A Closed Book (18 page)

‘The Booker. The Whitbread. Your knighthood. Everything you did, I watched you do. Everywhere you went, I went too. Invisible but I was right beside you. And then one day, one day – wham! – Booker Prizewinning Author in Near-Fatal Car Crash in Sri Lanka.'

‘Now, Paul, here comes the funny bit. Because you might have thought I'd be over the moon about that crash of yours. I wasn't, though. No, no, no, no, no! That wasn't what I called revenge. Maybe it was God's revenge. Maybe it was good enough for God. It wasn't good enough for me.'

‘No, no, your crash was bad news for me. Because suddenly there was nothing. Nothing about you anywhere. Nothing to tell me whether you were still in Sri Lanka or over here or somewhere else altogether. There was a time there, Paul, I thought I'd lost you for good. I thought it was all over for me, I really did. Till
the day, oh and it was the most marvellous, the most exquisite day in my entire life, till the day I opened
The Times
and I noticed, I just noticed it, Paul, I came
that
close to not noticing it, till the day I saw your ad.'

‘Oh, it was a subtle one. No name. No identification. Just the two words “blind author”. No, no, no, I tell a lie. What you wrote was “sightless author”, wasn't it? “Sightless author seeks amanuensis.” And I knew, I
knew
, it just had to be you. And I thought, now I've got him! Now I've got him! Now I'm going to be his amanufuckingensis!'

‘What are you going to do to me?'

‘Wait, wait, wait. It's not over yet. I've left the best for last.'

‘We've been working hard on that book of yours, haven't we? What is it you like to call it? Your testament? Well, I tell you, Paul, you don't know how right you are. It
is
going to be your testament. But you know the best joke of all, Paul? You do, don't you? You must have guessed by now?'

‘It was from Chris I got the idea. Remember Chris? Taught English in a language school? TEFL. Teaching English as a Foreign Language.'

‘Well, he used to talk to me about it. How he'd have a class of pupils from all over the place, German businessmen, Japanese students, I don't know, Brazilian interpreters, whole mishmash of nationalities, and the only language they were allowed to speak was English. Right from the start, right from the very first session. Total Immersion, they called it. Even in the beginners' class, bunch of forty students, not one of them with a word of English to his name, except “yes”, “no”, “okay”, “Coca-Cola”, and he'd have to teach them the language from scratch. And you know what he told me? He told me that, sometimes, when he went into that beginners' class he'd have this fantasy about teaching them not English at all but
a completely invented language
! You understand? He'd fantasize about making up words of his own the night before, words for “me” and “you” and “come” and “go” and “table” and “chair”, these would be the words he'd teach them, and none of them would know any better, and by the end of the course there they'd all be, yammering away to each other, really, really fluently, but in a language that didn't exist! Wouldn't that have been something? He used to imagine them all returning home, back to Germany or Japan, really satisfied with the course, and the very next day they'd walk into some high-powered business conference and they'd
open their big mouths and start spouting this completely invented language! God, we laughed!'

‘I'm smiling at it now. Can you hear me, Paul? Can you hear me smile?'

‘Anyway, for Chris it was just a fantasy. But I never forgot it. And when I came here I thought I'd give it a go for real. And that's why your book's a joke, Paul. Because everything in it, and I mean absolutely everything, is gibberish.'

‘I can hear the critics now. Tragic case – premature senility – Alzheimer's – mind destroyed by his terrible accident. The Rembrandt – the statue of Diana – Hertford College – St Paul's – the Millennium Dome – the Burger King on Hampstead Heath. Oh, I could go on and on and on. Isaiah Berlin's dead not alive, Pete Townshend's alive not dead, Tony Blair, Saddam Hussein, O. J. Simpson, Salman Rushdie, Martin Amis – your book, Paul, your book is a monstrosity, it's a folly, it's a joke, it's as big a freak as you yourself are, it's nothing but the incontinent ravings of a doddering, gibbering old fart!'

‘Oh please God!'

‘Why don't you pretend you're having a nightmare, Paul? Isn't that what you used to say to me? Remember?
“Just pretend you're having a nightmare, angel-face.”'

‘Listen, John, listen to me. Please God, listen to me. I wronged you, I know. What I did to you was a terrible, terrible thing, I can never take it back, never, but – but look, you're – what I mean is, I'm rich, John, I'm a wealthy man, a very wealthy man, I can make it up to you, no, no, no, of course I can't, I'll never be able to do that, but – but you're young, you've got your life ahead of you, and I can make that life worth living, I can, I mean it, John, I'll give you – I'll turn my entire fortune over to you, everything, you'll have everything, only – John, are you listening? John, are you listening to me?'

