The Circle

8

'I can't tell you how grateful I am.'

Bob nodded and stepped inside. Miss Snow showed him into her writing den and closed the door behind her. She was as strung out as a line of washing.

'Did you bring it?'

He handed over the video.

Her voice shook as she said, 'The police were here this afternoon. They said they needed this as evidence. Maurice must have told them about it.'

'What did you say?'

'That it was being passed around the circle and I'd have to make some phone calls.'

'Fair enough.'

'I promised to take it in to the police station tomorrow.'

'And now you can.' He didn't understand why she needed it tonight. He could have delivered it in the morning, taken it to the nick himself if she wanted. And he couldn't see why a visit from the police had got her into such a state.

It was obvious he wasn't going to be offered a chair, so he took a step back, preparing to leave. His leg nudged a low table and a couple of magazines slipped off. He picked them up and replaced them. One was the TV Times and the other was The Bodybuilder, with a muscleman on the cover. We all get our kicks some way, he thought, amused, and warming a little to Miss Snow.

She was too wound up to get embarrassed. 'Poor Maurice must be at his wits' end,' she was saying. 'He wouldn't have told them about the video unless he was desperate.'

'Why not?'

'It's like informing on his friends. So out of character. Not the way Maurice would behave unless he was up against it.'

'If you or I were on a murder rap, we'd do the same. Anything to muddy the water.'

'But he's innocent,' she said.

'If he is, then someone else is guilty, and the odds are that it's one of the people on that video.'

Her eyes held his, and she said in a mystified voice, 'You still sound doubtful, as if you think he might have done it.'

'Open mind. I've talked to a couple of people this evening and I'm still in the dark.'

'Who?'

'Tudor and Fran. But I learned a bit more about Blacker and his dealings. He was a crooked publisher. None of his authors made any money. He took money off them.'

'Do the police know that?'

'Maurice knows. He will have told them.' He stifled a yawn. 'I'll be off, then.'

She put her hand to her throat and fingered her bead necklace. 'There's something I haven't told you.'

'What's that?'

'Later, after the police had been, I had a phone call. A man's voice. He didn't say who he was. He asked me if I was the secretary of the circle and when I said yes he said he could prove Maurice is in the clear, but I must keep it to myself. Those were his words.' She took a ragged breath, as if the memory was all too stressful. 'He said he wanted to help and he would hand me the proof tomorrow. I was to meet him at eight in the morning in the boat house near the canal basin.'

'That was all?'

'Yes. He sounded very definite. I believed him.'

'The voice. Was it disguised, muffled?'

'A bit indistinct. I didn't recognise it. Bob, I don't know what to do. Should I tell the police? If this is going to help Maurice, I don't want to jeopardise anything. I'm scared.'

'You want me to take over?'

She looked as if the sun had just come out. 'Would you?'

'Eight at the boat house. No problem.'

Bob didn't feel so confident walking to the boat house next morning. His guess was that Miss Snow's mysterious caller was some nutter who had read about the case in the papers. Every murder brings a few out of the woodwork. But it had to be checked. And nutters can be nasty.

The only boat house he knew was on the side of the canal opposite the towpath, which meant making an approach along the lane skirting the Chichester High School grounds. It took him past the police station where, presumably, Maurice was still being held — poor old soul, innocent or not.

At this time of day the choice of meeting place was clever. You had to go along a footpath past a tennis court and a couple of scout huts with acres of school field on your left. It all looked deserted. The boat house was in fact two buildings used for storing canoes. The simple wooden huts with pitched roofs stood side by side above some steps and a launching area. On previous walks along the towpath Bob had more than once stopped to watch the kids on the water attempting to roll the canoes completely over.

This Saturday morning there were no canoeists yet, but the large metal doors had been opened, so presumably there was a session planned for later. Someone must have unlocked and couldn't be far away.

Seeing no one outside, he stepped into the first hut where the canoes were ranged on racks.

'Anyone at home?'

No response.

He came out and looked into the second hut. This one contained a trailer loaded with more canoes. Nobody was in there.

He was beginning to think the whole thing was a hoax.

He checked his watch. It wasn't quite five to eight. Give them ten minutes, then I'm off, he told himself. He perched on the edge of the trailer, took a banana from his pocket and unpeeled it. He'd left home too early for breakfast.

