It is strange that not once on our return journey to London do either Abbie or Rich mention the Leonardo drawing, and I put it down to their sobering realization of how utterly, dangerously naive their get-rich scheme has been. And maybe a sense of shame too, for Abbie at least, that she could have contemplated such a fraud.

It's not until we are safely inside her flat that Abbie finally says, "Well, Matt, I hope your extraordinary friend has more luck with Leonardo's drawing than we did." And that's when I open the backpack Vera gave me and take out the Scandinavia road atlas inside, and open it to the Stockholm page to which a white envelope is taped. I hand it to Abbie and say, "This time, sis, do it right."

The next day Abbie takes the drawing in to the gallery where she works and shows it to her boss, together with her report authenticating it as a genuine lost Leonardo da Vinci self-portrait. He is, naturally, astonished and overjoyed. So is the elderly lady who owns the drawing, when it realizes thirty-two million dollars at auction three months later. So also are the numerous friends, charities and dogs' homes to which the lady promptly gives almost all of the money. And so too is Abbie when her boss, on the strength of her coup, makes her a partner in the firm.

I'm pretty happy to get a job as a barista in a coffee bar in Covent Garden, and I'm happy too that we see less and less of Rich, who seems to be losing interest in Abbie. He was never right for her, and I say so in my emails home to Mum and Dad, though of course I don't breathe a word about Sweden and Blood Island, which increasingly seems like a distant and unreal nightmare. I do think about Vera Kulla quite often, and wonder who she really was.

A week after the auction, Abbie receives a postcard at her gallery with a Swiss stamp on it, postmarked Zurich, from the Foundation E. G. Buhrle in that city. It shows a famous painting, The Boy in the Red Vest, by Paul Cezanne, and on the reverse a text explains that on 10 February 2008, four paintings worth $162.5 million were stolen from the Buhrle collection. Eight days later two of the paintings were found in a car in a nearby hospital car park, but the remaining two, the Cezanne and a Degas, have never been recovered.

Beneath this text is a hand printed message.

To Abbie and Matt, Take care now.

FEST FATALE.

Alison Bruce.

GETTING DRESSED was my first mistake. I chose high heels, an angora sweater and a black pencil skirt. I imagined the event would be glamorous and I wanted to stand out amongst the authors whose books I'd so avidly read. I should have known better: the area behind the bookstall was cramped with no ventilation and nowhere to sit. Every time there was a rush of customers I found myself raking around in the stock boxes beside the sales counter. It was another tiny s.p.a.ce and I found it impossible to be down there without my skirt riding up and my knees sc.r.a.ping on the carpet ... not that I'm averse to a bit of that in a flash hotel, it's just not the position I usually end up taking in front of so many strangers.

No one took any notice of me in any case, it was like being a spectator at a huge love-in; authors, fans and books with only eyes for each other. Even Dan and Chloe from the bookshop were ignoring me.

I tried a bit of lame conversation. "It's hot in here."

"Mmm," Chloe managed.

Dan grinned with the kind of sickly enthusiasm that I've only seen from religious nuts and new mothers. "It's creative energy."

He turned back to dear old Chloe like those three words were inspiration enough. Wow.

I caught a m.u.f.fled round of applause and knew that the doors leading from the main seminar door were due to open. I grabbed a copy of the nearest novel and the festival programme then dropped to the floor and crawled behind the banqueting cloth skirting the nearest table.

Dan's answer was right, but he'd missed the whole point of my irritation. I'd volunteered to work at this event so I could meet these people, learn more about the writers behind the words and get tips on how I could fulfil my own authorly ambitions. I'd worked with Dan and Chloe for three years and doubted they knew my last name, never mind guessed that I had created a trilogy featuring my tattooed axe-wielding detective, Vance Thorn. There would be agents and publishers here. I was d.a.m.ned if I was going to spend the whole time standing behind a shop counter.

So for the next two and a half hours I hid under it instead.

The book I'd grabbed was Joli Brown's latest. I'd chosen it for the cover; her protagonist, Jack, had a tattoo of a rose and a skull on his right bicep. I was about forty pages in when I noticed the toe of a man's brogue poking under the table cloth. I stopped reading. He was talking. There was tension in his voice.

"How are people supposed to buy it if they're not even aware that it's been released?"

"Everyone's in the same boat." It was a woman who answered. She was gravel-voiced with that old-fashioned forty-a-day grittiness to her tone.

"No, they're not; I see adverts for books on tube posters, magazines, bus stops even ..."

"That's different, top-selling authors command a bigger advertising budget."

"So the rich get richer? Great, it's the same old story."

"Trevor."

"No. No. I'm not listening to any more of your attempts to make me settle for less than Scalped deserves. It's a great book and if the sales don't reflect that, it will be your fault for failing to give it a fighting chance."

