The detective must suspect that I would give anything to know what she wrote about me.
“I’ll come with you, Inspector,” I say with a groan. “I’m willing to help your investigation, even though Sophia was completely delusional about the nature of our relationship.”
“Thank you.”
“Trust me, Claire,” I say, looking into her eyes with the most imploring expression I can muster.
But Claire does not reply as I follow the detective up the garden path and in the direction of his car.
I thought I would be led to an interrogation room. One of those rooms you see in police movies, with nothing but a table and chair and a powerful halogen lamp aimed at the eyes of the hapless suspect.
Instead I’m ushered into Richardson’s office. His worktable is mostly bare, featuring a computer, an iDiary (I wonder if it’s Sophia’s), a digital recording device, and a giant stapler. A wooden chess set occupies a prime position on the left-hand corner of the table. The pawns are engaged in a vigorous skirmish. There are no papers stacked up in large piles, no files strewn about in haphazard fashion, no coffee mugs containing moldy five-day-old dregs. But the shelves behind the desk are revealing for what they tell me about Richardson’s personality. They are full of color-coded notebooks, arranged in impeccable rows according to the precise shade of their markers.
I should be careful.
I will not appear terrified, even if I am.
My eyes settle on an inscription etched on a metal plaque pinned onto the back wall. It states:
YOU CAN’T FORCE GENIUS. IT HAPPENS.
NOR CAN YOU FORCE INSPIRATION. IT STRIKES WHEN
YOU ARE LEAST PREPARED.
BUT YOU CAN FORCE SOLUTIONS TO PROBLEMS WITHIN A DAY.
YOU MERELY HAVE TO GO AFTER THEM WITH A GIANT CLUB.
—ANONYMOUS
I definitely need to be wary. Careful to the extreme. I smell an unrelenting Inspector Javert type who will leave no stone unturned in his quest for answers. He looks like the sort of person who inhales his job with every breath. A hawk-nosed detective who will not rest until he ferrets out the truth.
“Thank you for coming,” says Richardson. He points to the uniformed sergeant who has accompanied us into the room, an earnest-looking young man with thick caterpillar eyebrows. “Sergeant Donald Angus will be typing your witness statement on the requisite MG11 form. We’ll need you to sign a copy afterwards.”
I nod.
“So you are a Duo, Mr. Evans.”
“Of course.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Twenty years.”
“Children?”
“None.”
“You’re a successful novelist. But you hope to be the next MP for South Cambridgeshire and will be running as an independent candidate at the upcoming elections.”
“Correct.”
“What did Sophia Ayling say when she approached you after your talk in York?”
“Let me check.”
I pull out my iDiary and tap its keyboard before looking up at Richardson.
“She said she loved my novels. She had been reading them for years. She hoped her unpublished manuscript would be just as successful. My diary says so, at least.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t Miss Ayling also mention she was crazy about you?”
He’s a sharp one, this Inspector Richardson.
“Ah, yes. She did.”
“How did you respond?”
“Said I was flattered.”
“What happened after that?”
I pause. I would give anything to know what Sophia wrote in her diary about our first encounter.
“She invited me to dinner. I refused.”
“You said no to a beautiful blonde?” Incredulity darts across Richardson’s face.
“I did.” I meet his gaze, knowing that it’s Sophia’s written word against mine. But I have an advantage over Sophia, because a dead woman no longer has words to defend herself. Unlike me.
“But why?”
“I do not accept invitations from everyone I meet at writers’ conferences. Even if they are beautiful blondes.”
“Why not?”
“If someone claims to be crazy about me, an alarm goes off in my head.”
“And why so?”
Stymied for an appropriate answer, I type “crazy + conference” into my iDiary. To my relief, a single hit surfaces. I scan the words before looking up at Richardson.
“You get the occasional loony at these events, Inspector. Last year’s diary says that I saw a woman with lurid pink lipstick attacking a literary agent with her handbag.”
The detective raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“So what happened next?” he says. “After you refused Miss Ayling’s invitation?”
“She looked disappointed. But she went away.”
“What do you mean went away?”
“Left the room,” I say, trying not to sound impatient.
“To sleep with you in another room?”
“Course not.”
“You sure?”
“Look here, Inspector.” I have to struggle to prevent irritation from edging into my voice. “I understand you’re eager to get to the bottom of Sophia’s death. But you’re barking up the wrong tree as far as I’m concerned.”
“What happened after the conference?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Does her diary say we’ve had a torrid affair for years?”
The detective does not answer. I can see him thrusting his jaw forward again. I brace myself for the next question.
“Did you have any contact with her afterwards?”
I prod my diary in response.
“I received a couple of gushing e-mails from her. Messages implying she was still obsessed with me. I deleted them. My agent, Camilla, regularly forwards similar e-mails from other female fans.”
“It must be gratifying to have women fawning over you.”
“My diary tells me it can get a little annoying at times.”
“Your name crops up a few times in Miss Ayling’s iDiary,” says Richardson to my surprise. “One hundred and eighty-four times, to be precise.”
“Was she that obsessed with me?”
“Her diary has rather…shall we say…vivid contents,” says Richardson, fixing his eyes on mine. “I’m still digesting them. It’s unlike any other diary I’ve read under warrant in a murder case.”
I sit up in my chair.
“It reads like a volatile stream of consciousness,” he continues. “Or perhaps more like a raging river of semiconsciousness. It’s a fascinating tangle of thoughts.”
I always knew that Sophia was mercurial (my diary says so), but I never realized she was that batty.
“What did she write about me?”
“I cannot say.”
“But…but…you said you’ll be happy to share some details at the station.”
“I said I may.”
“Did she write that she was madly in love with me?”
“I’m supposed to be the one asking questions here.”
“Sorry, Inspector,” I say. “I’m just curious, that’s all. You’ve just told me that my name crops up one hundred and eighty-four times in her diary.”
“Let’s move on.” Richardson’s lips are a grim line. “Could you give me a precise account of your movements over the past three days? Let’s start with yesterday.”
I have four options:
(A) tell Richardson the truth about what I did; (B) give up the truth about what Claire did;
(C) lie;
(D) none of the above.