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It was half past ten when I walked into Causton Books the following day. I’d texted Michael Flynn and told him I was coming early and I think he understood why. It all goes back to the relationship between the editor and the writer. I needed Eliot to feel that I was part of the publishing house – or at least had its authority behind me. I wasn’t sure to what extent we were going to talk about the manuscript at this first meeting. It might just be one of those getting-to-know-you encounters over coffee and biscuits in the canteen. But either way, it would make it much easier for me if I got there ahead of him and didn’t look as if I’d just wandered in off the street. For the same reason, I’d asked Michael to set me up in an office, not a conference room. I didn’t care if it was the size of a storage cupboard. I wanted Eliot to feel I belonged there.

I didn’t see Michael, as it turned out. He was locked in meetings until lunchtime, but his PA – Sandra – showed me to a neat corner office on the same floor as last time. It had a table, two chairs, a sofa and enough books to feel lived-in. They’d left me a couple of notepads and a flask of coffee on the side.

‘Is there anything else you need?’ Sandra asked with a bright smile.

‘No. Thank you. Just let me know when Eliot arrives.’

An hour later, I was still waiting.

was late. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but all in all I was bloody annoyed. So much for the new, reformed Eliot! He was the one who had asked for this meeting and it was quite a slap in the face to leave me sitting here on my own. I tried to ignore the various staff members passing and glancing in through the glass door, wondering who I was as I sat there twiddling my thumbs. I forced myself to stay calm. I’ll give him another five minutes and then I’ll walk away, I told myself. Five minutes passed. All right – five more minutes and that’s it. I might have sat there like that all day.

But then Sandra appeared at the door. ‘He’s just coming up.’

‘Thanks.’ I hoped my irritation didn’t show.

The lift doors opened and suddenly he was there, moving hurriedly through the open-plan area towards me.

First – his appearance. He’d been in his early twenties when I’d first met him and now he was thirty-two and married. He was still a striking figure, with thick fair hair reaching down to his collar and sculpted features, even if he had lost some of his boyish good looks. He had filled out a bit. I wouldn’t have said he was fat, but he could certainly have done with a bit of time in the gym. He was wearing designer jeans and trainers, a shirt with a grandfather collar, the sleeves half rolled up. He had that mix of innocence and energy that I remembered, reflected in his intense blue eyes. I had to admit it was the sort of face that would look great on a back cover: a son to any mother, a star on social media, a serious thinker for anyone looking for an intelligent read.

‘Oh God, Susan. I’m late. I’m sorry.’ He was talking even before he’d come through the door. ‘Someone’s thrown themselves under a tube and the whole Central line is shut down. I had to get a cab and it took for ever.’

A small part of me wondered if he was telling the truth. After all, I had just read the same thing in the first section of his book: Elmer Waysmith’s first wife had died that way. But Eliot was doing his best to be charming and I didn’t want to set our relationship off on the wrong foot.

‘Please don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘I’m very glad to see you again. It’s been a while.’

‘Yes. I heard all about Charles and what happened at Cloverleaf. I couldn’t believe it.’ He threw himself into the nearest chair, which swivelled round as it took his weight. ‘Is it really true he tried to kill you?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘And he killed Alan Conway.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s incredible. Charles was so kind to me when I was writing the Dr Gee books, and when they didn’t work, he couldn’t have been more supportive. He and Elaine were almost like parents to me. I was always in and out of their house. And he was about the gentlest person I ever met. It’s hard to believe he had it in him.’

‘He put me in hospital, Eliot. And he pushed Alan off a tower.’

‘I know. I know. I’m not doubting you. And I’m sorry. It must have been horrible for you. It’s just that when you’ve known someone almost all your life, you think you have an idea about them. And when I heard he was going to prison … it turned my world upside down.’

He was already on the defensive. This wasn’t at all how I’d wanted the meeting to go. ‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘Charles was kind to me too, and I was probably as shocked as you were. I hope all this past history won’t make it difficult for you and me to work together, because I really liked the pages you sent.’ A thought struck me quite suddenly. ‘I didn’t know you’d already met Charles when we commissioned your novels.’

