Booked for Murder (20 page)

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Clive, but think about it for a minute. All their crap authors get dispublished . . . yeah, I said dispublished, it's the new Americanism for what happens when your publisher tells you to get a life that doesn't include book signings. So you've got these literary agencies, right, with all their dead weight dropping off their client lists, and let's not forget that these are the authors who take up a disproportionate amount of time compared to the actual cash they bring in. So what they're left with . . .” Kirsten leaned back in her chair and mopped her face with a crumpled tissue.

“That's
exactly
what I'm saying. So you get someone like Catriona Polson coming along and not only swallowing up an old, established firm like Paul Firestone but also moving into the kind of naff but flash offices that Saatchi and Saatchi wouldn't sniff at. So I thought we could maybe look at these super-agents, and of course, I thought, Clive's the man. So take somebody like Catriona Polson. How did she go from a three-woman operation in Holborn to head honcho of Polson and Firestone?” Kirsten listened for a moment, then abruptly tipped forward and started scribbling on a scratch pad by the phone, dumping her cigarette in the flower vase on the desk. Now Lindsay knew how the carnations had died. She watched Kirsten take notes, interjecting the occasional, “Yeah,” or, “Well,
there's
a surprise.” In spite of the sweat and the pressure, she couldn't help feeling a faint pang of nostalgia for the journalistic trade she'd left behind her. Moments like this, when the adrenaline was pumping and there was
the unmistakable sense of a hunch paying off, were simply not available in teaching.

Eventually, Kirsten's writing hand started to slow and she shifted in her seat, reaching into her desk drawer for another cigarette. “Clive, I owe you one,” she sighed through a cloud of smoke, then replaced the handset. Kirsten grinned up at Lindsay, who found herself wondering just how it was that Helen managed to attract stunning women who also possessed brains and a sense of humor. Sophie and Kirsten were the two who had lasted longest, but they were far from the only ones. “Bingo,” Kirsten growled happily.

“You going to tell me or do I have to hang you out of the window by the ankles and threaten to drop you?” Lindsay asked, sliding off the window-sill and into the chair.

“Sounds like fun, but I haven't got time for all that sophisticated foreplay,” Kirsten said. “I'll cut to the chase.”

“I was right, then? There is something dodgy at Polson and Firestone?”

“Well, not dodgy so much as stretched. When she ‘discovered' Penny, she was literally a one-woman show. It was Penny's success that created her business and brought other writers beating a path to her door. Her business grew and she took on a couple of assistants, but she needed to expand, and the lesson everybody learned in the eighties was that the quickest way to do that was to swallow somebody else, preferably somebody bigger than you.”

“The reverse takeover?”

“Sort of. Only in this case, Catriona Polson was the company that was making the money. The Firestone Agency was struggling, to be honest. They had quite a few talented people on the staff, but Paul Firestone had lost his edge and morale was crap. They lost a couple of their bigger names and soon as they started to slide, Catriona pounced. According to my buddy Clive, who works for
Bookselling News
, Paul Firestone hadn't entirely lost his marbles. He negotiated a deal on the sale of his agency that concluded with a balloon payment after three years, the amount to be dependent on Polson and Firestone's turnover. On a sliding scale that increased geometrically once profits hit a certain target.” Kirsten paused expectantly.

“Wasn't that kind of betting against her own success?” Lindsay asked.

“Yes and no,” Kirsten said. “Under normal circumstances, no literary agency would hope to generate the kind of profits in a single year that would have caused problems for Polson.”

Lindsay grinned. “Why do I have the feeling you're about to outline a set of circumstances so far off the normal curve that our instruments have no way of measuring it?”

“Because you're psychic?”

“It's not a phenomenon I'm noted for. So what were these exceptional circumstances?”

