Brought to Book by Anthea Fraser

that in his collar?’
    Rona, turning back to look, saw something white against the golden fur. As he reached them, Max bent down quickly and extracted a folded piece of paper. ‘What the hell—?’
    â€˜What is it?’ She moved closer, looking over his shoulder at the wet scrap of paper. Already the ink on it was running, but its message was chillingly clear.
    You would be well advised not to write Theo Harvey’s biography,
it read.
    Rona gave a little gasp. Max crumpled the note in his fist and, before she realized his intention, set off at speed for the clump of trees.
    â€˜Max!’ she called frantically. ‘Don’t – please come back!’
    Gus, thinking this a new game, set off after him, leaving her shivering and alone in the wet open spaces. Her heart was hammering uncomfortably. Whoever could have written the note, and why? And – oh God! – how would he react if Max confronted him?
    Max and the dog, meanwhile, had vanished, obscured partly by the mist and partly by the stand of trees on the crest of the hill. For what seemed an eternity she waited, while the wind buffeted at her legs and rain blew in her face. Then, to her enormous relief, he reappeared, walking slowly now, with Gus trotting at his heels.
    â€˜No sign of him,’ he reported when he was within earshot.
    â€˜You shouldn’t have rushed off like that,’ she upbraided him through chattering teeth. ‘He might have been lying in wait for you.’
    â€˜I hoped he was,’ Max answered tightly. ‘I’d have welcomed a chat.’
    â€˜He knew who we were!’ she said, the implications striking her for the first time. ‘He must have followed us from home.’
    â€˜The price of fame. Forget it, love; he’s just some nutter trying to make his mark.’
    She gave a little shiver. ‘Let’s go back.’
    He bent down and, although they were some way from the park gates, clipped on Gus’s lead. ‘We don’t want you talking to any more strangers,’ he said. And with a last glance behind him at the deserted expanse of grass, he tucked Rona’s arm through his and set off at a brisk pace for home.
    They didn’t speak again until they reached the end of the short-cut and emerged on to Charlton Road, by which time Rona’s uneasiness had been replaced by annoyance.
    â€˜What the hell was he playing at?’ she burst out suddenly. ‘If he was watching the house – and he must have been – why follow us all that way on a horrible day like this? Why not simply push the note through the door?’
    â€˜I’d say he wrote it on the spur of the moment – it was a page torn from a diary. Think about it: there was no way he could have known Gus was going to run in his direction. As I said, he’s probably some nutter who read about you in that damned paper and decided to play silly beggars.’
    â€˜Perhaps it was Justin Grant,’ she said with a forced laugh. ‘He has a habit of popping up when least expected.’
    It was a relief to close the front door behind them, and while Max bent to unclip the dog’s lead, Rona surreptitiously slipped on the chain. The afternoon had darkened prematurely, but as the hall light revealed the familiar outlines of home, the last of her fears evaporated.
    â€˜Can I have another look at it?’ she asked, as he hung up their wet jackets.
    Max retrieved the scrunched-up ball of paper from his pocket and handed it to her, watching as she carefully smoothed it out. As he’d said, it was a page from a pocket diary, one side printed with dates in January of the next year, the other headed ‘Forward Planner’. Its unceremonious crumpling, combined with the rain, had made it all but illegible.
    â€˜It’s fairly literate, at least,’ Max remarked, ‘but that’s all that can be said for it. It belongs in the bin, and that’s where it’s