Hanlon sat down in the hotel lobby and ordered a coffee. She thought about what Cameron had just told her about Morag. The first thing that struck her was that this anti-Morag rant could be some kind of elaborate smokescreen, a double bluff, so that she would think he couldn’t be implicated in her death, not after revealing how much he disliked her.
She considered too what Morag had said. She had written a novel, this much was true. Morag had also said that it was explosive, presumably a roman-à-clef, as it was called, where the characters are all firmly based on real people. And there was Cameron, revealed as a man who had killed his wife and who liked schoolgirls, but not, seemingly, as a man who preyed on his own child.
But was that true? As he had told her, it was the kind of allegation that was credible, the sort of thing that people would be likely to believe. Like killing his wife. That had to have come from Aurora. Morag couldn’t have made that up by herself. But was it true? Unpleasant as he was, maybe he was unjustly maligned.
Luke had told her that Morag was not a reliable witness. She had certainly misled her to a certain extent as to Luke. Morag had implied he was a struggling artist, this was manifestly not the case.
Was Griffiths really a monster as she had intimated, and what about his colleague?
Morag’s Creative Writing tutor, Paul Wyre, had been mentioned bitterly by her as a kind of MeToo figure, preying on impressionable students. Was that true? Or was that another lie, or, charitably, another half-truth?
Paul Wyre – he was a published author; he had an Internet presence. Did he have previous for exploiting women or sexually harassing them? She searched for him via the Internet on her phone. There he was, forty-three, slightly older than she was; author of A Tiger Caged and Ninety-Six Square. Born in Manchester, foster homes, served seven out of a twelve stretch for armed robbery in Wakefield and Armley prisons where he got an Open University degree in English Lit. His first novel was published to critical acclaim (presumably this meant low sales) seven years ago. He had been heading the Creative Writing course at Edinburgh University for the past two years.
She found the number for the English department at the university and asked to speak to Julia Swinson, the departmental secretary who had been so helpful before.
‘Julia Swinson speaking.’ Her voice was low and pleasant.
‘Hi, it’s Hanlon, we met a couple of days ago when I was looking for Dr Griffiths.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her voice was warm, excited. ‘Of course, I remember you…’
‘Are you free for lunch?’ Hanlon asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not, but I am free for early dinner, about six.’
‘Great,’ said Hanlon. ‘I’ll take you out somewhere, your choice. I’ll meet you outside the building you work in.’
‘The David Hume Tower, that’d be marvellous. I’d love to.’
‘Don’t worry about cost. I’m paying,’ Hanlon said. Let Cameron foot the bill.
‘OK, well, I’ll see you then.’
Hanlon hung up.
The next thing she did was look up the address of Grassmarket Books, which was, surprise, surprise, in the Grassmarket. This, it turned out, was an area of Edinburgh close to the castle, probably a half hour’s walk from where she was sitting.
She looked again at Morag’s last message to her. She had been to her website; the manuscript of her book was not on it. Nor even any excerpts. She would give a lot to read a copy of Morag’s novel. She knew that Cameron was in it; she would have liked to have seen exactly what she’d written about him, compare the fictional with the real. Would Griffiths and Wyre be in it and, if so, how would they be depicted? Was it the kind of thing their careers could recover from? But surely they wouldn’t kill over it? Would they?
She guessed it depended how much they valued their livelihoods. If indeed it was as shocking and hard-hitting as Morag claimed.
Someone had killed Morag. Was it for the book, was it for another reason or was it simply connected with Aurora? Had whoever was after Aurora turned up at the Howe Street flat to finish the job and been surprised by Morag?
One more thing to do. She sent Murdo Campbell a text, telling him of the death Aurora’s flatmate and asking him if he could let her know any of the details.
She put her phone away and finished her coffee. As she stood up she saw a girl walking into the hotel. She looked about fourteen and was wearing what looked like school uniform under an anorak and a beret. Hanlon watched with a sinking heart. The girl took out her phone and spoke briefly into it then nodded and walked over to the area in front of the lifts; the down arrow on one of them lit up. The doors opened and Cameron appeared, a broad smile on his face. He walked over to the girl and spoke to her. She nodded and together they disappeared into a lift, Cameron’s hand now resting casually on her shoulder. He leaned his head close to hers and whispered something in her ear.
The lift doors closed behind them and Hanlon shook her head in disgust. It looked as if Morag had got that bit right after all.
She walked out into George Street. A freezing wind was blowing between the buildings and a fine drizzle accompanied it. It was bitterly cold. She was wearing jeans, Chelsea boots and a black raincoat; it wasn’t enough. She jammed a beanie hat over her untidy hair; she guessed that it would be sodden soon. She retrieved Wemyss from her car, put him on his lead and, after a quick glance at a map on her phone, headed off to the Grassmarket.
