Past Lying, page 5
Jamie handed him a generous measure and they toasted each other. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘A worthy opponent who moves in the same world as me.’
Rob pulled a wry smile. ‘Maybe not quite on the same plane.’
‘Only a matter of time.’ He waved Rob towards a chair and settled himself opposite. ‘You’re a class act, Rob.’
‘Kind of you to say so, but there are no certainties in our game.’
Neither of them had any way of knowing how prescient Rob’s words were. He sat watching Jamie set out the pieces, both unaware that their lives were at a tipping point. They had not the faintest notion that Rob’s impending stratospheric rise would be mirrored by Jamie’s tragic fall.
All they were thinking about that first evening was what lay immediately ahead. Jamie was confident in his ability; he’d often been surprised by his knack of stringing together a winning sequence of moves from apparently beleaguered positions. But he’d already decided that if need be, he’d go easy on Rob, at least for tonight. He enjoyed being looked up to by the newbie on the scene – who wouldn’t? – and he genuinely appreciated the joy of finding a fresh opponent who might just give him a battle worth winning.
Rob was apprehensive about the game, obviously anxious about what this encounter could mean for him. But both were hoping they’d be evenly matched. If Jamie outstripped him easily, Rob reckoned he’d probably never be asked back. He didn’t think Jamie was the kind of man who’d favour the delivery of humiliation over the pleasure of challenge. On the other hand, if Rob commanded the board and made Jamie feel small, he definitely wouldn’t be asked back. And right then, he wanted to be part of Jamie Cobain’s charmed life. Being his friend was an entrée into the easy camaraderie of publishing’s big dogs.
Because the big dogs still ran the game. Readers believed that the books that garnered the golden reviews, the pole positions in the bookshops, the eye-catching ads in the tube and on train stations were there by virtue of their quality. Rob knew the truth. They were there because an editor had sold them at the marketing meeting, hooked them up with the best publicist, put them in front of the best cover designer. Sometimes that was because the book genuinely was the real deal. But just as often, it was because the author had a great smile, connected well on social media, and knew how to walk the fine line between attractively surprising and grotesquely shocking interviews. To get those plum slots, the big dogs had to know you. You had to be in it to win it.
Rob, at the start of his career, was determined to do whatever it took to be in it. Jamie understood that too, and if Rob turned out to be a worthy opponent, he’d do all he could to bring him into the club. It wasn’t altruism; Rob would owe him and he’d use his rising position to big-up his benefactor. That was the way it worked.
They sipped their whisky and exchanged a few desultory comments about the Perth festival. But Rob could tell Jamie’s heart wasn’t in it. He sensed a suppressed excitement in the other man. They were each as eager as the other to get on with the game. Jamie kept glancing at a wooden box sitting on the side table next to him. It was a simple piece, its only decoration a half-moon indentation to facilitate the removal of the lid. But the wood had a beautiful grain. Rob couldn’t name it then; he’d since learned it was bird’s-eye maple.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said.
Jamie’s smile was impish. ‘The game or the blether?’
Rob didn’t have to pause for reflection. ‘The game. Always the game.’
It was the entry point Jamie had been angling for. He grabbed the box, slid open the lid and tipped the contents out. Both men stared at the tumble of pieces for a moment before Jamie swiftly shifted them to their places on the board. Rob was pleased to see he’d avoided the cheesy temptation of a novelty set. Whether it was Lord of the Rings, Star Wars or even a resin replica of the Lewis chessmen, nothing screamed ‘time-waster’ more when it came to a game of chess, in Rob’s opinion. Jamie’s pieces were as plain as the box they came in, though the traditional shapes had been carved from wood with as fine a grain.
‘Nice set,’ he said as Jamie laid them out with a care that matched his speed.
He gave Rob a quick look, sizing him up. ‘They were a second-hand gift,’ he said. ‘My wife bought them for me. She still thinks I’m worth spending a lot of my money on. They were supposedly given to Garry Kasparov by an admirer to celebrate his twenty years as world ranking number one.’ He snorted. ‘I wish my game merited them.’