Saturdays were special. He liked to watch sport if possible, the real thing, not TV. He didn't mind what. If there was racing at Goodwood or Fontwell, he'd be there. Through the winter it was football: the Portsmouth home matches. He'd played a bit as an amateur when he was younger and fitter.

He looked at the time again. Eight, spot on. All over the country people were sitting down to cooked breakfasts, and Bob Naylor was stuck in a boat house without even a flask of coffee. Thanks a bunch, Miss Snow.

There was a change in the birdsong outside, the urgent repetitive warning note a blackbird makes when a cat is about. Or a person. Better take a look, he thought.

He was on his feet and heading outside when it happened.

The door slammed shut — in his face.

It wasn't the wind. Someone was outside. This was a strong metal door. He heard the bar being drawn across to fasten it.

'Hey! I'm in here.'

He pushed at it and couldn't move the thing. He hammered his hand against it.

'Open up, will you? I'm inside.'

The place was in darkness. There were no windows.

'Oy!'

He gave the door a kick. Whoever was outside must have heard him. The door was solid iron and it rumbled like a beer keg when he struck it.

He shouted again.

No response.

He stopped shouting and started thinking. The doors to both boat houses had stood open. Why would anyone want to close them again? For one reason only: they knew he was inside and they meant to trap him there.

Kids, playing a prank? At this time of day he doubted it.

So what would it achieve, shutting him in here for a few hours until some member of the canoe club released him?

It was going to ruin his Saturday, that was all.

Bloody hell.

He hammered on the door and called out a few more times with an increasing sense that the effort was wasted. He'd do better to find his own means of escape. From what he could remember when the light was better, the place was well constructed. Kicking his way out through the wooden walls wasn't an option.

The floor? He stamped on it hard. It didn't feel solid. Probably it was raised on supports, as wooden buildings often are. If there was a space underneath, and he could prise up a couple of boards, he might squeeze out that way.

He guessed there were tools in here somewhere. They'd need to work on the canoes from time to time. Where would they keep them? Finding anything in virtual darkness was a challenge. He began groping his way around the trailer towards the far end, knocking over a couple of objects as he went.

Then he smelt something.

First he thought it must have come out of a pot he'd tipped over, maybe the stuff they used to waterproof the canoes. He was intent on looking for a toolbox so he didn't really care about odours. He didn't even register for some time that he was blinking more and his eyelids were smarting. Several minutes passed before it dawned on him that the smell was getting stronger.

Even so, he continued to fumble his way along the back wall of the boat house. He found some paddles and wetsuits, but nothing so useful as a screwdriver or a crowbar.

His eyes were hurting.

Then he felt his feet getting warmer through his shoes. Crouching down, he pressed his hand against the floorboards and they were warm.

A faint sound seemed to be coming from under the boards, something between a hiss and a wheeze.

Christ, he thought, there's a fire under here. I'm trapped in a wooden building that's going up in flames any second.

He knew enough about the action of fire to understand that the smoke and noxious gases already filling the boat house would kill him before the fire incinerated him. He was spluttering and coughing.

Forget the floorboards, he thought. There's only one way out of here now and that's through the roof. He grabbed a canoe paddle and reached out for the trailer. Its superstructure was a framework designed to support three tiers of canoes. If he could get to the top he had a fair chance of attacking the roof with the paddle.

He grasped the metal side bars and started hauling himself up. The trapped smoke would be thicker up there, but this was the only option. With agility born of desperation, he made it to the highest level and swung the paddle blindly above his head. It made contact. Heavy contact. The roof was within reach, but it felt as solid as the floor.

He tried again. There was the sound of wood splintering and for a moment his hopes soared, then plunged. The end of the paddle was breaking up, not the boards across the roof.

Below him real flames had penetrated the floor. In a frenzy he thrust the broken paddle repeatedly against the same spot.

He guessed the boards were linked by tongue and groove, which was why they resisted the hammering they were getting. More splinters from the paddle fell on his head.

He paused to gather himself for a greater effort.

Bob Naylor, this is your life.

Go for it.

The wood rasped, as if there was movement. After several more thumps the board he was striking gave a little. Another crack and it eased upwards and tore through the felt covering. He caught a glimpse of blue sky. More furious blows detached a second board. Smoke was funnelling through the gap.