R. V. Bold was the author of Scalped and I didn't remember selling a single copy.

I put my book away then and quietly opened the event programme. It was R. V. Bold's debut novel, "following the exploits of a Victorian barber turned sleuth through the poverty-stricken East End of London". Nope, not my cup of tea either ...

I stayed under the table simply because the toe of R.V.'s brogue was still pointing in my direction and I didn't fancy getting exposed as an eavesdropping skiver. Then he started talking again and I just couldn't resist listening.

"Richard!" He sounded like he was calling to someone at the other end of the room but the answering voice came from close by.

"Trevor. I'm glad I've caught you."

"Oh good."

I could feel R. V. grinning. It seemed like the same sort of inane grin as Dan's.

"No, it's not, actually," the other man replied and I could tell he wasn't grinning at all. "Why in h.e.l.l's name have you published under the name R. V.? I'm R. V., I have been R. V. for ten books. In fact I've been R. V. since birth. Richard Victor, and you're Trevor. Trevor what?"

"Just Trevor."

"Then use J. T., not b.l.o.o.d.y R. V. when R. V.'s mine. And you didn't stop there, did you? Did you come up with the surname Bold so you'd sit next to me on the shelf? R. V. Bold, R. V. Bolton, it's like a sick merger."

"It's a compliment. We thought you'd be flattered."

"Getting your s.h.i.tty reviews posted against my name's no compliment. And who is 'we'?"

"Monica and I ..."

"Monica? Our editor? It's bad enough that we're with the same b.l.o.o.d.y publisher without her handing my ident.i.ty over to some deranged stalker."

R.V. 1, that's Trevor R. V., took a step closer to the table. I could see both of his shoes now and the tablecloth swayed as he backed up. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Sorry? You'll both be sorry. Between the two of you you've murdered my reputation. She planned this; why else would she have published your pitiful excuse for a novel?"

I had a pen in my skirt pocket. I took it out and began scribbling notes on the back of the programme.

I knew of Monica Daws, of course everyone who's anyone did. Even I hadn't managed to escape her sharp words. Monica was the dynamic and charismatic crime editor from Page Force Publishers. I should have guessed it was her when I heard her husky voice. She was forty-something, a ripe-busted brunette with long legs and a ruthless streak. She sounded like Honor Blackman and in her day had probably looked like a Bond girl too.

One of her most celebrated rejects was Tom Monroe, author of Cut and Shut. After finding success with a rival publisher Tom Monroe had commented, "A face-to-face rejection from Monica was like being whipped by a beautiful woman; painful but not totally unpleasant."

She had countered with "I'm delighted that Tom has had some success at last, he will be able to pay for the kind of attention that he hoped to receive from me."

And so the public spat continued until Tom's book hit number 1 in the bestseller list and Page Force's books filled the rest of the top five. As they say, no such thing as bad publicity ...

With a crick in my neck and numbness creeping up my legs I was just about to abandon my position when I heard Monica's voice again. "Neil, Scarlet ..."

Neil Wilson and Scarlet Barton.

I ignored the numbness and prepared to take more notes.

I wrote more in those two and a half hours than in any other writing day I've had. If I'm honest a full writing day for me includes making sure my desk and chair are ergonomically efficient, eating a nutritious and unrushed breakfast, choosing "mood" clothing for inspiration, dealing with any pressing emails, post and phone calls and having a mid-morning drink and snack to keep me going until lunch.

I couldn't wait to get back to the bookstall the next morning this was a perfect working environment; I'd be tucked away, making notes and being paid by the bookshop at the same time.

It was heading towards elevenses before Chloe and Dan stopped fiddling with the displays on the top of the desk. I had a fresh pad ready and two new Biros; perhaps they sensed I was up to something.

Dan went to the gents and Chloe finally spoke to me. She scowled and said, "What's up with you this morning?"

"Nothing."

"You keep fidgeting."

"I do not," I argued but realized I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

"Suit yourself," Chloe muttered. She sneered, shrugged and turned away in one deft move.

I lifted the hem of the table cloth, bobbed under then pulled the pad and pens in after me. For one moment I thought the move had been too slow and clumsy, that Chloe would drag me straight back out again. In the next moment I didn't care.

I wasn't alone under there. Monica Daws sat at the other end of the crawls.p.a.ce. Her wrists were tied to each table leg and she was gagged with a scarf. She was leaning against a couple of boxes of books, wide-eyed and staring straight at me.

Her lips were purple and a polished ballpoint pen protruded from her heart. I'm no medical expert but she didn't look well.

I scuttled back out, dragging on the table cloth and knocking a pile of first editions on to the carpet. s.h.i.t, things were getting bad.