‘John?'

‘John? Where are you?'

‘Please, John, don't do this to me, please. Not to a poor old blind man.'

‘What are you doing, John? Oh, God, pleaaafffffphm –'

‘There there, Paul. Not too tight, I hope. No, no, seems okay.'

‘Don't worry. You won't have it on for long.'

‘Ooops. Oh, I'm sorry. I seem to have knocked your glasses off and – oh dear, now I've trod on them too. Tsk tsk. Butterfingers. No, I suppose I mean butter-feet.'

‘It doesn't matter anyway. You won't need dark glasses in hell.'

‘Now, Paul, let me explain why you have that strip of Scotch tape across your mouth. It's a temporary measure, you understand, I'll be taking it off again before you know it. I've no desire to leave any tell-tale signs of our, shall I say, our little falling-out. And don't think it's because I'm afraid someone will hear you. In this lonely old house of yours, as you yourself are well aware, Paul, there
is
no one who can hear you.'

‘It's just that I want you to know exactly what's about to happen to you and if you began to scream, you see, you might not hear what I have to say.'

‘Strange. Your mouth has been gagged. And you have no eyes. Yet I can still detect the fear in your face.'

‘Oh, but I can't stand here for ever, just gazing at you, wonderful as such a prospect would be. As I was about to say, what I had in mind from the very beginning – from our very first meeting – was of course to kill you. That, I'm sure, you've already figured out for yourself. The problem, though, was finding a method. You see, I was determined that the punishment would fit the crime. Or, anyway, fit the criminal. And you can be sure I had no intention of being punished myself. So it was something I had to think long and hard about. And then one day it came to me. That was the day we were in your bedroom going through your ties. Oh, and by the way, Paul, you remember the tie with the stain on it, the tie you thought was a Cerruti? Well – oh, but you know perfectly well what I'm going to say, don't you?'

‘I'll say it anyway, just in case. It
was
the Cerruti and there
was
no stain. Just another of my little jokes.'

‘I know, I know, you don't have to tell me, it was idiotic, it was infantile. Like most of those little jokes of mine. But it was great fun while it lasted and, well, you have to build up to a climax very, very gradually.'

‘Anyway, there we both were, you and I, rummaging through your ties, and I suddenly thought to
myself, my, but this is a spacious wardrobe. So spacious, I thought, you could actually stand right inside it. Of course, you couldn't move around too much. And you'd have to be a bit careful about breathing. All the same –'

‘Uh-uh-uh, Paul. Naughty, naughty. No struggling, now. Just sit there quietly or I'll have to pin you down.'

‘The only thing was, if I were to stick you in there, well, even you could get out of that wardrobe. And locking the door from the outside wasn't a solution either, for obvious reasons. Still, I liked the feel of the idea and I wasn't ready to give it up and I thought about it and I thought about it until finally, just this morning as it happens, I found the answer. The door. The door that keeps swinging open. This morning you walked into it again, and you've walked into it before, even Mrs Kilbride knows that, which, incidentally, will come in useful when the police start to snoop around. Oh, and again by the way, Paul, I think you ought to know, just to keep you right up to date, poor old Joe Kilbride genuinely
is
ill. Believe it or not, that wasn't one of my lies. It was just my good fortune, just a pure stroke of luck. I deserved at least one, don't you think?'

‘So, anyway, now we come to the nitty-gritty. My story – to the police, I mean – is that you asked me to change the spring on that door, which is what I'm going to do this very day. I
did
buy one of those restrictor things – you remember, I told you about them, they make doors slam shut when you let them go, and, well, I bought one this morning at the locksmith's in Chipping Campden and I plan to fix it to the inside of the wardrobe door. It shouldn't take me more than half-an-hour or so. Then, this weekend, when I drive back to London, and you're completely alone, you're going to go looking for a tie inside that wardrobe, one of your elegant Charvet ties – then, hey, hey, what
is
this, the tie hanger seems to be right at the back. Fuck it, I can hear you say in that inimitable way you have, fuck it, who's been moving my ties? And then, because you've got to have your tie, you wouldn't be you if you weren't wearing a tie, without thinking, completely forgetting the spring's been changed in the meantime, you step right inside the wardrobe to get the tie and, hey presto, the door snaps shut behind you!'