Kirsten leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. “After Martin Amis got his half-million-pound advance, literary novelists woke up to the fact that they might have a bit of clout. When Milos Petrovicĉ won last year's Booker Prize, he decided that he more than deserved what Martin had already achieved, but his current agent couldn't get the deal up above £350,000. Meanwhile, Polson's personal assistant was bonking a chap called Jeremy Dunstan, who's head honcho of a new literary imprint that one of the populist houses is trying to get off the ground. And Polson hears pillow talk that Jeremy is about to go out with a wallet full of dosh to pull in a couple of prime catches so that agents and authors will get their heads round the idea that his list is serious business, not some loss leader to make his company look like they're not dragging their knuckles on the bottom of the cave. With me so far?” she asked, tipping herself forward to extinguish her cigarette.

“Fascinated,” Lindsay said, heavy on the irony. “I had no idea the world of gentlemen publishers had spun into the orbit of the eighties. So what happened next? As if I couldn't guess.”

“Polson poached Petrovicĉ and got him half a million to head up Jeremy's list. His previous agent was chewing the carpet, but there was nothing he could do. Petrovicĉ paid him the commission on the £350,000 he'd negotiated already, as per his contract, and Polson got the reputation. And in this business, where reputation goes, authors follow, sure as seagulls follow the sardine boat. The end result being that Polson had to pay Paul Firestone a massive chunk of dosh about three months ago and now her cash flow is plunging through the
floor. The business owes money to its landlord, and its authors, and Polson's taken out a second mortgage on her house.” Kirsten smiled sweetly. “Looks like the Darkliners film deal was her lifebelt.”

Lindsay stood up and wiped the sweat from her upper lip. “Does Helen know about your killer instinct?”

Kirsten grinned like a barracuda. “What else do you think she sees in me? I'm just glad I could help you out. You're a bit of a legend in our house, you know. Radical feminism's answer to Miss Marple.”

“I wish,” Lindsay said wryly. “If I was ever radical, it's ancient history now. If I'm the answer, somebody's asking the wrong question.”

 

The climb to Catriona Polson's office hadn't got any easier since Lindsay had last scaled the heights. Nor had the stairwell become any more appealing. It was hardly surprising, given what she now knew about the agent's finances. If you were looking at losing the roof over your head, paying a cleaner wasn't going to be high on the list of priorities.

The receptionist hadn't become any more welcoming, either. “You can't see Ms. Polson without an appointment,” she announced as soon as recognition sparked in her eyes.

“That what you say to Milos Petrovicĉ, is it?” Lindsay said conversationally.

“Anyway, you lied about not being a journalist,” the receptionist continued.

Lindsay shrugged. “I never said I wasn't a journalist. You assumed I wasn't. However, if you'd looked at that card with half a brain, you'd have seen it was at least eight years out of date. Nation Newspapers moved to Docklands back in '88. And London phone numbers have changed a bit since then, too.”

“She won't see you, you know. There's no point in me even trying.”

Lindsay had always hated gatekeepers who, powerless in their own right, jealously guarded access to the source. If there was one thing she valued about her years as a journalist, it was the selection of methods it had shown her to get past the dragons at the gates. Taking out her notebook, she scribbled, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tell the police about the Darkliners film deal. V. I. Warshawski.” She tore the page off, folded it half and said, “I think
you might find that will change her mind. And don't even think about not showing it to Ms. Polson. I can guarantee that that would seriously upset her.” She placed the note on the receptionist's keyboard.

She glowered at Lindsay, then picked up the paper and dialled a number on her switchboard. Picking up the handset as the number rang out, she said, “Trish, there's a note here for Catriona. Can you come and get it? I can't leave reception right now.” She gave Lindsay a malicious little smirk.

“I'm really not going to steal the art,” Lindsay said, settling into one of the enveloping leather sofas. She leaned back and gazed into the middle distance, affecting not to notice the dumpy gopher who emerged from the tall office door, snatched up the note and disappeared again. Within five minutes, the gopher returned and muttered something to the receptionist, who scowled, gestured with a pen and said, “That's her.”

The other woman came over and said, “Catriona will see you now.”

As she followed, Lindsay winked at her antagonist. “Aren't you glad we didn't take a bet on it?” she asked, enjoying the pink fury of the receptionist's face.

