Page 10

Ten

Monday 5pm

“I’m not obsessed. I think it’s likely that Kaylan was the target of the shooter, that’s all. No one in law enforcement here seems to share my belief, so I’m coming to the conclusion that I’ll have to do it myself.” And there it was, Charlie’s thoughts and intentions in two sentences. “You can help me, or you can follow me around, but I’m going to do it either way. Your choice.”

Murphy didn’t give a straightforward answer. Instead, he pointed at the stacks of paper on the coffee table. There were three: one twice as high as the other two put together, and one with only two sheets. “I analysed the hate mail,” he said. “Bible thumpers, misogynists and this-might-be-serious. Only one of those.”

Charlie picked up the two sheets of paper. The first read:

I am not afraid to kill you, Ms Wildwood. I have a gun and I know how to use it. Others may die in my attack, and you will be responsible for those deaths, too. You have a choice. Go home and sit in your library and you may live. Continue on your present course and die in a hail of bullets.

It was a copy of a letter delivered by hand to Orianna’s publisher in New York. The other was also a copy of a letter delivered the same way.

You have ignored my warning. Prepare to die.

“This is bullshit. All it proves is that someone knows Ori is a librarian, and that information isn’t hard to find. If the letter writer was serious, why didn’t he kill Orianna?”

“Because your Tom got in the way.”

Charlie shook his head, thinking back to the carnage in the bookshop. The audience members had tried to hide under the flimsy tables, behind a bookcase, or the coffee bar. The shooter had a clear line of sight, and had been purposeful in choosing his victims, until he saw Charlie. Then he fired up at the ceiling and left. No one except Charlie posed any challenge — these were people attending a poetry reading not gangsters. The killer knew exactly where Orianna was but had run away without shooting her.

“No. He could have killed her if he wanted to. He came for someone else, or possibly he was just a nutcase who wanted to kill people. Except that if he was a nutcase, he could have killed more people and he didn’t.”

“Supposing you’re right, how did the shooter know Kaylan was going to be at the bookstore?”

“How did you know Kaylan and I met? Even though we didn’t. Which raises the question — who was following Kaylan, and who did they tell?”

Once again, Murphy changed the subject.

“So, assuming Kaylan was the target, who are the suspects? Apart from you, obviously.” Murphy smiled as if to show that the last wasn’t meant seriously.

Charlie leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Tom was the first name that came to mind. Kaylan had paid back none of the money he had stolen from the art college, leaving Tom firefighting to make the books balance. If Charlie didn’t know for certain that Tom was not the killer, he’d be up there on the suspects list. If Vitruvius wasn’t already in prison, he’d have been on it too. Which left all the people Kaylan had met since leaving the UK. He opened his eyes and looked at Murphy.

“Off the top of my head, I don’t know. I need to know what Kaylan was doing for the FBI, I want to talk to his family. I want to know who was following him.” Charlie rubbed his hands over his face. Because how could he do any of that in a foreign country, with Tom in intensive care?

Why hasn’t Orianna called?

“Supposing I was going to help you,” Murphy began, “what would you want me to do?”

“Get me access to Kaylan’s flat. Find out what he was doing for the FBI.”

There was a hammering at the front door of the flat. Murphy went to open the door, and Charlie wondered why whoever it was hadn’t buzzed from downstairs. Special Agent John Mead appeared in the living room.

“Mr Charles Rees,” he said, “we have a warrant to search this apartment, and to specifically seize your clothing for forensic examination.”