‘I'll have left you something to eat in the kitchen. A plate of cold cuts, I think, and a bottle of Rioja. No one will come calling. No one will hear you scream. No one but you. And the darkness. And the silence.'

‘You'll be locked inside that wardrobe, Paul, just the way you might be locked inside the pages of a book. A closed book.'

‘I won't leave you inside for too long. To be on the safe side, what I'll do is drive back down on Sunday morning. That should be time enough. And to be on the
extra
-safe side, I've decided to line the outside of the wardrobe with some of this thick Scotch tape. I'm counting on your claustrophobia to do the trick, but just in case it doesn't, I'm going to take the extra precaution of cutting off all your air. Almost all your air, I dare say it won't be totally airtight.'

‘Then, on Sunday morning, I'll strip it off again, open the door and – well, God knows what I'll find. Not a pretty sight, I imagine. But to me, Paul, to me it'll be a masterpiece.'

‘So there it is, the end of my little tale. I've got it off my chest and all that's left for me now is to get it out of my system.'

‘Now, Paul, what I intend to do is take you upstairs with me. You understand? I'd rather have you at my side while I fix the door, I'd prefer to have you where I can keep an eye on you. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what you're trying to tell me. A blind man can't get into too much trouble by himself. It's true. But it's just the way I am, cautious to a fault.'

‘So – so just let me take you by the arm – that's it – now don't resist, Paul, please don't resist – it's going to happen anyway whatever you do. That's right – just fall limp, like that – good – good – good – makes it all the easier for both of us. All right, now, one foot in front of the other – right foot first – now the left – there's a good boy –
there's
a good boy – at this rate we'll be at the stairs in a jiffy – no, no, no, don't panic – I've got you – I've got you – I promise I won't let go – just try to stand upright – that's it –
that's
it – good, very good – now the other leg – good – you're doing just fine – good – good – good – that's it – good, Paul, very, very good …'

‘Mr Ryder? Mr John Ryder?'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm Inspector Truex. I believe you were advised I'd be calling?'

‘Oh yes. Yes, of course. Come in, come in.'

‘Thanks. We'll try not to take up too much of your time.'

‘Not at all. I understand. This way. Yes, in fact, I was told. Yes. In here'll be best, I think.'

‘Ah, thank you.'

‘Hmm. Interesting room, isn't it? A real writer's room.'

‘Well, yes, I suppose it is. Though, actually, most of the writing was done next door. In the study. Sir Paul's study. Please. Please take a seat. And you too –?'

‘Forgive me. This is Sergeant Gillespie.'

‘How do you do, Sergeant?

‘How d'you do, sir?'

‘Hah, snap! Please, you too, Sergeant, take a seat. Now. Is there anything I can get you? Something to drink?'

‘Well, sir, that's very kind of you, but we won't, thanks. You know what they say on TV? Not while we're on duty.'

‘Ah, so you're on duty, then?'

‘Well, yes, naturally we are. Nothing to be alarmed about, though. All just routine.'

‘Which they also say on TV.'

‘So they do, sir, so they do. Anyway, there are a few questions that have always got to be asked in these – these unfortunate cases. We could have had this conversation down at the station, but I thought you'd prefer to have it at home. I hope you don't mind?'

‘Not at all. I'm extremely grateful. But you really shouldn't refer to this cottage as my home. I was just
Sir Paul's employee. Nothing here belongs to me.'

‘Is that why you're packing, sir?'

‘How did you know I was packing?'

‘The window seat? The little pile of neatly folded shirts?'

‘Very observant of you, Inspector. It's true, I am packing. Most of my luggage is still upstairs. Now that Sir Paul – well, as I said, there's absolutely nothing to keep me here a day longer.'

‘You aren't one of his beneficiaries?'

‘Me? Good Lord, no.'

‘Stranger things have happened.'

‘No, no. Sir Paul paid me by the month. Paid me well, too. But there was no question of his leaving me anything. I've never for a moment entertained such an idea.'

‘How long have you been with him? Had you been with him, I should say?'

‘Just over a month. And I've been paid up to date. No complaints on that score.'

‘And you're going –?'

‘Going?'

‘May I ask where you're going? I mean, now?'

‘Oh. Back to my house in London. You know, Inspector, I've already given my London address to the police.'

‘Please, Mr Ryder, it's not a problem. Just my natural nosiness.'

‘I
can
leave, can't I? I mean, I don't have to report to anyone, do I?'

‘Absolutely not. No, no, no. You may go whenever you like.'

‘So what exactly can I do for you?'

