The Circle

about me, like how old I was, if I'd been published before, what my job is. I got a buzz out of all the interest so I told him everything I could. The questions got personal. Did I own the place I lived in? Were my parents alive? Things that didn't have much connection with the script.'

'But might tell him if there was money behind you.'

'Spot on. I sucked up to the man and answered his questions. My parents are alive and my dad owns a string of antiques shops. It was only later I found myself wondering why stuff like that interested him.'

'You heard about Maurice being asked to pay for being published?' Thomasine said. 'Blacker would have done the same to you.'

'Right, but I'm telling you I only sussed later, after he was dead.'

'The night of the fire, do you remember where you were?' Bob asked.

'At home, same as everyone else.'

'Everyone else except the killer.'

'I guess.'

'You don't seem to have much respect for the other people in the circle, calling them wannabes.'

'True, isn't it? I've had to listen to some shit at those meetings. You wouldn't believe how low the standard is.'

'Why join them, then?'

'They're a captive audience. I read out my latest chapters and they listen. Where else can I go? I tried an evening class — creative writing — and it was useless. The lecturer wasn't interested in fantasy. All we did was compose haiku.'

'A Japanese form of poetry,' Thomasine said for Bob's benefit. 'Stripped to the bone.'

Zach said, 'The meetings fuel my creative engine.'

Bob tucked that away for future use, if he could only find something to rhyme with engine. Might not make the grade as a haiku, but he would enjoy playing with it.

'We can always depend on a reading from Zach,' Thomasine said, poker-faced. The man demanded to be taken seriously.

'You must have been disappointed when Blacker died,' Bob said to him. 'All dressed up and nowhere to go.'

'There are plenty of places to go,' he said with a glare. 'Right now I'm going back to work.'

End of interview. He downed his coffee and went.

'Funny how wrong you can be,' Bob said. 'When I first saw that young guy, I liked the look of him. He was the reason I plucked up the courage to come into the circle.'

'He's got an inflated opinion of himself. That's his problem,' Thomasine said.

'Is that all?'

'He suffers from overblown prose, and we're all too polite to tell him.'

'Hang on a minute.' He closed his eyes.

'Are you okay?'

He nodded. He was making up one of his rhymes.

'Trying to think of something?' Thomasine said.

'Getting there slowly.'

'Getting where, exactly?'

'Here.' He trotted out his latest:

'Fantasy writer, Zach by name,

Lights us up with his sacred flame,

Author in the superclass,

Arsonist, or just an arse?'

'Hey,' she said, clapping. 'That's neat! You're a poet.'

9

Show me a man or woman who cannot stand mysteries and I will show you a fool, a clever fool — perhaps — but a fool just the same.

Raymond Chandler in Casual Notes on the Mystery Novel (1949)

One of the maxims of murder investigation is that the first twenty-four hours are crucial. If you don't catch the killer when the body is still warm, you can resign yourself to months of doorstepping. Bob was not a professional, but he'd watched enough police drama on television to know it was important to see each of his suspects as soon as possible.

'Where can we find Anton?'

'On a Saturday morning? Probably at home doing the prize crossword in The Times,' Thomasine said.

It sounded possible. The champion of good English had to be busy with words. He lived in a Georgian terraced house in East Pallant, behind the council offices.

'If it was a Monday, we'd find him sitting in the public seats at a planning meeting,' Thomasine said as they walked up the narrow street. 'He likes to raise points of order.'

'I bet they love that.'

'He does, for sure.'

'He's the least likely, isn't he?' Bob said.

'Of our suspects?'

'Think about it. He's not really a writer like the rest of you. He didn't hand in anything for Blacker to read, and I can't think why he'd want to kill him — or me.'

'If you read Agatha Christie,' Thomasine said, 'the least likely is the one to watch out for.'

'But this sure ain't Agatha Christie.'

'I wouldn't dismiss him so easily. He's got a good brain. Had a top job in the civil service.'

'Doing what?'

'Don't know.'

'Writing ministers' speeches?'

'Winds of change and windows of opportunity? Not Anton's style,' Thomasine said.

'What else could he have worked on, then?'

'Ancient Monuments?'

'Not bad,' he said, smiling. 'Not bad at all. I could believe that.'

The brasswork on Anton's front door was polished to such a standard that they hesitated to touch it, but there was no bell, so they had to knock.

The sound of footsteps was followed by safety bolts being slid back.

'Ah, the inquisition,' Anton said when he opened up. 'I thought you would find your way to me in time.'

He was in a dark suit and striped shirt. Today's bow tie was navy with white spots. He invited them into a narrow hallway hung with engravings of casdes. Bob recognised Hever, Carisbrooke and the Tower of London. Noticing him pause in front of one of them, Anton said, 'They were my responsibility once.'

'Ancient Monuments?'

'Correct. How did you know?'

Unseen by Anton, Thomasine held up a finger.

'That was before English Heritage were brought in,' Anton said. 'If you see the word 'heritage' walk fast in the other direction. It means someone in a poke bonnet is trying to sell you pot pourri.'

He showed them into his front room.

Thomasine said, 'Amazing!'

Bob said, Toytown.'