The Circle

'I bet you didn't put what she said in the minutes.'

She coloured. 'It was off the cuff. I can't put down every word.' She handed him the cassette. 'But this will tell you everything that happened the evening Mr Blacker spoke to us.'

'Thanks. And what about yourself?'

She seemed surprised by the question. 'Me?'

'Do you have a job, apart from the charity?'

'I'm a chartered accountant, semi-retired. I wouldn't call it a job. I don't even have an office. I go on site and do the books for a few local businesses I've known for years.'

'Is one of them a publisher?'

A frown. 'No.'

It was worth asking. 'Edgar Blacker wasn't a client, then?'

'Certainly not. They're all old friends like my chiropodist, my dentist and the shop where I buy most of my clothes.'

'You get some perks, then?'

'Just goodwill. You won't get an accountant to admit to 'perks', as you put it.'

'I've heard of this. It's the barter economy. Like the Middle Ages. You have a skill to offer and so do your friends and neighbours. You help each other out and no money changes hands. Neat idea. If I had a useful talent, I'd be in there getting my hair cut for nothing and fruit cake at the weekend.'

'Putting accountants like me out of a job.'

Bob grinned. 'Hadn't thought of it like that.' His eyes held hers for a moment while he summed up what he'd learned so far. 'So your life is pretty busy with the charity shop and the accounting. Plus the circle. You've been the secretary from the beginning, right?'

She nodded.

'Well placed to know everyone in the circle?'

'I suppose so.'

He gave her a long look. 'All right, love. Cards on the table. Out of that lot, who could have started the fire that killed Blacker?'

She shook her head. 'No, no. I refuse to speculate. It would be abusing my position.'

'If I was another woman you'd speak out, no problem.'

'That's different.'

'I don't see why. You want me to play detective and you won't even give me the dope on the suspects.'

She put her hand primly against her chest. 'I didn't say anything about playing detective. All I said was that Maurice could do with someone to speak up on his behalf.'

Fair comment, he thought. It's Thomasine who wants me to play Sherlock Holmes.

He tried a more subtle approach. 'Speaking up is no use unless we put someone else in the frame. Look at it another way. Who gets a clean sheet from you?'

She sighed as a kind of protest, yet was persuaded to go down this route. 'Well, I can't really imagine any of the women doing such a thing. Dagmar is very proper, and so is Jessie. It wouldn't cross their minds. Naomi may be outspoken, but what you see is what you get, as they say. She'll tell you if something is wrong rather than acting on it secretly.'

'And I suppose the dumb blonde isn't committed enough?'

'Sharon? She's on the fringe really. I can't think what motive she would have. She hasn't written anything that I'm aware of, so she had no reason to be upset by the publisher.'

'That leaves Thomasine.'

She shot him a fierce look. 'No it doesn't. I can't see her harming a soul. She's a warm person, very friendly.'

'True. We're down to the blokes, then. Leaving aside Maurice, who have we got?'

'I won't be drawn,' Miss Snow said. 'I don't understand men. There's always the potential for violence in the male psyche, so far as I can tell.'

'Basil?'

She smiled, and she was drawn. 'Well, he's a sweetie. No, I can't see him as a fire-raiser.'

'Zach?'

'I said I won't be drawn.'

'Anton? Tudor?'

'I'm getting tired of this. Has it occurred to you, Bob, that the fire may have been started by someone from outside the circle? Edgar Blacker had his finger in other pies.'

Another zinger from Miss Snow. He'd focused so much on Blacker's visit to the circle and his death the next night that he'd failed to look elsewhere.

6

The only way for writers to meet is to share a quick pee over a common lampfost.

Cyril Connolly, The Unquiet Grave (1945)

After he'd left, Bob still found it difficult to wrench his thoughts away from the circle. He asked himself if all this concern of Miss Snow's was driven by guilt. Suppose she'd started the fire that killed Edgar Blacker, planned it as a clean killing and been horrified when the police pulled in sweet old Maurice? She'd made it clear she wanted Bob in there batting for Maurice, but not doing the job of a detective. She'd be happy if Maurice was released without charge and no one took the rap.

She had a will of iron. He could imagine her getting a fixed idea that Blacker had to be stiffed. And carrying it out. But what was her motive? The way she'd told it, Blacker hadn't rejected her book on the Snow dynasty. He'd looked at the script and made encouraging noises. No, if she was the killer, there had to be some bigger reason.

He went into work and did the late shift, which meant he wasn't home until almost midnight. Sue had gone to bed and left something in a saucepan that looked murky but smelt all right. He lit the gas under it and checked the answerphone. The one message was from Thomasine: 'Thanks for looking after me last night. The less said about that, the better. The reason I'm calling is I have some news of Maurice. Bad news. I'm afraid they've charged him with murder. Can you get back to me?'

Charged him, had they?

Tomorrow, he decided.

He was tired, but reckoned he ought to run that video, so he opened a can of lager, rescued his supper before it congealed and took it into the living room.

Sue must have been watching something with the volume turned right up because the sound hit him like a plane coming in, and it was only the voices of the circle gathering in the New Park Centre. He reached for the remote.

Snatches of conversation came and went. Miss Snow was trying to persuade Tudor to give the vote of thanks. Anton had been to the doctor again. Whoever was holding the camera was making mischief with the zoom, picking out long legs in white lace tights that turned out to be Sharon's, then Thomasine at a window taking a crafty smoke, and Basil checking his hairpiece in front of a picture. Everyone except Maurice and Zach came into shot. The odds were on Zach being the cameraman.

'He's publishing Maurice,' Jessie was saying.

'Can't be too choosy, then,' Thomasine said from the window.

'What did you say?' Dagmar said.

'Joke, dear. Maurice deserves to be published. And there's a market for his kind of book, real crime.'

'Personally I wish he'd picked some more tasteful topic,' Jessie said.