‘He worked with my grandmother in the last couple of years before she died. He often came to Marble Hall.’

That made sense. Charles had worked at Jonathan Cape, who had originally published The Little People . It was strange that he had never mentioned knowing . Perhaps he’d been worried that I would question his editorial judgement, commissioning books from someone who was effectively a friend.

‘So you liked what I’ve written so far?’ Eliot went on.

‘I think you’ve done a terrific job and I can’t wait to read more.’ It looked as if we were about to get down to the nuts and bolts, but I wasn’t ready yet. I still hadn’t quite got the measure of him. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. Thanks. Black.’

‘How long have you been working on the story?’

‘Oh God. I started in March. It took me ages to think up the plot.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out now?’

‘I know who did it, if that’s what you mean.’ Eliot took out a vape and sucked on it, but I noticed that his fingernails were yellow, so he must smoke cigarettes too. ‘You never really liked Alan Conway, did you?’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Did Charles tell you that?’

Eliot nodded.

‘I tried to like him, but Alan hated writing murder mysteries and that made him difficult to work with. But I’d say that we got on well enough and that I helped make the books a success. You know he sold eighteen million copies.’

‘Do you think I will too?’

‘I think there’s a good chance.’ I had poured two cups of coffee. I brought them over to the table and sat down opposite Eliot. My copy of his manuscript was in my bag, but I didn’t bring it out. I didn’t want him to see the comments and the underlining. ‘How far have you got?’ I asked.

‘I’ve done about another ten thousand words.’

‘Are you enjoying writing it?’

He gave me a peculiar smile. ‘Very much.’

‘It shows. You’ve got a lovely lightness of touch and I liked some of the jokes. Fraser mistranslating things, for example. I think if Alan were alive, he’d be impressed.’

‘If Alan were alive, I wouldn’t have been given the gig.’

‘That’s true.’ I paused for a moment. ‘You were the one who asked to see me, Eliot. And I’m very happy that we’re meeting face-to-face. I like to get to know all my authors. Have you shown the pages to anyone else?’

‘Gillian has seen them.’ I looked at him enquiringly. ‘My wife.’

Michael Flynn had suggested marriage had helped Eliot settle down, but there was something about the way he spoke those two words, and the cold smile that accompanied them, that made me wonder how close the two of them were.

‘She doesn’t really read murder mysteries,’ he went on. ‘But she said it was good.’

‘It is good and I’m looking forward to reading the rest of it.’

‘Do you have any notes?’

‘Notes?’

‘Is there anything you want me to change?’ He was completely good-humoured, sitting there, cradling his coffee cup, but still I wondered if he wasn’t challenging me in some way.

‘I’m not sure I really want to give you notes right now,’ I countered. ‘Of course, I have some thoughts, but I wouldn’t want to interrupt your flow. Wouldn’t you prefer to get to the end? Then we can look at everything in context.’

‘Actually, I’d like to hear them now.’ He paused. ‘They’d really help.’

Again, there was something in that smile of his I found unsettling. It was on the edge of insolence, and remembering how long I had been sitting there, waiting for him, I was tempted to get up and walk out. But I wasn’t the sort to throw in the towel and I decided that I wasn’t going to be mucked around by a writer half my age, especially one who had never written a novel that had come anywhere near success. I remembered what Michael Flynn had told me when he gave me the job. He wanted me to hold on to the reins. Like it or not, we’d already reached the defining moment in what would be our working relationship. This was where I took control.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you my thoughts if you really want them – but they are only thoughts. You have to trust your instincts, Eliot. This is your book. I’m only here to support you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, let’s start with the title.’ I felt on safe ground here. ‘ Pünd’s Last Case . Are you sure you’re happy with that?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with it.’

‘I wonder if you’ve thought it through. You must know that Causton have signed a three-book deal with Alan Conway’s estate. How are you going to write two more books if Atticus Pünd dies?’

‘I thought he might get better.’

‘Then why is this his last case?’