Walking in Edinburgh was fun, even in this weather. The pavements were broad and there were few tourists about in February, which made walking easy. She could stride along without having to slow down for other people.
She headed upwards under the lowering grey skies towards the impossible-to-miss landmark of the castle; the Grassmarket, she knew, was on the other side. Wemyss trotted along happily next to her, occasionally straining on his leash to smell a particularly interesting lamp post. She reflected again that it was difficult to work with him around. She would have to find some kind of dog-sitting service back in Argyll; that was going to be easier said than done.
The Grassmarket, a street in the lea of the castle that towered above it, she discovered, wasn’t big; it was a rectangular area with a road running through it. It must have been built in some sort of dip in the ground – it was like being at the bottom of a dark, narrow valley. She guessed that in the summer there’d be people sitting outside. It was picturesque – the tall buildings that overlooked the market area were old and quaint. She found the narrow, rectangular building that housed Grassmarket Books and went inside. There was a reception desk with a board on the wall behind the girl on duty. The board showed that there were three floors; Grassmarket Books shared the second floor with a company called JMB Windows. The top floor was an accountancy firm and the ground floor a firm of quantity surveyors.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the receptionist. She was young and attractive with an open, friendly face.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ Hanlon said. ‘I’m meeting a friend of mine from the publishing company for lunch. I just wanted to check I had the right building.’
‘Aye, you do,’ said the girl. She smiled at Wemyss. ‘Nice dog!’
‘Thank you,’ Hanlon said proudly. She ruffled his wet fur, Wemyss grinned. ‘He’s a good dog.’
‘You can wait here for your friend,’ said the receptionist, pointing at a sofa opposite her desk. ‘It’s dreich outside.’ Good word, Hanlon thought, for the cold, rainy weather.
‘No, it’s fine, thanks,’ said Hanlon. ‘I’ll wait in the pub.’
They smiled at each other and Hanlon crossed the road to the pub. Yes, they allowed dogs in. She sat at a table by a window and looked at the door of the building opposite.
Various people came and went. Hanlon’s plan was to try and discover someone from Grassmarket who knew of Morag. Given how pushy Morag had seemed to be, it seemed a reasonable hope, particularly as the publishing company looked to be quite small. As she didn’t know anyone who worked there, she was dependent on gut instinct to identify anyone in the publishing world.
Relying purely on stereotypes, she divided the people she saw exiting and entering the building into quantity surveyors, window people, accountants and publishers. QSs, she decided, would look like men who would be at home wandering around a building site, window people would be sharper dressed than QSs and publishers would be predominantly female and wearing boho chic. Accountants would look well dressed and businesslike. It was as good a set of stereotypes as it was going to get.
At twelve twenty she saw a girl with dark hair, the bottom third dyed pale blue, with a short yellow dress despite the weather, a faux-leather biker jacket and Doc Martens customised with the Hello Kitty image. Must be in publishing, she thought. Hanlon dashed out of the pub, caught up with her and had an exquisitely embarrassing two minutes as she learnt that, no, she didn’t work in publishing but was the systems manager for JMB Windows. It hadn’t occurred to her that the circle of IT in the Venn diagram of employees in the building would overlap the other professions. She also learnt that her name was Mhairi.
Mhairi was into body art. Her neck was a riot of coloured tattoos, as was the back of her left hand. Hanlon knew nothing about tattoos, but she could see that these were of a high quality. They were beautiful.
She wasn’t the only one doing the looking. Mhairi Ferguson ran her eyes over Hanlon speculatively. ‘I may not be the kind of writer you’re after, darling,’ she said, ‘but I can write code and if you want to get together for a drink, here you go.’
She handed over a business card, Hanlon took it and Mhairi gave her a meaningful wink, blew her a kiss, then headed away down the road towards the area known as the Cowgate.
Back to the pub. The rain beat inexorably down.
Twelve forty-five, a mixed-race woman in heels, thirty-something, jeans and a black leather jacket. Another quick exit.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ Polite but slightly wary.
‘I’m a friend of Morag McMillan…’
The woman showed a flicker of recognition. ‘Morag McMillan…?’
‘You do work for Grassmarket?’ asked Hanlon.
‘Er, yes, I’m the senior fiction editor,’ the woman said.
Yesss! Thank you, God! Hanlon thought silently.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Morag sent you a manuscript recently…’ Hanlon suggested.
‘Oh, God, yes, I remember…’ then a suspicious look ‘… and?’
‘Can you give me five minutes of your time?’ She handed her a card that the editor took rather gingerly.
‘A PI!’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Well, OK, five minutes… Like your dog, by the way.’
‘Thank you, he’s a very intelligent dog.’ Wemyss might be a nuisance, timewise, but he was great as an ice-breaker.