Dan was back and Chloe just stared at me. Customers stared at me too. I felt strangely calm, oddly aware that all h.e.l.l was about to break loose the second I spoke. I looked at the table then back at the faces staring at me and in that moment I was lost for words. And really inappropriately I thought I've got writers' block.

So I screamed then screamed some more.

Chapter 44.

I'd first seen DCI Wilde about an hour after I'd found Monica's body; I think he may have spoken to me but I don't remember. We'd all been kept at the hotel and now two days later he'd gathered everyone together in the main conference room. I looked around; there were authors, their agents, publishers, hotel staff and me, Dan and Chloe.

DCI Wilde started with an introduction for those that hadn't met him. The fact that he looked like Brad Pitt c. 1995 helped everyone pay attention.

"Obviously I seem very senior to be involved in every mundane facet of this investigation, however I have delegated all the boring elements in the knowledge that whatever I look into will ultimately be relevant to the conclusion. It's a talent I have." He surveyed the audience. He was about six four with a rich voice and an American accent. He seemed to read my mind. "Sure I sound like a native New Yorker but my parents were English and I only followed them back to the UK after I'd served three years in the Bronx. It gives me this kinda Transatlantic perspective, my boss calls it my unique selling point."

By this time the a.s.sembled authors were riveted.

"My intention today is to bring you up to date with the investigation and to unmask the culprit. But firstly, and only because you are crime writers and I'm a fan, I'm going to reveal the suspects. At the risk of using a cliche, 'The killer of Monica Daws is in this room.'"

He paused, as if waiting for an audible intake of breath, but let's face it, we'd all heard that one before.

He cleared his throat to fill the silence.

"Some of the most warped and devious minds belong to crime writers and there are a few here who have particular reasons for wanting Monica Daws dead."

He turned suddenly, pointing to a frosty-looking blonde in the front row. "Scarlet Barton, witnesses have heard you complaining that Monica failed to provide publicity for your book and you felt humiliated when there were none of your readers at this event." That drew a sharp intake of breath but Wilde barely paused, switching his attention to the man next to her. "Neil Wilson, your advance was so small that you begged Monica for more money, saying you couldn't afford to eat properly."

I saw several other authors nod in agreement.

"And" he continued "you, R. V. Bolton, feel that Monica Daws encouraged R. V. Bold to change his name, stealing your ident.i.ty. You've lost your race to stand out from the crowd now, haven't you? But then let's look at the other R. V., R. V. Bold aka Trevor Stout. You've battled for years to see your first book in print only to discover that no one's ever going to hear of it, or you. You're as anonymous as ever and you lay the blame for that at Monica's door, don't you?"

A few people looked at one another in shock, but most of us knew how tough it was to get into print.

"And finally, bestseller Tom Monroe. Why would you want to see Monica harmed? Your public sparring has helped you both, you have given each other great commercial success and yet ..." DCI Wilde paused and everyone held their breath. Here was Tom Monroe, bestselling author, the man we all wanted to be. Why would he want to jeopardize it all to kill Monica? "You have writer's block," Wilde announced. "You complained that you'd run out of ideas and Monica ridiculed you, laughed in your face, didn't she?"

As one we looked at Tom Monroe. He nodded.

The atmosphere was taut with shock and I knew that everyone's thoughts were with Monica.

What kind of evil person doesn't sympathize with writers's block, for G.o.d's sake?

With a flourish of notes Wilde went for his closing speech. "Monica Daws is dead, and at least one of you can identify the killer. This person is wicked, a twisted individual who deserves to have their civilized facade taken down in the full glare of the media, who will stand in court and be found guilty of murder, the worst of all crimes. Then it will be life in prison.

"Prison."

DCI Wilde took a step backwards and ran his gaze around the room. "Not the prison in your books but real prison, full of real criminals, all the first-hand research you can dream of, and an abundance of time in which to write it. You'll lose your independence, your social life, you'll have a routine of eating and sleeping and earning a fiver a day with nothing to spend it on but the next ream of paper. And anything you publish will cause outrage, every newspaper in the country will eat you for breakfast. Do not protect this person, they deserve the full weight of the law and ..."

He never completed the sentence. There was a flurry in the front row as Scarlet Barton tried to stand. Neil Wilson was grabbing her arm, trying to pull her back into her seat. She was shrieking something I couldn't make out at first, then from the other side of the room Tom Monroe yelled, "I did it, it was me."

Scarlet and Neil replied as one, "No, I did it."

But they were outdone by the two R. V.s. R. V. Bolton shouted "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" and held out his hands to be cuffed while R. V. Trevor went for the more theatrical sobbing of "I never meant to do it. It was an accident."

Research, publicity, the excitement of publishers and paid time to write: DCI Wilde had painted a very rosy picture. I was tempted to confess myself, but as I really had done it I just slipped away through the back door. I had a book to finish.

THE GIFT.