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Causton Books had offices on the edge of Victoria, not an area known for its literary associations. It occupied a modern office block, spread over four floors with an airport-style entrance, a cafeteria on the ground floor and lifts that demanded an electronic pass. As I walked into the reception area with book covers flashing up on television screens but no actual books in sight, I was reminded how much of my career was behind me. Gone were the days of the independent publisher tucked away in a quiet mews with a solid front door and bay windows. I’d spent eleven years at Cloverleaf and had grown used to the narrow corridors with bad lighting and offices that seemed to have been built deliberately so the more senior you were, the more difficult you were to find. On the other hand, when I’d been lying half-conscious with the flames leaping up and devouring everything in sight, it had dawned on me that the wooden panelling, dusty carpets and curtains that had been so much the character of the place, and which I had always liked, were now going to be, quite literally, the death of me and if I survived, it might be time to have another think. Open-plan areas with line after line of desks separated by glass dividers, identikit furniture and lighting designed to enhance employee well-being may not be quite in the spirit of T. S. Eliot or Somerset Maugham, but at least they won’t kill you.

Anyway, it’s not the architecture or the furnishings that separate one publisher from another. It’s the people. And as I walked into Causton Books just before midday, it was Jeanette, the receptionist who had never met me but knew I was coming and greeted me like an old friend, who made me feel at home. She provided me with the inevitable lanyard, opened the airport-style security gates and even managed to programme the lift to take me where I needed to go.

Michael Flynn was waiting for me on the fourth floor, minus the tie but, happily, with trousers and legs. Although we’d never actually met, we weren’t exactly strangers and there was a brief hesitation as we hovered between a handshake and a more modern embrace, finally falling into the latter. With this ritual over, he led me along a passageway with shelves of books on one side and, on the other, a crowd of people in jeans and T-shirts hunched over computer screens, little white earbuds plugged into their heads, all of them at least twenty years younger than me.

He had booked a conference room and we sat on opposite sides of a table that was far too big for two people, surrounded by empty chairs. I noticed at once that as well as a coffee flask, milk and biscuits, he had a typescript waiting for me with a notepad resting on top, obscuring the title and the author’s name … deliberately, I assumed. This was the reason he had wanted to see me.

‘It’s good of you to come in, Susan,’ he began. ‘Will you have some coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

The coffee might have been sitting there for an hour, but it came out steaming. I already liked the real Michael Flynn more than his screen image. There was a steely quality to him. After all, he was high up the ladder in a company employing over a hundred people. But at the same time, he was quieter and perhaps more humane than he had seemed in our conversations. That’s the worst part of Zoom. It provides pictures and sound but sucks out pretty much everything else.

‘How does it feel to be back in London?’ he asked. He had the clipped tones of a BBC newscaster sometime around the Second World War.

‘Strange.’

‘Is it a permanent arrangement?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, that’s good news for us. You’ve been doing a terrific job for us out in Crete, but I think there will be much better opportunities for you, having you closer at hand.’

‘Does that mean I can start working for you full-time?’ I asked. As a freelancer, I was being paid by the hour – or perhaps by the word – and I had no benefits or security.

Michael’s eyes narrowed and I wondered if I’d annoyed him, being so upfront. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,’ he said. ‘But, as I mentioned on the phone, we do have a project for you – and if it goes well, we could be open to negotiation.’

‘Atticus Pünd,’ I said.

‘Exactly.’ He had made it clear that he was the one calling the shots – which was how he wanted the relationship to work. ‘As you know, Orion Books picked up the nine novels Alan Conway wrote and republished them. They did surprisingly well, considering it was public knowledge that Alan had no respect for the character he had created – or for his readers.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘Well … yes.’ He gave me a sympathetic look. ‘I know you didn’t have much fun working with him.’

‘I didn’t have any fun working with him. But I’m still glad the books were a success.’

It was strange to think how a chance meeting almost thirty years ago should have led to what had become, by any standards, a publishing phenomenon. Alan had started life as an English teacher in the private school where my nephew and niece happened to be students. He was unpopular even then, which should have warned me. Ten-year-olds have a way of knowing which way the wind is blowing. I sometimes think that Katie only introduced him to me in the hope that I would persuade him to leave the school.

