“Never heard of Anna what’s-her-name. I’ve heard of Len Farrell, of course, and I’m familiar with Kyle Walsh, although crime drama is not really my forte. Paul Scanlon, though,” she purred, as if dying to tell me something scandalous.
“What about him?” I asked.
“What do you make of him?” Angela loved to answer a question with a question. She wasn’t ready to tell what she knew until she’d extracted all pertinent information.
“He’s nice. I haven’t read any of his books, but he seems excited about his new project,” I said. I hadn’t spent much time with Paul so knew next to nothing about him.
“Well, he’s just been slapped with a lawsuit,” Angela announced.
“Really? Why is he being sued?”
“This is not common knowledge, mind you, but I happen to know his agent, Barry Stark. Had lunch with him last week. The family of Paul’s university flatmate is suing him for plagiarism.”
“On what grounds?” I asked. Paul had to be close to sixty. His university days were far behind him.
“It seems that this flatmate of his was an aspiring writer. Wrote dozens of spy novels, which his daughter found when he passed last year and she went to the States to clear out his house. She started reading them and found glaring similarities to the bestselling work of his onetime friend.”
“So, they are alleging that Paul stole his work?”
“Darling, he didn’t just steal it, he copied it almost word for word, particularly the first few novels. He literally must have made a xerox copy and sent it off.”
“And this man had no idea his work was being published under his friend’s name?” I asked.
“It would seem not. Patrick Rafferty—that’s the man’s name—went off to the States shortly after uni and never returned. He settled in Memphis and became a bigshot music producer. His daughter, who’s very clever, from what I hear, went to Cambridge and had come across Paul Scanlon’s novels. It wasn’t until she found her father’s manuscripts that she noticed the startling similarities. She’s suing Paul Scanlon to the tune of ten million pounds.”
“Blimey,” I said, unable to come up with anything more articulate. “Does he know?”
“Oh, yes. I suspect he’s hiding in darkest Derbyshire until it’s safe to show his face again.”
“But he seems very focused on his new book,” I said, recalling all the details Paul had shared with us.
“He would be. He needs to prove that he can come up with an original plot to pacify his fanbase. I suspect some of his readers will be baying for blood. And he’ll be needing the money if he loses the case.”
“Do you think he will?” I asked.
“Undoubtedly. Barry showed me excerpts from both sets of books. Like I said, word for word. There’s no doubt he borrowed heavily from his friend’s work. Once this becomes public, he’ll be in disgrace for some time.”
“So, I take it you don’t want to poach him as a client?” I quipped, not really sure what to say.
“Are you joking? Barry will have to distance himself immediately just to retain his remaining authors.”
“Who would have thought this was such a cutthroat business?”
“Darling, you don’t know the half of it,” Angela moaned. “Anyway, gotta dash. Send me that outline as soon as you have it. And please, lay on the drama, will you? Give us a tale of dark, evil witchery. Bye,” she sang, and rang off.
I peered into the distance, hoping to spot Alastair’s van coming down the lane, but it was deserted. The eerie silence of the burial ground was beginning to wear on me, making me anxious. It had grown colder, and I shivered, wishing I’d thought to wear a scarf and bring a pair of gloves. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in one of the comfortable wingchairs in the sitting room of Lockwood Hall with a warm fire in the grate and a cup of tea in my hands.
Pulling out my phone, I rang Alastair’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail, so I clicked on the Uber app to book a ride. There were no cars in the area, and I would have to wait for over an hour for someone to make it out this way. I nearly screamed with frustration. The idea of waiting alone at a desolate cemetery for nearly an hour and then getting into a car with a stranger was the perfect opening to a horror novel.
A crow landed on the gatepost and perched on an iron finial at the top, watching me curiously, as if trying to figure out what on earth I was doing there. I glared back, then turned around with a start when I heard a noise behind me. Goosebumps raced up my arms when I saw a car in the distance. It wasn’t Alastair’s white van, and I suddenly felt terrified. The car was still some distance away, but there was nowhere for me to go. Whoever was driving had already seen me, so I stood my ground, hoping I wasn’t about to become a news story.
The Range Rover finally pulled up, and I breathed a quivering sigh of relief when Kyle rolled down the window.
“Getting in?” he asked when I failed to move.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I yanked open the door and climbed into the wonderfully warm interior.
“Alastair got held up, so he rang me and asked me to collect you,” Kyle replied.
“Why you?” I asked ungraciously.
“Lisa is busy in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Brittany is too young to drive, and Yvonne is gone. I suppose he would have asked Paul next, since he’s the only other person that brought his own car.”
Kyle turned around and headed back down the lane toward the main road. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not
