drafting the movie scrip.

 

I should start writing, he thinks, stop putting it off, get a few chapters under my belt, take the pressure off.

 

He should, but he doesn’t. Instead he calls Terri.

 

“You’ve been busy.”

 

“Of course I’ve been busy, idiot. Trying to limit the damage. I’ve got a press release doing the rounds. What were you thinking?”

 

“I just said I was writing a novel …”

“No you didn’t. If you’d said you were writing a novel we could all have had a nice long lie-in. You said that you’re sitting in the bloody chair of a crime scene writing about a murder mystery. You didn’t make clear that you’re writing a ‘fictional’ crime mystery.”

 

“I know, I cocked up. I was just trying to keep the fans happy. I mean, what are you supposed to put on facebook and twitter, the contents of your lunch.”

 

“People do.”

 

“Is there anything I can do? Talk to some journalists. A dozen or so exclusive interviews.”

“Oh no, keep your head down, get on with the novel. I’ll deal with the press. Don’t what a journalist hitting you with a question about Sally on top of everything else.

 

“Sally? She’s not gone to the press has she?”

 

“Not yet, but if you keep catching the eye of the tabloids with your hilarious facebook postings she’s bound to sniff money eventually.”

 

Terri suddenly changes her tone, suddenly turning motherly. “Don’t worry about this, it’ll help sell the book in the long run, a bit of free pre-publicity. Don’t worry about anything. That’s the whole point of your little venture, just get your laptop out and write. I’ll expect the first three chapters on Monday morning.”

 

After a few more pleasantries she hangs up. Well, it’s 8.30 on a Saturday morning, she probably has a life.

 

He should write. But not here. He needs to get away from here, even if he came here to get away from everything else. He needs total isolation, no invading brothers, no wandering ghosts. He’s also slightly nervous about encountering Trish, who will surely view him as an unwanted creator of mess.

 

He decides to drive to the coast. He’s on the coast already, obviously, but he remembers a spot he came to with Sally once, where there’s a car park, a cliff and a view. Somewhere he can sit and write for a few hours.

 

But when he gets there it’s not the isolated spot he’d remembered, but a tourist haven. He ends up having a meal in a pub, where he finds an out of the way snug and spends a number of hours scribbling ideas into his notebook. By the time he’s finished he’s got the first three chapters mapped out and can see a route through the forthcoming forest of words.

 

On the way back he detours to a proper town and tops up with the sort of groceries that they won’t sell in the local shop: decent beer, decent coffee, decent food.

 

He is keen to be back before his brother, to have his laptop open and a chapter written, or at least a page. But when he gets home he has to abandon his plans, for as soon as he enters the kitchen he sees it, the brick, thrown through the kitchen window, the murder scene window, with a message attached.

 

“Stop what you’re doing before everyone regrets it.”

 

At first he’s confused, yes he has his critics, but to date they’ve never put a brick through his window.

 

But the truth soon dawns on him. This isn’t about the novel, it’s about the article in the Sun, the tabloid untruth that he’s investigating the murder that took place in this very kitchen.

 

Someone is trying to scare him off.

 

Which means that whoever killed Malcolm is still around.

 

Which means that he is going to have to start investigating the murder after all.