That was exactly what happened. I read his manuscript and although it needed work, Atticus Pünd Investigates was an instant bestseller and launched a series that would sell eighteen million copies worldwide, making Alan a fortune in the process. He was translated into about thirty languages and, along with several literary awards, had been presented with a silver medal and the freedom of the city of Heidelberg. He had left Woodbridge School and bought himself a mansion outside Framlingham, changing its name to Abbey Grange, which happens to be the title of a Sherlock Holmes short story and tells you something about his self-image. The BBC had been on the brink of filming an eight-part series they were going to call The Atticus Adventures , and apparently Mads Mikkelsen had been signed up to play the lead – but that had all gone south when Alan had died, pushed off the tower of his expensive home.

Alan had never invited me to Abbey Grange, but then the two of us hadn’t got on. I’ve met writers who mistrust their editors, but I’ve never come across one so resolutely opposed to them. Every suggestion I ever made, every cut, every question had invariably led to an argument, but it was only later that I realised it wasn’t me he disliked. It was the books he felt he was being forced to write. Put bluntly, he wanted to be Salman Rushdie, not Agatha Christie – but that was never going to happen. He was stuck with himself.

‘Anyway, we’ve stolen a march on Orion,’ Michael went on. ‘Someone here at Causton Books had the bright idea of commissioning a new Atticus Pünd novel.’

‘Without Alan,’ I said.

‘Exactly. A continuation novel.’ He went on quickly before I could interrupt him: ‘It worked out very well for James Bond and Sebastian Faulks. I’m sure you know that Devil May Care was the fastest-selling work of fiction after Harry Potter … at least until Richard Osman came along. Then there are the new Hercule Poirot novels, Sherlock Holmes, Jeeves and Wooster, Hitchhiker’s Guide …’ He smiled. ‘The simple truth is that nobody gives a damn about Alan Conway and Atticus Pünd can get along fine without him.’

He may have put it a little coldly, but he was right. It’s strange how characters can become bigger than their authors, but popular fiction is absolutely crowded with them. It was one of the reasons Conan Doyle threw Sherlock Holmes off the Reichenbach Falls: a sense that his real talents were being overshadowed by his popular hero. Both A. A. Milne and his son Christopher Robin came to hate Winnie-the-Pooh, and Peter Pan left a trail of dead bodies in his wake. What do Mary Poppins, Tarzan, the Wizard of Oz and Dracula all have in common? Half the world knows them but would quite probably be unable to name the authors who created them.

‘We got in touch with James Taylor six months ago,’ Michael told me. ‘I think you know him. He was Alan’s live-in partner and he inherited the house, the money and the literary estate. We made an offer for an option for three new books. I’m amazed the idea hadn’t occurred to Orion, but we persuaded James that we’d do a better job anyway. Have you seen the new covers they put on their reissue? Utterly drab and boring, I must say. Not that James gives a damn about such minor issues as style and presentation. All he’s interested in is the bottom line. We made him a very generous offer and he’s also come on board as a consultant. He couldn’t be happier.’

None of this surprised me. I’d known James well, first when I’d arrived in Suffolk searching for the last chapter of Magpie Murders and later when I’d returned to England, trying to find the clue to an eight-year-old murder that had been concealed in Atticus Pünd Takes the Case , the third book in the series. In his twenties, James had been working as a male escort in London. He had been introduced to Alan, who had been married and very much in the closet at the time, and to be fair, James had helped him come to terms with his sexuality and had probably brought out the best in him. He had certainly been well rewarded. He had moved into Abbey Grange with Alan and, just as Michael said, had ended up inheriting everything. James was rude, brazen, unfaithful, self-absorbed and licentious – and I couldn’t help liking him. The last time I’d seen him, we’d had lunch at Le Caprice and, as well as picking up the bill, he’d provided me with some of the clues I’d needed to solve the murder of Frank Parris and the disappearance of Cecily Treherne. I’d be happy to meet up with him.

‘We certainly don’t need Alan Conway,’ Michael concluded.

‘That may be true,’ I agreed. ‘I couldn’t have worked with him again anyway. But even so, he’ll be a hard act to follow. His plots were clever. He had a good ear for dialogue and I liked his characters. As much as I hate to admit it, he was a terrific writer … at least, when he wasn’t trying to create the next Penguin Modern Classic.’ I glanced at the typescript. The title and the author’s name were still concealed. ‘I take it that’s the new book,’ I said.

‘It’s the first thirty thousand words. Very much a work in progress.’