Lindsay was escorted to the same conference room and left to her own devices for the best part of ten minutes. When Catriona Polson finally entered, she found Lindsay sitting staring at the portrait of Penny Varnavides. “I can't get used to the idea of not seeing her again,” Polson said.

“Really? Don't you worry she might come back to haunt you once Galaxy Pictures have fucked over her books?” Lindsay said, hoping she sounded as offensive as she intended.

“I don't think either of those things is going to happen,” the agent said icily, folding her long body into one of the chairs. “Look, I really don't want to get into a ruck with you. The only reason I agreed to see you was in the hope that we could strike me off your ridiculous suspect list for good and all. I had no motive for Penny Varnavides' death. Yes, it would have been a blow if she had turned down what is a very attractive TV deal, but it would have been a long way from the end of the world.”

Lindsay snorted with a mockery of laughter. “Oh, yeah? When your
company's so strapped for cash you've had to take out a second mortgage on your home?”

Polson tilted her head on one side. “You really have done your homework, haven't you? And two weeks ago, you're right, the thought of losing the Darkliners TV deal would have rendered me near suicidal, if not homicidal. And then a deal we thought was dead rose from the grave. A Hollywood producer called to say they'd finally got the green light for a film adaptation of someone else's work. And that means even more in financial terms to this agency than the Varnavides deal.”

Lindsay's stomach seemed to hollow as the agent's words sank in. “You expect me to believe that?” she tried, knowing it was a last-gasp bluff.

“I've got a file of signed contracts and faxes that demonstrate the truth of what I'm saying,” she said, not unsympathetically. “I'm not prepared to show you, since I have no conviction that you would treat it confidentially. But I'm perfectly prepared to show it to the police, should you be inclined to make yourself look foolish by involving them.”

Lindsay took a deep breath and stood up. “I seem to have wasted your time as well as my own,” she said, unable to keep an edge of bitterness out of her voice.

Polson gave her a look of shrewd appraisal. “I wouldn't beat yourself up too much. I know you blame me for telling the police about Meredith, but I was upset. I don't know Meredith very well, and it seemed to me she had a motive. I applaud what you're trying to do and if I can help, I will. I'm sorry I was so unhelpful before.”

If she'd wanted to make Lindsay feel worse, she couldn't have found a better way to do it. “Mmm,” she mumbled, looking everywhere but at Penny's picture or her agent. “Okay.”

“There are more motives than money,” Catriona said. “There's reputation for a start. Maybe
Heart of Glass
trashed somebody who lives by their name.”

Lindsay found a self-pitying smile from somewhere. “Like an agent, you mean?”

“It's about an editor.”

Chapter 15

B
ack on the street in the suffocating late morning heat, Lindsay walked through the sweating tourist crowds towards Leicester Square, pondering Catriona Polson's final suggestion. Whatever Meredith felt about Baz, she was going to have to have another confrontation with the editor. But Lindsay needed all the ammunition she could lay her hands on before then, and since
Heart of Glass
might contain some of the answers, it seemed sensible to wait until she'd spoken to Sophie and discovered whether there were any extant copies that the killer hadn't taken.

Sensible had never been her strong suit, but for once she was able to possess her soul in patience, since she had something else on her mind that was sufficiently interesting to occupy her. She emerged into Leicester Square and waited for an empty phone box. The one she ended up in smelled of sour milk and strong aftershave, its windows papered with postcards advertising the services of an assortment of prostitutes. Lindsay found it as sexually alluring as the inspection pit of a garage. Trying to ignore the pathetic faces whose photographs stared down at her in a parody of desire from several of the cards, she called Helen. “I've got an idea,” she said. “Can you meet me for lunch?”

“I can't really go out, I've got a million and six things to do and I'm expecting a phone call from New York that I don't want to miss. Why don't you come here?” Helen said. “Those two gobshites are out
filming today, so you won't have any embarrassing encounters. I'll order in some sandwiches and we can have a picnic in my office, okay?”