‘Well, I'll tell you, Mr Ryder. There seems to be no doubt at all as to what happened. It's a very nasty case indeed. Death by accident – apparently from suffocation. But in all such cases, especially with a man as prominent as Sir Paul was, we've still got to go through the motions. There'll be an inquest of course. But, as you can imagine, it's my job to make sure nothing's been overlooked.'

‘I'll do my best to answer whatever questions you have.'

‘Well now, it was you who discovered Sir Paul's body, was it not?'

‘Yes. I found him upstairs. In his bedroom wardrobe.'

‘Forgive me, Mr Ryder, but how did – well, how did you know he was there? I mean, he'd got himself locked inside the wardrobe, hadn't he?'

‘That's right.'

‘And he'd already been dead for some hours?'

‘Yes, he had.'

‘So how did you know where to look?'

‘By the smell, I'm afraid.'

‘The smell?'

‘Listen, Inspector, I told everything I know to the policeman who – you know, when I called the police?'

‘If you wouldn't mind, sir.'

‘Oh, okay. Well, when I got back – I'd been in London for the weekend – I looked just about everywhere for him and, well, you know, he couldn't have gone anywhere – by himself, I mean – so I went back into his bedroom and I happened to walk close by the wardrobe and it was then, well, I suddenly smelt … Poor man, he'd soiled himself.'

‘Hmm. Pretty grim for you.'

‘Inspector, that was the least of it. His face – never, never in my life, will I forget the look of sheer – the look of petrified – kind of
frozen
– horror on his face. And his hands –'

‘What about his hands?'

‘He'd obviously been clawing away at the door. His fingernails were completely raw – his fingers caked with blood – all ten of them – skin scraped down to the bone – just red meat. It was horrible.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘So you'd been away?'

‘Well, yes. As I say, it was the weekend. I tend not to stay here at weekends. I drive up to London and usually return – returned – on Sunday evening. Sometimes first thing Monday morning.'

‘But in fact it was on the Sunday morning that you found his body?'

‘That's right. I came back earlier, for some reason.'

‘For some reason? Was there a reason?'

‘No, not really. I was a bit bored in London, I found myself at a loose end, so I thought I might just as well drive back down. I suppose you could say I'd come to feel at home here. A month is quite a long time. My life had got completely wrapped up in Sir Paul's.'

‘You were helping him write a book, is that it?'

‘Yeah. He had decided to write what he called his testament. His literary testament. But given his condition –'

‘He had no eyes?'

‘He lost them, both of them, in a terrible car accident in Sri Lanka. Four years ago.'

‘So he could see nothing at all?'

‘He had no eyes, Sergeant.'

‘Ah. Right.'

‘Listen, Gillespie, why don't you take a quick look
round the cottage? Who knows, you might find something that'll give us a clue to Sir Paul's state of mind. That is, if you have no objection, Mr Ryder?'

‘I told you already, Inspector, I'm in no position to object. This is not my house. I don't rightly know whose it is now that Sir Paul's gone, but I certainly can't stop you looking around. Not that I would anyway.'

‘Do you happen to know if he died intestate?'

‘Surely not. But, really, I've no idea.'

‘Any relatives you're aware of?'

‘We never spoke about his family.'

‘I see, I see. Well, Sergeant, go on. Have a discreet nose around.'

‘Right, sir.'

‘I realize all this must appear pointless to you, Mr Ryder, but – well, you never can tell.'

‘I made sure I touched as little as possible. That's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?'

‘With murder cases, yes, it's true. But, pooh, with an accident like this. Go on, though. You were saying?'

‘I'm sorry, what were we talking about?'

‘Sir Paul was looking for someone to help him write his book?'

‘That's right. An amanuensis. Someone who'd transcribe what he dictated. He put an ad in
The Times
, I
noticed it, I answered it and, I have to say, to my total surprise – frankly, I didn't think I had a hope in hell – but he seemed to take a shine to me and I've been more or less living down here ever since.'

‘Pleasant work, was it?'

‘You never met Sir Paul?'

‘No, sir, I never had that privilege.'

‘Well, I don't know that “pleasant” is the word I'd use. No, that's unfair. No, I have to say it was actually very rewarding.'

‘Rewarding?'

‘Yes, rewarding. To feel the book beginning to take shape and to realize that you're part of the shaping process. Yes, for someone like me that was very exciting.'

‘Yes. Yes, I can see that it might be. To be honest with you, I've never actually read any of his novels myself. Stephen King is more in my line. Was this going to be a good one, in your opinion?'