He pulled himself higher, teetering on the top rail of the trailer to get a handhold in the gap. With a huge effort he dragged himself up and through the roof and scrambled out into the daylight. For a moment he lay on the incline taking in gulps of fresh air. Then a flame ripped through the space beside him and he slithered down and dropped to the ground and sprinted across the turf to safety.

Even now, when a huge brown plume of smoke was defining the source of the fire for miles around, Bob could see nobody. Whoever had slammed and bolted that door had already quit the scene.

Bob decided to do the same. When you're in shock and filthy with smoke your first instinct is to get home. You're not ready for questions and explanations.

Then he spotted two teenage girls cycling along the path towards the boat house. He stepped out of view. Canoeists, he decided. They were in shorts and sweaters.

He walked around the other side of the blazing building and glanced back. The girls had stopped and one of them was using a mobile. It wouldn't be long before the fire service and police got here.

He legged it back to where he'd left his car in Canal Wharf Road. Inside ten minutes he was home taking a shower.

Over a strong black coffee, while the washing machine worked on his clothes, he tried to make sense of the experience. It all stemmed from Miss Snow's caller, the mystery man who had offered the proof that Maurice was not an arsonist. It was safe to assume, wasn't it, that the call was a trap? Miss Snow herself was supposed to go to the boat house at eight.

Was what happened the result of Bob's turning up instead? A fit of anger that Miss Snow had broken a confidence and sent someone in her place? He didn't think so. The fire in the boat house must have involved some preparation. It had started from outside, under the floor, in the space between the ground and the base of the hut. To get a fire going there, you'd need more than a struck match. You'd want combustible material like paper or oil-soaked rags. The stuff would have been in place before eight, ready to ignite when the victim was inside.

If Miss Snow had gone to the boat house she wouldn't have escaped. She wouldn't have had the strength to knock a hole in the roof. She was the intended victim, and it would have worked.

Why Miss Snow? He hadn't the faintest. Was she a threat to anyone? He couldn't see why.

Was it right to tell her she'd had a lucky escape? Bob didn't think so. The poor old duck was jumpy enough already, without finding out a killer was after her. Still, in a day or two she was going to read in the local paper that the boat house had gone up in flames, and she'd wet herself then.

For the time being, he'd tell no one. Except, maybe, Thomasine. He trusted Thomasine and she was his expert on the circle.

'What a crazy thing to do,' was her reaction when he phoned.

'You can say that again.'

'I meant you, going to the boat house.'

'I was doing someone a good turn.'

'You sure you're okay?'

'A few bruises.'

'And you haven't told anyone?'

'You're the first. I'm pretty certain I wasn't seen, except by the tosser who tried to murder me.'

'Oh, Bob — what a thing to happen. You must be cursing the day you joined the circle. No one is going to blame you if you walk away.'

'No chance,' he said. 'I'm going to find out who did this, and why.'

'You don't have much to go on.'

'Miss Snow said it was a bloke who phoned. That's a start.'

'And she didn't recognise the voice?'

'He would have disguised it, wouldn't he?'

'Are you thinking it's one of the men in the circle?' She hesitated, then said with certainty, 'Tudor.'

'Why Tudor?'

'You must have said something that panicked him.'

'Last night, at his flat?'

'He was bricking it when you got onto the insurance deal he'd done with Blacker. He admitted he sold him some insurance a while back. Is that the key to all this, do you think?'

'A reason to kill me?'

'The reason is that you got too close to the truth. He thought he was getting away with murder.'

'Tudor killed Blacker?'

'And you're the fly in the ointment'

'Thanks.'

'That's my reading of it, anyhow.'

Bob wasn't convinced. 'If Tudor wanted to set me up as a victim, why go to the trouble of calling Miss Snow? Why not make the approach to me direct? I'd still have fallen for it. I'd still have gone to the boat house.'

'Are you in the phone book?'

'No.'

'Sweetie, it's as simple as that. He calls Miss Snow, who does have your number because she's the secretary.'

'.If it comes to that,' he said, 'not one of the men in the circle knows my number.'

You think the caller wasn't Tudor?'

'I'm thinking I'll check the others out.'

'Who?'

'Apart from Tudor? There's Zach, Anton and Basil.'

'Okay,' Thomasine said, 'let's find out what they were doing at eight this morning.'

'You're going to join me?'

