The Circle

'Unless one of us joined for the wrong reason,' Thomasine said with her peculiar talent for speaking up at the wrong time.

'What do you mean?'

'That they had an agenda of their own and are using the circle as a cover for their killing.'

Tudor rose to this at once. 'A cover? You've got something there. We know who the bona fide members are. They're the people who write stuff and read it out week after week.' The direction of his thoughts was clear as he eyed the others seated around the table. 'Maurice finished his book and delivered it. Dagmar has done about twenty.'

'Twelve,' Dagmar said.

'That's enough to prove you're genuine. Thomasine has a great folio of erotic verse.'

'Poetry,' Dagmar said.

'And far from great,' Thomasine added.

'Sorry. Poetry. Great in number, by any standard. We all admire your body — of work.' He paused to have his wit appreciated. 'And I've completed over a hundred thousand words of autobiography.'

While this was going on, Bob felt the spotlight moving inexorably his way. 'That makes me the killer,' he said, to cut short the process. 'Nothing to read out. No form at all as a writer.'

Thomasine was quick to defend him. 'You're not the only one, Bob. Anton never reads his work in our manuscript sessions.'

'Neither does Sharon,' Dagmar said.

'Right,' Thomasine said. 'She just doodles through the meetings.'

'Yeah, but they're the ones with the alibis,' Bob said. 'On the night Miss Snow was killed, Anton was using his computer and can prove it and Sharon was up in Harrogate.'

'And Zach was up in Sharon,' Tudor added.

'Tudor, why do you have to lower the tone at every opportunity?' Thomasine said.

'Like I said, it comes back to me,' Bob said. 'No alibi. Bugger all to show as a writer.'

Concern was etched deeply in Thomasine's face. 'What about your rhymes? It's no good being coy about them.' She hesitated, but not for long. 'He's a wiz at making up funny rhymes.'

There was a silence. Then Maurice said, 'Could we hear one?'

Bob's leg jerked under the table. 'This isn't the moment, is it? I'd rather be the number one suspect.'

'Go on,' Thomasine said.

Dagmar said, 'Do it, Bob.'

He took a deep breath. 'I guess there's the 'Writers' Prayer'.'

'What's that?' Maurice said. 'Let's hear it.'

'A bit of nonsense really. Don't know if I can do it from memory:

Lead me not into temptation,

Overusing punctuation.

Kindly show me where to drop

Comma, colon and full stop.

But if I falter, grab me, please,

And cut out my apostrophes.'

There was a silence that threatened to go on for ever. Tudor's eyes had opened wider and Dagmar's had closed, it seemed, in embarrassment.

Maurice was the first to speak. 'You wrote that?'

'Like I said, this isn't the time.'

'It's good.'

Maurice's approval always carried weight in the circle. There were murmurs of agreement.

'When did you compose it?' he asked.

'I wouldn't say 'composed'. 'Made it up' is more like it. Today, while I was out on the road.'

'You see?' Thomasine said to them all with undisguised pride. 'He's one of us.'

Tudor gave a hollow laugh. 'I bet that pleases him no end.'

Hen Mallin worked until after midnight, repeatedly reviewing the videotapes of Blacker's visit to the circle and the witness interviews the team had carried out. Somewhere in that lot was the arsonist, unless it was Fran, the one person she hadn't got on tape. She wasn't excluding Fran. But it was hard to visualise any of them with the level of cruelty required. Even Naomi, the most obsessive one, seemed focused on writing a book, not taking a life.

She was late getting in next morning and there wasn't much to encourage her in the latest report from the forensic lab. Samples had been taken of the lead content of petrol owned by certain suspects. The residues of the leaded petrol used by the arsonist gave at least a reasonable chance of making a comparison. Basil had a couple of cans in store for his motor mower. Checks on the old cars owned by Dagmar and Fran had confirmed that they ran on leaded. Zach ran his motorbike on leaded. None of the samples matched.

She showed the report to Stella. Trying to be helpful, Stella said it was one more factor in the case, something to add to their database.

Hen was not so upbeat. 'It doesn't help us at all, Stell.

All this proves is that we haven't found the killer's supply. Any of those people could have used a can we didn't trace.'

Stell nodded. 'Are we checking the local petrol stations?'

'Done. They have no idea. A can can be bought in the shop or filled at the pump.'

'And you can bet this killer isn't going to use a local garage.'

'I did have one thought,' Hen said. 'Bob Naylor.'

'What about him?'

'He's a Parcel Force driver. Presumably they have their own depot where they fill up.'

'They'd be using diesel, guv.'

'Yes, but it's a garage set-up. The odd can stored there for private use. Have someone check it, Stell.'

Stella's eyebrows rose. 'You rate Bob Naylor as the arsonist?'

'He's the newcomer, isn't he? You interviewed him. What's your opinion?'

'I rather liked him, tell you the truth.'

'But did he tell you the truth?'

Later, towards midday, DC Shilling found Hen in the incident room.

'Guv.'

'Mm?'

'I've got something for you. Remember you asked me to track down the second man in the Blacker photo?'

'Innocents magazine.'

'Right. It turns out he was the owner of Lanarkshire Press, the publisher of all those men's magazines. Mark Kiddlewick.'

'Have you found him?'

'Sort of.'

'He's not dead?'

'No.'

'Banged up?'

Shilling shook his head.

'So what do you mean by 'sort of'?'

'He changed his name by deed poll in nineteen eighty-seven. He was Marcus Chalybeate after that.'

'Bit posh.'

'It was meant to be. He sold his publishing interests and wanted to forget them. He went into the health club business just when it was really taking off, got in with a couple of hotel chains and started equipping hotels up and down the country with all the latest treadmills, rowing machines, weightlifting gear and the rest of it. The turnover was huge. He started buffing up his image, making donations to charity and the Labour Party, rubbing shoulders