‘It wasn't a novel. It was to be a sort of autobiographical memoir.'

‘Ah yes, of course. So you said.'

‘And you have to appreciate that only a small part of it was ever written.'

‘Even so. You must have formed some idea?'

‘Well … what I
can
say is that there were strange things in the book, things Sir Paul insisted on keeping
in even after I told him different. Not that I ever actually argued with him – I wouldn't have dared – but I have to say I never really understood what the point was.'

‘Not quite with you here, sir. What sort of things are you referring to?'

‘Oh, he'd get a bee in his bonnet about something, some fantastical notion that had no basis in fact but that he was nevertheless determined to use in his book. Symbolically, you might say.'

‘For example?'

‘Oh God, it's always hard to come up with specific examples. No, wait, I do remember one. The empty statue, the empty plinth, in Trafalgar Square. We had quite a discussion about that one, as I recall.'

‘You'll have to explain, sir.'

‘Well, as you know – or maybe you don't know, not being a Londoner – Trafalgar Square has four monumental plinths, one at each of its four corners. But, in fact, there are only three statues. The fourth one's unoccupied. Has been for decades. Well, anyway, Sir Paul had heard some vague rumour about how they might erect a statue to Diana – you know, after her car crash – and though it hasn't happened and, if you want my opinion, it's never going to happen, he insisted on writing about it as though it already had. There's a section in the book on Trafalgar Square and
the National Gallery, don't ask why. Anyway, he insisted on writing about it as though it had already happened. As though the statue were already up. I won't say I tried to talk him out of it – it wasn't my place to argue with a great writer – but I did take the liberty of expressing – well, expressing certain misgivings about the whole idea and Paul took that rather badly. I was almost told to pack my bags there and then.'

‘But you didn't.'

‘No, he seemed to think twice about it. But the business about the statue stayed in. And the book, or what we wrote of it, has lots of other little – little anomalies, you might call them. I never objected again, as you can imagine. And probably, if we'd finished it and it'd been published, probably these would have been the very things the critics would have got most excited about.'

‘Mmm. Funny lot, critics. Never read them myself. I somehow know in advance what I'm going to enjoy without anyone recommending it to me, know what I mean?'

‘I know exactly what you mean.'

‘So. Sir Paul was a bit cantankerous, was he?'

‘He could be. He certainly could be. I had to laugh once.'

‘At what?'

‘Well, he once told me that, because of his blindness, he'd turned himself into what he liked to call “the salt of the earth”. You know, being nice to everyone all the time, even if he didn't feel like it, because he was so dependent and he was afraid people wouldn't help him out if he wasn't very nice to them. The salt of the earth. Can you imagine? If that's what he called being the salt of the earth, God knows what he must have been like before his accident.'

‘As difficult as that, was he?'

‘Oh well, yes, at times. Other times, though, when he was on form, he could be very witty.'

‘A bit of a raconteur?'

‘Well, up to a point. He did have a habit of repeating himself. I used to hang on his every
other
word, as you might say.'

‘Hah, yes. So he'd tend to blow hot and cold?'

‘Exactly. But, you know, when you think about what had happened to him, you can't be too harsh. Personally, I'd have tried to kill myself.'

‘Suicide? Not so easy without eyes.'

‘True. But I'd have found a way.'

‘It never crossed your mind that it might have
been
suicide?'

‘What? Sir Paul's death?'

‘Uh huh.'

‘No way. Absolutely not.'

‘Well, think of it, sir. None of the traditional avenues open to him – he gets desperate –'

‘Take my word for it, Inspector. He didn't commit suicide.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘Because I knew him. Because one of the very first things he ever told me about himself was that he was mortally afraid of the dark.'

‘Afraid of the dark? A blind man afraid of the dark?'

‘I know. But that's what Sir Paul told me. He was incredibly claustrophobic. “I feel claustrophobic in the universe”, that's how he put it. Of course, that was typical of him. Just one of his exaggerations. A lot of what he'd say was said purely for effect, you know. But, in fact, having got to know him as well as I did, I've come to the conclusion it was closer to the truth than it sounds.'

‘Well, well, well.'

‘But then, Mr Ryder, something occurs to me.'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, given what you've just been saying, it does seem odd he'd have such a powerful spring on his wardrobe door.'

‘Odd?'

‘Oh, odd that someone as claustrophobic as you say
he was would risk having happen to him what actually did happen to him in the end. I mean to say, the door springing shut and trapping him inside.'