'You need a minder, obviously.'

Zach was going to be the easiest, so they started with him. On a Saturday morning you'd expect to find him serving in the MVC shop in South Street.

They agreed to meet outside.

'Disappointing,' Thomasine said when she saw Bob. You look normal.'

'What did you expect?'

'Singed eyebrows at the least.'

'I wrenched my ankle jumping off the roof if that's what you want to hear.'

'But you're not on crutches.'

'I'm toughing it out.'

They went in. Zach was easy to spot with his long hair tied up in a ponytail. He was helping a customer in the country and western section. The discs were displayed in long racks and the place was busy, as you'd expect on a Saturday.

Zach spotted them approaching and gave a nod of recognition. He didn't have the look of a guilty man — even though the shop was less than ten minutes' walk from the boat house. They let him finish with his customer. Then he greeted them and said he was due a coffee break.

Thomasine suggested they went across the street to the Cafe Rouge. Zach said he would need to square it with his manager.

'Ten minutes, maximum,' he told them presently. 'All the kids come in on Saturdays. It's hell.'

'Or paradise, if you're a teacher like me,' Thomasine said.

'Here's the toughest question we have for you,' Bob said when they'd found a table. 'Filter coffee, or cappuccino?'

He didn't rise to a smile. He was nervous. 'Black, no sugar.'

Bob ordered, and wasted no more time. 'We're trying to get Maurice released and I hit a snag this morning.'

'That's the understatement of the year,' Thomasine said. 'You're lucky to be alive.'

Zach looked indifferent as to whether Bob lived or not. He was staring out at the street as if he hoped the cavalry might arrive in the nick of time.

Bob told Zach all he knew about being trapped in the boat house. 'And in confidence,' he said at the end. 'I haven't reported any of this to the Old Bill. The guy who did it must be a member of the circle, and I'm going to find out who.'

'Starting with me?' Zach's eyes were not friendly.

'You're not the first. I've already spoken to Tudor,' Bob said, without mentioning when it had been. 'No offence, Zach, but where were you at eight this morning?'

'In bed.'

'Where's that?'

'Selsey.'

South of the town, like the boat house.

'Do you live with anyone?'

'I can't prove where I was, if that's what you're asking.'

'How do you get to work?'

'Motorbike.'

'What time did you get in this morning?'

'Five to nine.'

The coffee was brought, forcing all three to lean back in their chairs and behave like other customers discussing the trivia of their lives. For Bob, the conversation up to now had felt like one-way traffic. Every answer had to be worked for. A change of tactics was wanted.

When the waitress had gone, he threw in a grenade. 'On the face of it, you've got no reason to kill me. We only met a matter of days ago.'

This drew a complete blank. Bad to worse.

'The same could be said for all the others.' Bob was forced to struggle on. 'They had no reason to kill me either. It's because I'm making a nuisance of myself that I was attacked. Thomasine calls me a fly in the ointment. The person who did it wants Maurice to take the rap for Blacker's murder.'

Zach said in a flat tone, 'You want to know if I killed Blacker?'

Now Bob went silent.

'He liked my book. Basically he said it was hot-shit, wicked.'

'I know,' Bob said. 'I saw the video you took.'

He was impassive. 'So you know I thought I was on a good thing with Blacker. That he would have given me a contract.'

'That's true,' Thomasine said. 'He said you were up there with Tolkien.'

'A bit OTT,' Zach was forced to admit.

'Raised your hopes, though,' Bob said.

Zach shot him a hostile look. 'That's it, is it? You think I found out later he was shooting a line? Got my hopes up and had them dashed? I'm not so green as I look. I could see he was stringing us along, myself and those sad old wannabes.'

Thomasine could have taken offence. To her credit, she let the comment go by. 'He was a crook, but it was wrong to murder him.'

'I agree with that. I'm a pacifist.'

'Your book is full of violence,' she said.

'So is the Bible.'

In Bob's opinion this was a blind alley. 'We don't have much time. What can you tell us about Blacker? Had you met him before he came to the circle?'

'Met him? No.'

'Knew of him?' Bob said, picking up the note of reserve in the answer.

'Not much. A couple of days before he came to the meeting he phoned me one evening. My number was on the typescript I sent in. He said he was still reading it, but he liked what he'd seen so far. Wanted to know more 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.'