‘I see you’ve printed it up for me.’

It was something of a joke between us. I suppose I’m old-fashioned, but Michael knew that I preferred working on paper. These days, everything is done via the computer screen, but I’ve always felt that a manuscript has a closer affinity to the finished book and I enjoy the physical contact when I’m making my changes. Even when I was in Crete, I’d bought a rickety printer that seemed to take half the morning to grind out a hard copy before I felt able to start work.

Michael smiled. ‘Yes. It’s all ready for your red pen.’

‘So are you going to tell me who’s writing it?’

‘Of course, although I’m going to ask you to keep it confidential for the time being. As a matter of fact, you know him.’ He paused for effect. ‘Eliot Crace.’

For a moment, I was lost for words … all thirty thousand of them. It was the last name I would have expected.

‘You published him when you were at Cloverleaf,’ Michael reminded me.

‘That’s not entirely true,’ I said. ‘I saw him twice, but I didn’t deal with him myself. It was Charles who recommended him. Charles worked with him, not me.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘The first time I met him, he was drunk. The second time, he was covered in blood. He said he’d fallen off a bus.’

‘Yes. I have had reason to ask myself if it was a good idea commissioning him, but of course we were buying into the name, and part of your job will be to keep hold of the reins. The book is important to us for a great many reasons and we don’t want him going off-piste. That said, hopefully his bad boy days are behind him. He was only – what? – in his early twenties when you met him. He’s married now. I think you’ll find he’s settled down.’

‘What’s his writing like?’

‘Well, that’s for you to tell me.’ He poured himself more coffee. ‘You know a great deal more about murder mysteries than I do. But from what I’ve read, I’d say Eliot has done a very good job. It certainly feels like the originals.’

‘When is it set?’ There was a reason why I asked this. In the last book, Atticus Pünd had been diagnosed with a brain tumour. This was his Reichenbach Falls. Alan had only given him months to live.

‘It follows on from Magpie Murders .’

‘It would have to follow on very quickly.’

‘It does. Atticus Pünd is not at all well. He runs into an elderly lady he happens to know and she invites him to her home in the South of France. Her name is Lady Chalfont …’

I recognised the name. She was a character in Gin & Cyanide , the sixth book in the series.

‘She tells him she’s overheard something and makes it sound as if she’s afraid for her life, and sure enough she’s killed. She has a rather ghastly family, but it’s her husband – her second husband – who’s the main suspect. I was hoping you’d have a read of it and then help Eliot finish the rest of the manuscript. We want to publish early next year.’

It’s one of the strange rules of publishing that deadlines are always too close and there never seems to be enough time to get everything done. I made the necessary calculations. ‘That’s tight,’ I said.

‘Eliot was slow getting started.’ Michael must have seen my face fall because he moved straight on. ‘It wasn’t his fault. We wanted to get the story right and he spent ages structuring.’ He smiled at me a second time. I felt he was turning it on and off like an electric light. ‘The moment I heard you were coming back to the UK, I thought it was a match made in heaven, Susan. After all, you discovered Alan Conway. You were intimate with his prose style, the various tricks he used. I’m not saying this is perfect, but with your input it could be very commercial. Everyone loves Atticus Pünd and Eliot’s name is well known to the public … his surname, anyway. I really think we could have a bestseller on our hands.’

‘The two books Eliot wrote for us at Cloverleaf didn’t do too well,’ I remarked. I wouldn’t normally have been so negative, but I had plenty of reasons to keep away from this project. And what I said was true. It was the reason why there hadn’t been a third book in his series.

‘I’ve read them,’ Michael said. ‘I enjoyed them. It may be that they weren’t properly marketed.’

‘We did the best we could.’ His criticism irritated me, but I tried not to show it. ‘All right,’ I went on. ‘I’ll read it and get back to you. Where is Eliot living now?’

‘West London … Notting Hill Gate. For what it’s worth, I mentioned I was seeing you and he was very excited. He remembers you from Cloverleaf and he’s very aware of what you did for Alan Conway.’

‘That’s very nice of him.’ I glanced at the typescript. ‘So do I get to see the title?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’ He swung it round and lifted off the notepad. And there it was in black and white.

PüND’S LAST CASE

Written by Eliot Crace

The tenth book in a nine-book series.

‘An anagramp,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry?’

It was a private joke. I didn’t explain.