‘He thinks it’s his last case. That’s all that matters.’

‘OK. But I don’t think you should break faith with your readers and I’m sure you can come up with something better. Also,’ I quickly moved on, ‘I did find the opening chapter a little depressing, if I’m going to be honest with you. Atticus is seeing his doctor about a fatal brain tumour. He meets a woman who has a fatal heart condition. They both have weeks to live. It’s not exactly a barrel of laughs.’ I smiled, trying to make light of it.

‘That’s the story, Susan. It’s how they meet. If I take that out, I’ve got nothing left.’

‘I’m not asking you to take it out, but there are plenty of other ways they could meet. You need to think of someone reading the first page in a bookshop. Do you want to depress them or do you want them to buy the book? All that rain! You mention the rain six times in the first two paragraphs. This is meant to be an entertainment. It isn’t Bleak House .’

Eliot reached into his back pocket and drew out a notebook and a biro. He laid them on the table and wrote the single word: RAIN. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What else?’

This really wasn’t what I’d intended, but now that I’d started, I couldn’t stop myself. ‘Well, this may sound like a huge note, but it isn’t. It’s more of a question. Are you sure about the South of France setting?’

That threw him. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the way you’ve written it. I think you’ve described it very well. I love the Chateau Belmar and the descriptions of Nice and Cap Ferrat. But I do wonder if you aren’t creating problems for yourself. For example, it doesn’t make a lot of sense for Margaret Chalfont to use a French solicitor to draw up her will rather than someone in London or Norfolk. Elmer Waysmith dividing his time between art galleries in Nice and London doesn’t feel completely realistic either. Are you saying that the gallery in Nice is closed for the whole of winter? I’m getting a sense of disconnection. The family is tied to England, but they seem to be spending a lot of time in France. Who’s looking after the estate while Jeffrey Chalfont is away?’

‘That’s the whole point. He’s not interested in the estate.’

‘I understand that. But he doesn’t have very much to do, lounging around in Cap Ferrat.’

‘He gambles.’

‘He’s a good character, Eliot, and I like the gambling. But you have a lot of foreign characters and you’re having to work in two languages. Sometimes that makes things complicated. Take the scene in the pharmacy, for example. You have a pharmacist who speaks only French, dealing with a customer who speaks English with an American accent. Then a Frenchwoman comes in and she also speaks in French, but she talks to the customer who’s English, so you have to translate everything word for word. It seems quite a cumbersome way to get across the point, which I suppose is the time of day.’

‘So where would you prefer me to set it? The Isle of Wight?’

‘I think that would be a very good setting, since you mention it. It would certainly make life a lot easier for you.’

‘That scene in the pharmacy only works because it’s in French,’ Eliot said, quite tetchy now. ‘You may not have noticed, but the woman who comes in tutoyers, which is to say, she uses the informal “ tu ” form of address.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I admitted. ‘And I wonder how many of your readers will have A-level French?’

‘It’s a clue.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, but it may be something you want to think about.’ I waved the conversation away. ‘What’s a cassone, by the way?’ There was one in Judith’s bedroom.

‘It’s a wooden chest.’

‘And a Mazarin bureau?’

‘It’s nineteenth century, French, with marquetry.’

‘You seem to know a lot about furniture.’

‘I had a job in an auction house.’

‘Well, they’re nice details, but – again – they could be a bit confusing. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with using foreign words, but it’s a bit like when Margaret Chalfont quotes in German on page four. Adding a translation as a footnote is a bit of a distraction.’

Eliot added a second word to his notes. GOETHE. ‘Anything else?’

I’d said enough. ‘I really think you should keep going, Eliot. You’re doing a great job and the reason I came in today was to get to know you, not to start deconstructing the book. You obviously know what you’re doing and I can’t wait to read the next section, if you still want to show it to me. But my advice would be to get to the end before we meet again.’ I stopped as one other thought occurred to me. ‘There is something else I wanted to ask you, though,’ I said.

‘And what’s that?’

