the fun and the gossip and you are funny, Cathy. I have to give you that you'll come right out with it. Let me tell you something now, you'll say, looking right at us with those big, blue eyes of yours, the truth is, David, Jay, I am the most talent less bitch that ever got up on her hind legs and walked. Real talent, that is. Leaving aside self- promotion and back stabbing plagiarism all the things I'm really good at.
Oh, and of course it helps to have the morals of the well-known alley cat, best not forget that.
The trouble is, Cathy, the richer you get, the more units isn't that what you call books nowadays, dear? – you sell, the less likely this is to happen. So I'm going to have to stop it now, myself, over here in England. Put an end to this farrago, once and for all. You do understand me, don't you, Cathy?
You do realise I am serious? Poor little Anita Mulholland, Cathy. remember what happened to her.
The letter was on a single sheet of white paper, A4 size, un watermarked undated, almost needless to say, unsigned. At first glance, a good bubble jet or laser printer had been used. The envelope in which it had been delivered was self-sealing, slim and white, manufactured by John Dickinson and with the words
'Eurolope Envelopes' printed over and over in a grey diagonal across the inside. Centred on the front of the envelope, the words ' Cathy Jordan'. No postmark, no stamp.
'You found this where?' Resnick asked.
Tyrell glanced at Mollie. 'in the office,' Mollie said. ' At Broadway.
It was there with the other mail when I arrived. '
'What time?'
'I usually get in at around a quarter to ten. This morning it was earlier, half past nine. I was sorting through the post and I found this.'
'Who else was in the office beside you?'
Mollie gave it a little thought
'The cleaner would have been and gone. If the mail arrives before she leaves, usually she'll put it on the desk, but this was still on the floor. The only other possibility is Dick McCrea, he's the finance director. He's sometimes in ahead of me, but…'
'But today he's in London,' Tyrell put in, 'a meeting at the BFI. He would have gone straight to the station, the 7. 38 train. '
'If he'd forgotten something, though,' Resnick said, 'at the office, something he needed. '
'Dick McCrea,' Mollie said, 'got his memory in a direct deal with God. Forget is a word he doesn't admit exists. '
'Miss Jordan,' Skelton said, 'you've told her about this? '
'Not yet,' said Tyrell.
'We thought… I thought first of all we should speak to you. See if there wasn't something you could do. Not a bodyguard, exactly…'
'Heaven forbid!' Mollie said, not quite beneath her breath.
'I don't know,' Tyrell continued, 'some kind of police presence, maybe. Low key. Something that would reassure her. '
'The last thing we want,' Mollie said, 'is for people to be put off attending because they think there's going to be some kind of incident. '
Or, Resnick thought, for one of your star guests to get back on the plane and fly home.
'When's Cathy Jordan due to arrive?' Skelton asked.
'Tomorrow,' Mollie said.
'The early morning flight. Her publisher's meeting her at Heathrow and taking her into London for lunch. She's continuing up here by train. She should arrive about a quarter to five.'
Resnick and Skelton exchanged glances. Aside from the recent stabbing, there were other serious crimes outstanding: a sub-post office that had been robbed at gun-point and the postmaster shot through the leg and shoulder when he tried to resist; a domestic incident that had left one partner with burns to the face and neck from scalding water, one of the children with badly bruised ribs and a closed eye; unsolved burglaries were up for the third year in succession, as were thefts from vehicles and taking and driving away without consent. The recruitment of new staff was on hold. Budgets were screwed down tighter than an Arctic winter. This was policing in the age of cost-effectiveness and consumer choice, when those at the top talked of minimal visual policing, counted the paper clips, put a ban on overtime and sat up long into the night massaging the crime figures. If Resnick and Skelton were in the business of selling sentences, less and less people were buying. The last thing they needed was a media celebrity in need of mollycoddling, a body to guard 29 and protect against an unknown possible assailant during a festival at which the attendance might run into the thbusands.
Skelton took a breath.
'Charlie, why don't you liaise with Miss Hansen? Arrange to meet this Cathy Jordan, talk to her, try and get a sense of how serious she thinks these threats really are. Assure her we'll co-operate as fully as we can during her stay. Without making promises we can't keep.'
Resnick nodded reluctantly and glanced over at Mollie Hansen who was already drawing a card from the back of her Filofax.
'My number's on there.'
'Meantime,' Skelton was on his feet now,
'I trust neither of you will say anything about all of this to the press. If there is anything to these letters, the last thing we need is a three-ring circus.'
'Of course,' said Mollie
'Absolutely,' said Tyrell.
Unless, Resnick thought, they reckoned that instead of putting people off, a few good rum ours might do wonders at the box office.
'Here,' Mollie said, pulling a paperback book from her bag and pushing it into Resnick's hands.
'You might like to take a look at this. It's meant to be one of her best.'
DEAD WEIGHT An Annie Q. Jones Mystery by CATHY JORDAN
'One last thing,' Resnick said.
'The Anita MulhoIIand mentioned in the letter, is she another character in one of these books?'
'That's right,' Mollie said.
'Another victim?'
'She goes on holiday with her family, to Mexico. She's thirteen. One evening her parents go down to a barbecue by the hotel pool and leave her upstairs in their room. When they get back up, an hour or so later, she's gone. A few days afterwards, someone comes across this thing like a scarecrow in the hills outside the town; it's made from Anita's clothes, up high on a cross of sticks. The police get up a search and dogs find her body in a shallow grave.' The tension in Mollie's voice was tight now and undisguised.
'That's it,' she said, 'apart from the ways she's tortured before she dies. '
Tyrell was looking at her with concern, possibly anger. Quickly he shook Resnick's hand and then Skelton's.
'We should be going.
Superintendent, Inspector, thanks for your time. '
'I'll expect to hear from you,' Mollie said to Resnick from the door.
'Meantime, enjoy the book. Let me know what you think.'
After she and Tyrell had left the room, Skelton fussed with a few things on his desk and cleared his throat.
'Quite partial to a bit of Morse, myself,' he said.
Resnick didn't answer. He dropped the paperback down into the already sagging side pocket of his coat and headed out along the corridor towards the CID room. Another task he was certain he didn't want.
Sharon Gamett took her time walking back up Forest Road West to where she had parked her car, a four- year- old Peugeot in need of a new clutch. She was wearing black ski-pants that emphasised her height, a red and yellow scarf pulled bandana-like across her hair; in one hand she was carrying a can of Lucozade, a paper bag containing a cheese and ham cob in the other. Relaxed, Sharon moved like someone at ease with herself, strength held in reserve.
The vehicle that slowed alongside her was a Vauxhall, almost certainly a fleet car, a dark blue Cavalier. The