They crossed the road, back to the pub. The two of them went to Hanlon’s table and she asked what the woman wanted to drink. She went to the bar and returned with a glass of soda water and lime.
‘I’m Lorna, by the way…’
‘I’m Hanlon. I have a few questions for you.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘First of all,’ Hanlon said, ‘I’m sorry but I feel I should tell you, Morag McMillan was found dead this morning.’
‘Oh my God, that’s awful.’ Lorna looked concerned. ‘How did it happen?’
‘It’s too early to say. The police are still looking into it.’
‘Poor girl. I never actually met her, but I feel like I know her. I did read her manuscript.’
‘Did she have an agent?’ Hanlon asked.
‘No,’ said Lorna, shaking her head, ‘but she did know a friend of mine. I think they’d been in a relationship. Anyway, my friend badgered me into reading it, an old-fashioned hard copy. I thought it was interesting, baggy, but it had potential, and its themes are quite in the news at the moment.’
‘Morag thought that it would be a media sensation,’ Hanlon said.
‘She may well have done,’ replied Lorna drily. ‘It’s a line I hear a lot. Forgive me for being underwhelmed.’
‘Do you have a copy still?’ If I can get to read it, she thought, I might get some idea of who else was threatened in Morag’s great exposé.
‘Unfortunately not,’ Lorna said. ‘To be honest I just skimmed through it to see if it had any merit. I was kind of surprised it had.’
‘Did you get in touch with her about it, by any chance?’
‘No, I never got the chance. David, the MD, got wind of it somehow and asked to see it, so he read it. He was aghast, he said it was libellous, he said he clearly recognised at least one of the characters and we’d get sued. That was the guy who owned an art gallery in the book. So he told me to just tell her we weren’t interested and shred the manuscript.’
‘Did you?’
‘No, it seemed unduly harsh. After all, she might want to submit it to someone else, maybe in print form. I posted it back to her.’
It must still be in the flat, thought Hanlon. It should be easy to find. It’ll be big enough.
‘I see,’ Hanlon said. ‘Hopefully I can find it when the police have finished their investigations. But that could be some time away – can you recall any other details of the villains in the novel?’
Lorna frowned. ‘There were a couple of teachers – one of them seduced the girls in the sixth form.’
‘You’ve got a good memory,’ Hanlon said.
Lorna laughed. ‘He was memorably nasty, ultra-sleazy. With his shaved head, forever perving over girls. He was putting on a play and he would give parts out for sexual favours, oh, and high grades for coursework.’
That’ll be Paul Wyre, thought Hanlon.
‘Who else was there?’ mused Lorna, frowning as she tried to remember. ‘There was a young artist who made quite a lot of money through semi-pornographic paintings that he’d sell in the Middle East. He’d seduce women into posing for him by giving them drugs that he’d get from his contacts in a deprived area of Edinburgh,’ she explained. Hanlon nodded. Lorna continued, ‘Then he’d sleep with them.’
So, that’ll be you, Luke.
‘And there was another lecturer, he specialised in blackmail. But he didn’t use it for sex or money, but to humiliate people, not just women. He’d get off on that.’
Griffiths?
Lorna looked at her watch. ‘I hate to appear rude…’
‘I’m sorry, thank you for your time.’
Lorna smiled. ‘No, thank you. I’m very sorry to hear the news about Morag. Her story was interesting. I think it could have been published if it hadn’t been so libellous and if whoever the art guy is in real life wasn’t so litigious.’
She stood up, shook Hanlon’s hand in a rather formal way, and disappeared into the Grassmarket.
Hanlon stood up and followed.
As she made her way along Edinburgh’s streets she thought about the suspects for Morag’s death. Surely it had to be one of the characters in the book? Cameron’s business could be fatally compromised if his sexual preference for young girls got out. Possibly jail time too. Morag had certainly nailed that – Hanlon had seen it with her own eyes. Paul Wyre could be dismissed from work if the allegations about him were true. And Luke – that disappointed her, she had to be honest. She had liked Luke.
She wondered if Morag had made a pass at him and been rejected.
Both Paul Wyre and Luke had access to, and influence with, people who could and would certainly injure people professionally, and possibly kill. Wyre, former underworld acquaintances, Luke, his Muirhouse subjects. Cameron had the money to make it happen. She could easily imagine the close-mouthed Gillies being sent to hire someone to shut Morag up. If only she had a copy of her book.
Her thoughts returned to Luke. Surely to God he hadn’t had a part in her killing? But she remembered what he had said: ‘I’m a genius, seemingly.’ Geniuses often considered themselves above the law, special cases not bound by the rules that governed the rest of humanity. What if he believed his own hype?
Hopefully Julia Swinson would be able to shed some light on the character of the two lecturers.
She reached the car, put Wemyss in and drove back out to Cramond and her hotel.