“I spent the morning writing,” I say, looking up from my diary. “I had a lunchtime sandwich before speaking on the phone with Camilla and Rowan. I then dealt with e-mails and other nuisances in the afternoon before spending the evening in front of the television.”
“Your days appear to play out in remarkably similar fashion.” The detective cocks his left eyebrow at me. “What you did on Wednesday sounds exactly the same as what you did on Thursday.”
Damn. I’ve screwed up again.
“I’m a novelist,” I say, trying to keep my voice controlled. “I’ve learned to recognize the symptoms of creative mania over the course of my career. I try to make the most of them. This is why I spent the week at home, writing. My diary says as much. I surface only when I need to.”
“Creative mania,” Richardson repeats after me with a thoughtful crease of his brow. “I recall reading the phrase in Sophia’s diary.”
I’m not surprised, as I had borrowed the phrase from Sophia in the first place. Fact: She had used it on me the first time we met. I was so taken by it—because it encapsulated the phases of productive output I occasionally experience—that I’d jotted it down and learned it the following day.
“Sophia was, of course, an aspiring novelist,” I decide to remind Richardson. “Most writers, I’m sure, hope to experience a bout of creative mania at some point or another.”
“But nothing in her diary suggests she regarded herself as a novelist.”
The detective’s eyes are burning into mine.
“She did not refer to any unpublished manuscripts,” he adds. “Nor did she say that she was working on any literary masterpieces, for that matter.”
“How odd, Inspector,” I say, still desperately attempting to stay unruffled. “She did mention a manuscript about patients in a mental hospital.”
“Funny you should say that.” Richardson’s mouth twitches. “Miss Ayling did appear to know a thing or two about these hospitals. Her diary practically revolves around them.”
A sudden rancid taste surges into my mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“It implies that she was in a mental institution for a long time before she was released, two years ago.”
“She was institutionalized?”
“Yes. Seventeen years.”
“I did not know this, Inspector.” The detective must have heard the slight tremor at the end of my sentence, because he leans forward with unflinching, relentless eyes. He reminds me of a leopard full of coiled tension, a hungry cat eyeing its prey.
“Someone murdered Miss Ayling,” he says with a growl, his face inches away from mine. “I sense it in my bones, even though my deputy thinks it was suicide. At any rate, the coroner’s report is due before the end of the day. I’m sure it will vindicate my suspicions. Sophia Ayling did not put on an overcoat, fill its pockets with stones, walk into the River Cam, and drown herself like Virginia Woolf did. I know my literary figures, too. I’m going to establish the identity of her murderer before the day’s end. Mark my words, Mr. Evans. I will.”
How to Convert Details in Your Diaries into Facts
From the Official Guidelines for Transitioning Monos and Duos on Their Eighteenth and Twenty-Third Birthdays
1. Write in your diary at the end of each day, even if you are a Duo with a grace period of two days. You should write down what matters to you—details you think may be significant.
2. Understand what facts are. Facts are details that you have learned from your diaries, details that will never be forgotten. Facts surge immediately to mind because these details have been transferred to the long-term storage compartments of your brains.
3. Read the previous night’s entry as soon as you wake up each morning. This should be the first thing you do each day. The more effort you put into learning your diaries, the more you will retain. Studies have shown that Monos who work hard at learning their diaries are able to retain just as many facts about themselves as Duos. When it comes to learning diaries, Monos and Duos are equals.
4. Relax. You won’t be able to convert all details in your diaries into facts in your heads, no matter how hard you try. Scientific studies have suggested that both Monos and Duos can retain as much as 70 percent of what they have written in their diaries (there are, of course, exceptions to this norm).
Chapter Three
Sophia
2 September 2013
Hot. Stifling. Aspiring authors everywhere, packing the room. Hiding their ambitions behind polite smiles and shabby clothing. He stood on the podium, bearing the touches of middle age. A thicker midriff. Hair no longer luxuriant, even thinning a little at the front. But no one in the room would have guessed. Unless they knew him when he was a skinny lad of twenty-five with a generous shock of hair on his head.
Oh, they cheered for him. They did. No one writes like Mark Henry Evans. No one sells books like Mark Henry Evans. At the back of the room, I hovered. Even applauded like the others. I had to. It was important to blend in. Look normal, as Mariska had advised.
He spoke about inspiration. Concentrated phases of creative output. The trappings of literary fame and success. But all I could think of, as he spoke, was that tricky little business of trapping him.
I approached him after his talk. Smugly confident about my appearance. Hair down in sleek platinum waves. Eyebrows preened to perfection. Nails the color of blood. Lips painted a ravishing scarlet. I had even dressed for murder. Slinky little black Alexander McQueen, décolletage hinting at the ample possibilities below.
Enjoyed your talk, Mr. Evans, I said, giving him a smoldering, megawatt smile. He smiled back. Eyes immediately straying downwards. Burning my curves. Not the slightest flicker of recognition. Thank God for that. So my plastic surgeon pulled off a great job in the end.
Your discussion of creativity really resonated with me, I purred. It’s all about the joys of creative mania, isn’t it? Madness, after all, occasionally manifests as mania. Aren’t creativity and insanity two sides of the same coin? And doesn’t literary genius like yours, Mr. Evans, lie at the intersection between the two?
His eyes said it all.
He was hooked by my looks. Captivated by my words. Mine for the taking.
Men are so fucking easy.
How about dinner together? I asked, curling a lock of peroxided hair around my finger. Casual. Coquettish. Yet moving in for the kill. Let’s discuss this fascinating little business of creative mania at length.
I can think of much better things than dinner, he said with a chuckle. Eyes fixed on my tits.
He delivered that night.
Ate me up.
Licked cream off my boobs.
Oh, yes, he did.
5 September 2013
God, my head’s fucking killing me again.
Six days since our York encounter. Not a single phone call or text message.
He must have lost my number.
Why hasn’t that idiot called?