Jamie palmed two pawns, lowered his hands beneath the level of the table, then offered his closed fists. Rob ended up with black; to his surprise, Jamie kicked off with the English Defence. The tempo of the game was slow; both were feeling their way against an unfamiliar opponent. Rob answered with the Hedgehog Defence, a cramped set-up but one with plenty of possibilities for his pawns. He thought he had Jamie on the run a couple of times, but his host was shrewd and smart, and he outwitted Rob each time. In the end, Jamie caught him in a pincer between a knight and a rook and forced him to resign.
Jamie leaned back in his chair, arms spread expansively in an empty embrace. ‘I haven’t had to work that hard in a very long time. You really pushed me, Rob.’
‘Same for me.’ Rob let out a long breath and caught sight of his watch as he flexed his fingers. ‘My God, we’ve been at it for nearly three hours.’
Jamie reached for the decanter. ‘Fastest three hours I’ve had for quite a while. We definitely have to do this again. I love feeling my brain working overtime.’
Rob put a hand over his glass. ‘No more for me. I’ve got the car.’
Jamie grimaced. ‘Fair enough. Next time, get a cab so we can celebrate a victory properly.’
Rob grinned. ‘What if it’s a draw?’
A single eyebrow rose. Rob wondered how long Jamie had practised that in the mirror. ‘Half-measures, then,’ his host said. ‘But I warn you, I’ve never been a man for half-measures.’
Daisy looked up from the bundle of pages she was reading. ‘If it wasn’t for the prologue, you wouldn’t know it was supposed to be a crime novel.’
‘I don’t read enough crime fiction to know what to expect.’ Karen flicked back through what she’d already read. ‘And I haven’t read any Jake Stein, so I don’t know whether this is his usual style.’
‘I’ve read a few of his. I went through a mini-binge a few years ago. I read three on the bounce but then I took a scunner to them. You know how you eat a whole box of Tunnock’s teacakes, then you feel kind of queasy and you swear you’ll never eat another one?’
Karen shook her head. ’You scare me, Daisy. How come you’re not the size of a house?’
‘Lucky genes. Anyway, I felt like that about Jake Stein. He takes his time setting up the scene, then eases you into sudden violence. So far, this is spot on with the scene-setting.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance this has autobiographical elements?’
‘Authors always deny that when readers ask them. But I had a quick look at some of the online interviews with Stein while you were out, and there seemed to be a lot of similarities between Stein and Cobain. And I did read one piece that talked about Stein being a bit of a chess child prodigy.’
‘So is Jamie Cobain a straightforward stand-in for Jake Stein? And who is “Rob Thomas” supposed to be, do you think? Do they really sail that close to the wind, these authors?’
Daisy shrugged. ‘I’m not an expert on the lives and careers of Scottish crime writers. But it sounds a bit like what I know of Ross McEwen. His books are all one-word titles that start with “Re-”. And Rob Thomas’s book in the first chapter has a one-word title that starts with “De-”. But that might just be a quirk that Stein seized on for a bit of verisimilitude.’
Karen frowned. Time for a little push? ‘Or it might be more. Let’s make the giant assumption that it’s him, for now at least. What do you think the point of this is? I mean, I get that Meera made the connection to Lara Hardie because of the epilepsy thing, which I presume is going to show up in the novel at some point. And I get that crime writers sometimes piggy-back off real cases. But why bring this so close to home? Why would you write something that points a finger right at you?’
‘Maybe Jake Stein has a theory about Lara Hardie’s disappearance? Maybe the idea is that Jamie will become the intrepid investigator who solves the case that baffled the police?’
Karen tapped the small pile of papers. ‘Let’s hope he gets to the point before we run out of pages. Because as things stand we don’t even know if the fictional body in the garage is a Lara Hardie lookalike or a chess-playing crime writer.’
3
The chess games became a fixture in the two men’s diaries. Not exactly regular, because they both had to participate in book promotion events, to attend meetings with agents and editors, to endure foreign tours, to extend festivals for as long as possible to escape the humdrum. But once or twice a month, Jamie would lay out the pieces on his magnificent board and pour two generous Islay malts. And battle would commence.
