Read Online Not Safe After Dark by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Robinson
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‘It’s just not bloody fair.’
‘Life rarely is. But the police aren’t to know how stupid and unimaginative my husband was. They’ll just look at the note, read the books, and assume he was blackmailing
you.’ She laughed. ‘Even if Frank had read the Trotton book, I’m sure he’d have only noticed an “influence”, at the most. But you and I know what really went on,
don’t we? It happens more often than people think. A few years ago I read in the newspaper about similarities between a book by Colleen McCullough and The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud
Montgomery. I’d say that was a bit obvious, wouldn’t you? It was much easier in your case, much less dangerous. You were very clever, Mr Quilley. You found an obscure novel and you
didn’t only adapt the plot for your own first book, you even stole the character of your series detective. There was some risk involved, certainly, but not much. Your book is better, without
a doubt. You have some writing talent, which X. J. Trotton completely lacked. But he did have the germ of an original idea, and it wasn’t lost on you, was it?’
Quilley groaned. Thirteen solid police procedurals, twelve of them all his own work, but the first, yes, a deliberate adaptation of a piece of ephemeral trash. He had seen what Trotton could
have done and had done it himself. Serendipity, or so it had seemed when he found the dusty volume in a second-hand bookshop in Victoria years ago. All he had had to do was change the setting from
London to Toronto, alter the names and set about improving upon the original. And now . . . ? The hell of it was that he would have been perfectly safe without the damn book. He had simply given in
to the urge to get his hands on Peplow’s copy and destroy it. It wouldn’t have mattered, really. Signed in Blood would have remained unread on Peplow’s shelf. If only the
bloody fool hadn’t written that note . . .
‘Even if the police can’t make a murder charge stick,’ Mrs Peplow went on, ‘I think your reputation would suffer if this got out. Oh, the great reading public might not
care. Perhaps a trial would even increase your sales – you know how ghoulish people are – but the plagiarism would at the very least lose you the respect of your peers. I don’t
think your agent and publisher would be very happy either. Am I making myself clear?’
Pale and sweating, Quilley nodded. ‘How much?’ he whispered.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said how much. How much do you want to keep quiet?’
‘Oh, it’s not your money I’m after, Mr Quilley, or may I call you Dennis? Well, not only money, anyway. I’m a widow now. I’m all alone in the
world.’
She looked around the room, her piggy eyes glittering, then gave Quilley one of the most disgusting looks he’d ever had in his life.
‘I’ve always fancied living near the lake,’ she said, reaching for another cigarette. ‘Live here alone, do you?’
INNOCENCE
Francis must be late, surely, Reed thought as he stood waiting on the bridge by the railway station. He was beginning to feel restless and uncomfortable; the handles of
his holdall bit into his palm, and he noticed that the rain promised in the forecast that morning was already starting to fall.
Wonderful! Here he was, over two hundred miles away from home, and Francis hadn’t turned up. But Reed couldn’t be sure about that. Perhaps he was early. They had made the same
arrangement three or four times over the past five years, but for the life of him Reed couldn’t remember the exact time they’d met.
Reed turned and noticed a plump woman in a threadbare blue overcoat come struggling against the wind over the bridge towards him. She pushed a large pram, in which two infants fought and
squealed.
‘Excuse me,’ he called out as she neared him, ‘could you tell me what time school gets out?’
The woman gave him a funny look – either puzzlement or irritation, he couldn’t decide which – and answered in the
‘Life rarely is. But the police aren’t to know how stupid and unimaginative my husband was. They’ll just look at the note, read the books, and assume he was blackmailing
you.’ She laughed. ‘Even if Frank had read the Trotton book, I’m sure he’d have only noticed an “influence”, at the most. But you and I know what really went on,
don’t we? It happens more often than people think. A few years ago I read in the newspaper about similarities between a book by Colleen McCullough and The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud
Montgomery. I’d say that was a bit obvious, wouldn’t you? It was much easier in your case, much less dangerous. You were very clever, Mr Quilley. You found an obscure novel and you
didn’t only adapt the plot for your own first book, you even stole the character of your series detective. There was some risk involved, certainly, but not much. Your book is better, without
a doubt. You have some writing talent, which X. J. Trotton completely lacked. But he did have the germ of an original idea, and it wasn’t lost on you, was it?’
Quilley groaned. Thirteen solid police procedurals, twelve of them all his own work, but the first, yes, a deliberate adaptation of a piece of ephemeral trash. He had seen what Trotton could
have done and had done it himself. Serendipity, or so it had seemed when he found the dusty volume in a second-hand bookshop in Victoria years ago. All he had had to do was change the setting from
London to Toronto, alter the names and set about improving upon the original. And now . . . ? The hell of it was that he would have been perfectly safe without the damn book. He had simply given in
to the urge to get his hands on Peplow’s copy and destroy it. It wouldn’t have mattered, really. Signed in Blood would have remained unread on Peplow’s shelf. If only the
bloody fool hadn’t written that note . . .
‘Even if the police can’t make a murder charge stick,’ Mrs Peplow went on, ‘I think your reputation would suffer if this got out. Oh, the great reading public might not
care. Perhaps a trial would even increase your sales – you know how ghoulish people are – but the plagiarism would at the very least lose you the respect of your peers. I don’t
think your agent and publisher would be very happy either. Am I making myself clear?’
Pale and sweating, Quilley nodded. ‘How much?’ he whispered.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said how much. How much do you want to keep quiet?’
‘Oh, it’s not your money I’m after, Mr Quilley, or may I call you Dennis? Well, not only money, anyway. I’m a widow now. I’m all alone in the
world.’
She looked around the room, her piggy eyes glittering, then gave Quilley one of the most disgusting looks he’d ever had in his life.
‘I’ve always fancied living near the lake,’ she said, reaching for another cigarette. ‘Live here alone, do you?’
INNOCENCE
Francis must be late, surely, Reed thought as he stood waiting on the bridge by the railway station. He was beginning to feel restless and uncomfortable; the handles of
his holdall bit into his palm, and he noticed that the rain promised in the forecast that morning was already starting to fall.
Wonderful! Here he was, over two hundred miles away from home, and Francis hadn’t turned up. But Reed couldn’t be sure about that. Perhaps he was early. They had made the same
arrangement three or four times over the past five years, but for the life of him Reed couldn’t remember the exact time they’d met.
Reed turned and noticed a plump woman in a threadbare blue overcoat come struggling against the wind over the bridge towards him. She pushed a large pram, in which two infants fought and
squealed.
‘Excuse me,’ he called out as she neared him, ‘could you tell me what time school gets out?’
The woman gave him a funny look – either puzzlement or irritation, he couldn’t decide which – and answered in the
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