Drew Manson’s author photograph showed a man in his thirties wearing spectacles of the kind favoured by David Hockney and an intense stare under a shock of dark hair styled in a manner popular with young intellectuals in the sixties. Manson looked up from the typewriter on his desk with a mixture of surprise and intellectual rigour on his blunt face, his right hand frozen above the keys in mid-strike as if he’d been surprised in the act of writing a very big word.
The clues were there in the sixties styling, the lack of computer and the publication date on the inside cover of the library book in my bag. But I wasn’t prepared for the balding man in his sixties who walked into the pub, even though he was wearing the same glasses, or a close relative of them. I let him stand in the doorway for a second, looking around the pub with the controlled anxiety of a man who has attended many disappointments, but still harbours some hope, and then I stood up and went to meet him.
'Mr Manson?'
'Yes.'
His accent was how I imagined old-school Cambridge would sound and I was glad I’d decided to try for an intellectual look by wearing my own specs.
'William Wilson, thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice.'
Manson looked self-consciously writerly. His trousers were a deep chocolate jumbo cord, his tie bore a monogram I didn’t recognise, but would probably signal something to the initiated, and his tweed jacket was patched at the elbows. I wondered if he was the real thing or an old fraud. I started to go through the spiel about the new line in crime books that my very small, very newly established publishing house was hoping to reprint with updates on any developments since the original publication.
'I’m interested in the Gloria Noon case because of the recent murder of her son Bill.'
Manson nodded and made a hissing noise, sucking the air between his teeth like a man giving something serious thought.
The waitress came with our menus and Manson began studying his with the intensity of a shortsighted don assessing a borderline exam script. When the waitress returned he ordered, 'Steak, rare, with a green salad and a bottle of Barolo. I’ll have a glass of Pouilly Fume while we’re waiting.' He watched as the girl bobbed off to the kitchen then turned to me, smiling patiently.
'Mr Wilson, I’ve listened to this with great interest but it’s patently clear even to one of my failing abilities, that you’ve nothing whatsoever to do with publishing.' He gave me a mild look over his glasses, offering me the chance to contradict him. I sat silent and he smiled as if he approved of my lack of protest. 'Perhaps now lunch is safely ordered you’ll do me the courtesy of telling me who you really are and what it is that you’re after.'
I grinned.
'No flies on you, eh, Mr Manson?'
He gave me his donnish smile and I gave him my backup story. It involved schooldays and Bill and I don’t think he believed it any better, but he was satisfied that I wasn’t writing a book, and perhaps there were enough contradic tions in my pose to spark his curiosity.
Manson reached into his jacket.
'Right, as you’ve dragged me here on false pretences I think I’m entitled to claim some expenses from you.'
He laid his train ticket in front of me. I fished awkwardly in my pocket for the money to cover it then opened my wallet and added an extra tenner.
'Get a taxi from the station at the other end.'
He slid the note back across the bar-room table.
'The fare is sufficient thank you, and …’ He took a sip of the Pouilly Fume and nodded his head. '… Very good. I’m happy to discuss the Gloria Noon case with you, in return for one simple promise.'
'What?'
Manson’s bookish aspect slipped slightly; there was a tinge of estuary to his accent now.
'That you share any new material you find with me.'
I hesitated, as if carefully considering his proposal.
'There’s no guarantees I’ll uncover anything new, but if I do I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.'
'Good,' Manson took another sip of his drink. 'So we understand each other?'
I nodded and we sat in a silence that wasn’t quite companionable, drinking our wine and tearing at the bread until the food arrived.
The waitress set Manson’s steak down first then slid my ravioli in front of me and sprinkled it with Parmesan over its top. Manson looked at my lunch with distaste then lifted his knife and sliced into his steak. Blood seeped across the white plate, resisting mixing with the dark-brown gravy that pooled around the meat. Manson put the piece of steak in his mouth and started to chew, then he started to talk.
'Cases where the body remains unfound are always intriguing. In an instance like the unfortunate Mrs Noon’s we know that she’s probably deceased, and yet a scintilla of doubt remains. Maybe she simply walked away from an unsatisfactory marriage.'
'And her child?'
'It does happen.'
Manson speared a piece of broccoli, added a small roast potato to the fork and smiled tenderly at the arrangement before putting it in his mouth.
'I suppose it does, not often though.'
'More often than you might think, anyway,' he put a small piece of steak in his mouth and kept on talking. 'I