Getting on for a year after that first encounter, honours were more or less even. Jamie had taken a narrow lead first, then Rob had overtaken him. There had been a series of draws, then Jamie had crept back ahead. For both men, their chess matches had found a place at the heart of their lives. It was as if the mental stimulus of the game gave an added fillip to their imaginations. Each in his own way was energised by the encounters; the chess engaged a different part of the brain to the writing process and somehow provoked a more active creativity.
On a couple of occasions, Rob had met Jamie’s wife, Rachel. The first time, she’d poked her head round the door of the study at the start of the evening and suggested a light supper after they’d finished playing. Jamie had looked up, frowning. ‘I don’t think so, love. Rob’s here for serious business, not the Waitrose snacks.’
Rob had winced inwardly at Jamie’s rudeness, but Rachel’s mouth had quirked in an ironic smile. ‘Please yourselves. Enjoy your evening, Rob.’
The second time, it had been Rachel who had answered the door. ‘Sorry, Rob. Jamie’s flight has been diverted to Glasgow. He’s only just touched down. He said—’
At that moment, his own mobile rang, the screen displaying Jamie’s name. He raised a finger and took the call. ‘Jamie, I hear there’s been a problem.’
‘Bloody fog at Edinburgh,’ Jamie said, curt and cross. ‘I’ll be an hour and a half. If you don’t mind waiting, we could play some speed chess, rather than a proper game? Rachel will feed you while you’re waiting.’
Rachel, who had clearly heard her husband’s clipped words, nodded. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.
It wasn’t quite the response he’d expected, but something to eat followed by the exciting prospect of speed chess was better than a solitary evening in his little flat. ‘Great idea, Jamie. Rachel seems fine with it.’
‘She likes the company of other writers,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way she can find out what I’m up to.’
The line cut out. There had been an edge to Jamie’s voice that made Rob uneasy, but Rachel simply shook her head. ‘Always all about Jamie,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’
Rob loved to cook, but his options were limited in his tiny galley kitchen. He’d have killed for the substantial room at the rear of the Cobains’ house. It wasn’t the black and white terrazzo tiles or the granite worktops or the cleverly designed lighting that he envied; those, he barely noticed. What drew his eye were the Aga, the Neff oven and gas rings, the sous-vide and the vacuum packing machine, the Kitchen Aid mixer and blender, the Dualit toaster and kettle and the two knife blocks. What impressed him yet more was that all the equipment looked as if it saw regular use. He gave a low whistle. ‘Someone’s a very lucky cook,’ he said, trying to avoid falling into the easy assumption that it was the woman of the house.
‘That would be me,’ she said. ‘The kitchen is my refuge. I don’t know whether Jamie mentioned it, but I’m a lawyer?’
Rob shook his head. ‘He never said. That’s handy for a crime writer.’
She laughed, a soft sardonic sound. ‘Not really, I do the dull stuff. Wills and probate. Jamie often complains that all my practice ever brings in is money, and he can make plenty of that.’
Rob wondered whether that was supposed to be a joke or a put-down. ‘So you lawyer by day and cook by night?’
‘I only work part-time now,’ she said. ‘More time for stress-busting culinary adventures.’
She didn’t look like a woman who ate many of the products of her adventures. He knew she must be in her early forties, but Rachel Cobain showed no signs of over-indulgence. She was slender and shapely, dressed in tight-fitting yoga pants and a loose shirt tied artfully at the waist to show her off to her best advantage. Her face bore the faintest early traces of lines around the eyes and bracketing a mouth that seemed perpetually on the edge of a smile. Another reason to envy Jamie Cobain, Rob thought. His own recent excursions on the road to romance had led nowhere near the likes of Rachel Cobain.
She opened a vast American-style fridge and peered into the interior. ‘So, there’s a wild mushroom and porcini soup if you want something light. Sourdough or focaccia to go with it. Or I have some delicious venison loin from the game stall at Castle Terrace market. I’ve got roast Roscoff onions and artichoke puree to go with that. It won’t take me ten minutes to cook it. Or—’
‘Stop,’ he said. ‘You had me at “venison loin”.’
