pudding, and cappuccino afterwards three cups. She has finished her morning’s shopping and is obviously filling in time until her train is due in this afternoon.
At last Candice can wave goodbye to her grumbling author, who goes off promising that her next book will be fast and lusty. ‘If it’s sex they want, then they’ll get it, I’ll shock ’em all,’ mutters the elderly woman with the powdered face and the newly replaced hip. Candice hopes it will take some time. She’s not looking forward to reading it.
Candice is a fast reader. Back in the office and it doesn’t take her long to reach the end of a chapter. Bloody hell! Good God, if the rest of the stuff is anything like this she has something huge on her hands. Staggering. Phenomenal. Something bigger than she, and possibly her boss, Rory Coburn, have ever handled before. Could she possibly be mistaken? Should she ask for a second opinion before taking action? She could go to her boss right now, but she is tempted to act on her own initiative. She will never be forgiven, of course, but that won’t matter if Magdalene is as big as Candice thinks it is likely to be.
She reads the introductory letter again. It gives little away. She reads the short synopsis. It’s good. What an amazing first this would be…
On impulse she dials the number on the letter head and waits for a worrying length of time. Finally the phone is picked up.
‘Yes?’ Spoken crossly.
‘Is that Kirsty Hoskins?’
‘No, this is Mrs Moira Stokes.’
‘Well, Mz Stokes, would it be possible for me to speak to Kirsty Hoskins, please?’
‘No, it certainly would not. It is not my job to go chasing round after all and sundry. This is a large building, and if you must make telephone calls to the staff it would be more considerate if you would arrange to ring at a mutually agreed time in future.’
Candice Love is not used to this kind of rude reaction. Her business might well be cut-throat, but no matter how nasty the meaning, the words are always coated in saccharine.
‘Um, Mz Stokes, I can see that I have disturbed you—’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘Only this is an important matter. I am phoning from London—’
‘Well that doesn’t impress me one jot.’
‘And it really is essential that I speak with Kirsty Hoskins.’
‘Is it a matter of life and death? Has there been some tragedy in the family?’
‘Well, no, of course not.’ And Candice is tempted to add, Don’t be an arsehole. But she tries to persuade the woman instead: ‘Please take a note of my name and address.’
‘If I must,’ says Mrs Stokes, pausing to do so. ‘But in future please ring at a more convenient time.’
And then, to Candice’s enormous surprise, the phone goes dead in her hand.
Damn.
Damn.
Damn .
Eight
F IVE YEARS OLDER THAN Avril, so that his sister hardly knew him, Graham Stott heaves his army and navy rucksack over his bomber-jacketed shoulder, gobs twice on the pavement and leaves the prison gates behind him.
Graham Timothy Stott is a thoroughly bad apple and a nasty piece of work, although social workers consoled Mrs Stott by agreeing with her, superficially, that she could not have been a better mother and that the lad had been given everything he had ever wanted.
‘I never worked,’ sobbed Avril’s mother in her cosy, germ-free lounge apart from Fluffy the cat’s chair with scarlet tissue paper stuffed in the fireplace because it was summer. ‘Everyone else in the terrace did, of course,’ she sniffed, ‘and that has been the problem. Kids with no-one at home messing about in the street after school. Of course Graham was tempted out there; how could we keep him indoors after he reached the age of eight?’
‘It has been very hard for you, I know, Mrs Stott,’ was the typical professional response.
Mrs Stott removed one of Fluffy’s hairs from an otherwise immaculate pair of nylon navy slacks. ‘And now you come here doing reports, asking us all sorts of
At last Candice can wave goodbye to her grumbling author, who goes off promising that her next book will be fast and lusty. ‘If it’s sex they want, then they’ll get it, I’ll shock ’em all,’ mutters the elderly woman with the powdered face and the newly replaced hip. Candice hopes it will take some time. She’s not looking forward to reading it.
Candice is a fast reader. Back in the office and it doesn’t take her long to reach the end of a chapter. Bloody hell! Good God, if the rest of the stuff is anything like this she has something huge on her hands. Staggering. Phenomenal. Something bigger than she, and possibly her boss, Rory Coburn, have ever handled before. Could she possibly be mistaken? Should she ask for a second opinion before taking action? She could go to her boss right now, but she is tempted to act on her own initiative. She will never be forgiven, of course, but that won’t matter if Magdalene is as big as Candice thinks it is likely to be.
She reads the introductory letter again. It gives little away. She reads the short synopsis. It’s good. What an amazing first this would be…
On impulse she dials the number on the letter head and waits for a worrying length of time. Finally the phone is picked up.
‘Yes?’ Spoken crossly.
‘Is that Kirsty Hoskins?’
‘No, this is Mrs Moira Stokes.’
‘Well, Mz Stokes, would it be possible for me to speak to Kirsty Hoskins, please?’
‘No, it certainly would not. It is not my job to go chasing round after all and sundry. This is a large building, and if you must make telephone calls to the staff it would be more considerate if you would arrange to ring at a mutually agreed time in future.’
Candice Love is not used to this kind of rude reaction. Her business might well be cut-throat, but no matter how nasty the meaning, the words are always coated in saccharine.
‘Um, Mz Stokes, I can see that I have disturbed you—’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘Only this is an important matter. I am phoning from London—’
‘Well that doesn’t impress me one jot.’
‘And it really is essential that I speak with Kirsty Hoskins.’
‘Is it a matter of life and death? Has there been some tragedy in the family?’
‘Well, no, of course not.’ And Candice is tempted to add, Don’t be an arsehole. But she tries to persuade the woman instead: ‘Please take a note of my name and address.’
‘If I must,’ says Mrs Stokes, pausing to do so. ‘But in future please ring at a more convenient time.’
And then, to Candice’s enormous surprise, the phone goes dead in her hand.
Damn.
Damn.
Damn .
Eight
F IVE YEARS OLDER THAN Avril, so that his sister hardly knew him, Graham Stott heaves his army and navy rucksack over his bomber-jacketed shoulder, gobs twice on the pavement and leaves the prison gates behind him.
Graham Timothy Stott is a thoroughly bad apple and a nasty piece of work, although social workers consoled Mrs Stott by agreeing with her, superficially, that she could not have been a better mother and that the lad had been given everything he had ever wanted.
‘I never worked,’ sobbed Avril’s mother in her cosy, germ-free lounge apart from Fluffy the cat’s chair with scarlet tissue paper stuffed in the fireplace because it was summer. ‘Everyone else in the terrace did, of course,’ she sniffed, ‘and that has been the problem. Kids with no-one at home messing about in the street after school. Of course Graham was tempted out there; how could we keep him indoors after he reached the age of eight?’
‘It has been very hard for you, I know, Mrs Stott,’ was the typical professional response.
Mrs Stott removed one of Fluffy’s hairs from an otherwise immaculate pair of nylon navy slacks. ‘And now you come here doing reports, asking us all sorts of
Similar Books