‘I noticed the name of the house in Cap Ferrat. The Chateau Belmar.’ I waited for him to speak, but when he said nothing, I filled in the blank. ‘It’s an anagram of “Marble”.’

He smiled at that, but not in a pleasant way. It was rapidly dawning on me that – young, good-looking, talented, laid-back, wealthy – was, as I had expected, trouble.

‘I see you’ve picked up a few tricks from Alan Conway,’ I went on. ‘Is there anything else hidden in the novel that I should know about?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Well, your grandmother lived in Marble Hall. I was wondering if you’ve partly based Margaret Chalfont on her.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Your Miriam Crace died of a heart attack and Margaret Chalfont has a heart condition. They also have the same initials. It’s none of my business, and I don’t want to dig into your family history, but I’m sure you’ll understand that, after my experiences with Alan Conway, I’m not too keen on literary secrets.’

‘Alan used anagrams.’

‘And acrostics. I hate to mention it again, but that’s why Charles pushed him off that tower.’

‘Are you going to push me off a tower, Susan?’ He smiled, as if to reassure me that he was only joking.

I leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. ‘You’re a very good writer, Eliot, and I like the first part of your book. But I’m not prepared to go through all that again. If you’re keeping secrets from me and from your readers, if there are nasty messages hidden between the lines, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to find another editor. Life’s too short.’

‘Michael Flynn says you’re the best.’

‘That’s very kind of him.’

‘He says that you were the one who made Alan Conway successful.’

‘Alan Conway made Alan Conway successful. But it’s true that I helped.’

‘I want you to work on the book. I mean – I’ll be very grateful if you’ll help me, and I’ll think about what you’ve said.’

‘Are you writing about your family?’ I asked.

He reached for his vape and sucked in the steam and the nicotine. I saw the light glow between his fingers. ‘I grew up in Marble Hall,’ he said eventually. ‘I hated it there. Yes, Lady Chalfont is inspired a little bit by my grandmother. And my father is in there too. You could say that Cedric is me. But doesn’t every author base some of their characters on people they know in real life?’

‘A few of them do. But not out of a sense of malice or because they want revenge.’

‘Are you talking about me or Alan Conway?’

‘I hope I’m just talking about Alan Conway. If you’re using this book as a weapon, you’re the one who could end up getting hurt.’

Eliot glanced at his watch. ‘Do you mind if we talk about this another time?’ he asked. ‘I don’t feel completely comfortable doing it here. And I’m meeting someone for lunch.’

‘Fine,’ I said. But I’ll admit I was a little thrown. He’d cut short the time we had together by arriving so late and now he was on his way out.

He must have sensed he’d offended me. ‘Why don’t you come over for dinner next week?’ he asked. ‘You should meet Gillian – and if you’re really interested, I can show you some stuff about the family.’

‘I’d like that, Eliot.’

‘Are you leaving now?’

‘Yes. I’ve got nothing more to do here.’

‘Then we can go down together,’ he said.

We left the room and walked over to the lift. You needed an electronic pass to go up, but we pressed the button for the ground floor and the doors slid shut.

‘You’re right about France,’ he said as we travelled down. ‘I have no idea what the Grand-H?tel looked like in 1955, although my mother once told me there was a funicular railway going down to the pool. I don’t know what they’d have served for breakfast. I’ve looked up Nice on Google Earth, but I’m sure it’s completely different now. I’ve made half of it up. Do you think I need to get someone to do the research?’

‘Let’s leave that until the book is finished,’ I said. ‘A copy editor will spot any major errors further down the line. But you really have done a good job. Just keep going.’

That pleased him. We were both slightly more at ease with each other by the time we reached the ground floor.

But then we walked through the security barriers.

There was a woman waiting for him on the other side, sitting on a sofa. She stood up as we approached and we recognised each other instantly. I stared at her, then glanced at Eliot, furious with him, knowing that for his own dark, Alan Conway reasons, he had done this on purpose. He had set me up.

The woman was Elaine Clover. It was her husband, Charles, who had tried to kill me and who was now in prison because of me.

Eliot smiled. ‘I think you two know each other,’ he said.