While she put dinner together with swift efficiency, she asked Rob about his life before writing. He gave her the version he’d honed for his events, and she gave him a knowing smile. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘Apparent candour without actually being candid. I bet those audiences love you, Rob Thomas.’
Taken aback, he said, ‘I don’t know what you mean. It’s true.’
‘But very far from the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ She chuckled as she prodded the venison spitting in the hot pan. ‘I’ve lived with a champion confabulator for fifteen years, Rob. I may not be able to unpick the seams of your story, but I do know there will be seams.’ She lifted the lid on the wide pan where she was heating through the onions and sniffed. ‘All these years with Jamie, I know the whiff of deception.’
Over the past months, his association with Jamie had promoted Rob to one of the lads. Not quite one of the big dogs, but certainly one who ran with them. One who could be trusted. So he knew there were plenty of Jamie’s deceptions for Rachel to sniff out. He had charm, he was not unattractive and he was a bright star in their firmament. Rob knew Jamie had plenty of offers – hell, he even had a few himself, and he was a next-to-nobody. The difference was that Rob didn’t have anyone at home to let down.
He watched Rachel dishing up his dinner with unexpected unease. He liked this woman. Her cooking for him had created an intimacy that hadn’t existed when she was just a head poking round a door. In future, knowledge of Jamie’s infidelities would confer an awkward complicity.
But there was far worse to come than complicity.
4
The first hint of trouble came at what should have been a night of triumph for Rob. His third novel, Desecration, had been published to rave reviews and, even better for sales, an entirely unexpected congruence with an appalling murder in France whose circumstances eerily mirrored those of the novel. Rob, who had only ever been to France under the aegis of his French publishers, clearly had clean hands when it came to accusations of exploitation. Nevertheless his publishers could barely keep up with the demand, as readers devoured the fiction in the hope that it would make the reality explicable.
Hitting the top of the bestseller list would have been enough, he felt, but no sooner had he hit that pinnacle than Desecration was shortlisted for two major awards, one on either side of the Atlantic. And it was chosen as one of the Jackie and Jimmy Summer Reads, a promotion run by a network magazine show and supported by a leading supermarket chain.
The success of Desecration drove readers to his earlier titles, pushing both into the paperback and e-book bestsellers. To celebrate, his publishers did what publishers always did – they threw a party.
The guest list read like a roster of the UK’s leading crime writers. The social media back channels buzzed with resentment from those who hadn’t made the cut. Agents and editors swirled through the chattering groups. There were journalists too, a smattering of MPs, a handful of actors hoping to be cast in the inevitable TV adaptations, and those booksellers deemed useful by the publishers.
Jamie was there, of course, Rachel at his side, splendid in an aquamarine dress that Rob imagined had come from the sort of shop so discreet he’d never even noticed it. Rob worked his way across the room to where Jamie was holding court. He’d no sooner reached his friend’s side than a woman he vaguely recognised barged past him. She stopped inches from Jamie’s face, her expression unreadable. He seemed disconcerted, but reached for her elbow and tried to steer her out of the group.
She shook herself free and shouted, ‘You fucking bastard,’ so loudly a hush fell on that end of the room. Then she swung her right arm back and delivered an open-handed slap that rocked him back on his feet. The shock was tremendous. People stared with dropped jaws. Rachel seemed utterly confounded. Jamie had a hand to his cheek, his other balled into a fist. He took a half-step towards his attacker, then thought better of it.
Before anyone else could react, Jamie’s publisher stepped forward and wrapped an arm round the woman, who was now weeping noisily, and virtually dragged her away. For a moment, Rob thought Jamie was going to brazen it out, but one look at Rachel’s face told him that wasn’t an option. She was already turning from him, moving through the crowd in the opposite direction to the assailant. Hastily, Jamie followed her. As he passed Rob, he muttered, ‘Fucking cunt.’
