before Logan was murdered. Get onto the council and pull all the local CCTV footage for yesterday. There are a couple of cameras along the canal and check the tube stations. If that doesn’t get us anywhere, I want the buses checked as well. We’ve got to find him.’
Just as he finished speaking, DS Sharon Fuller, the office manager, poked her head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir. I can’t get hold of Anna Paget, but I’ve set up an appointment for you with Jana Ryan. She’s Logan’s editor. She’s expecting you at her office in an hour.’
6
The offices of Stormont Publishing were located in a pair of eighteenth-century terraced houses in Bloomsbury. Tartaglia and Donovan were shown into a high-ceilinged room on the ground floor overlooking the street. The two sash windows were wide open, letting in a breeze as well as the heavy drone of traffic from the busy road outside. The room was furnished with a long, modern white table and matching chairs, with glass shelving units on either side of the marble fireplace that displayed a range of hardcover and paperback books. Several of the authors were familiar to Tartaglia, including Tom Niccol, a fellow Scot and former Detective Chief Superintendent he had once worked for, who had turned his hand to thrillers on retirement. Tartaglia was about to take down a copy of Niccol’s latest novel when the door opened and a sturdily built, dark-haired woman, dressed in a bright, geometric-patterned shift dress, entered the room.
‘I’m Jana Ryan, Joe’s editor,’ she said, closing the door behind her.
Tartaglia introduced himself and Donovan, and Ryan motioned for them to sit down. ‘I’ll close the windows,’ she said, as a bus rumbled past. ‘If it gets too hot for you, you’d better say.’
‘You know why we’re here?’ Tartaglia asked, as she came over to the table and sat down.
She nodded. ‘We’re all in shock. Can’t really believe it. Can you tell me what happened?’ She spoke quietly, with a light American accent; East Coast he thought, although possibly diluted by living in the UK for a long time.
‘There’ll be a press conference later this morning. I’m sorry but I can’t say anything until then.’
‘But he was murdered?’ She held his gaze. Her heavy, black-framed glasses gave her an earnest, academic look, but there was warmth in her eyes and genuine feeling.
Tartaglia nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I saw something in the paper this morning about a man’s body being found in the Brompton Cemetery. A name wasn’t mentioned, but I wondered if it was Joe.’
‘Yes, it’s Mr Logan.’
She shook her head slowly as though she couldn’t believe what had happened. ‘Do you have any idea who—’
‘Not so far, which is why we’re here. We need to find out everything we can about him.’
‘What was he doing in London?’ Jana Ryan asked, looking at him questioningly.
Tartaglia frowned. ‘He was living here. You didn’t know?’
‘No. Last I heard, he was teaching at some school down in Somerset or Dorset.’
‘He left just after Easter. For the last couple of months he’s been staying on a houseboat in Little Venice.’
Ryan grimaced. ‘That’s really odd. I had lunch with him only a few weeks ago, and he didn’t say anything about being in London. I guess he didn’t want us to know he was here.’
‘I understand you’d been trying to get hold of him.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. He was avoiding me, if you want the truth.’
‘Why was that?’
Looking from Tartaglia to Donovan, she leaned forward and folded her hands neatly in front of her on the table. ‘Have you read his novel Indian Summer ?’
‘I’m sorry, no,’ Tartaglia replied. Since leaving university and starting work, reading had become a luxury, confined mainly to holidays. But he was surprised to see Donovan also shake her head. She was rarely without a book in her bag and often swapped titles with a couple of the other women in the
Just as he finished speaking, DS Sharon Fuller, the office manager, poked her head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir. I can’t get hold of Anna Paget, but I’ve set up an appointment for you with Jana Ryan. She’s Logan’s editor. She’s expecting you at her office in an hour.’
6
The offices of Stormont Publishing were located in a pair of eighteenth-century terraced houses in Bloomsbury. Tartaglia and Donovan were shown into a high-ceilinged room on the ground floor overlooking the street. The two sash windows were wide open, letting in a breeze as well as the heavy drone of traffic from the busy road outside. The room was furnished with a long, modern white table and matching chairs, with glass shelving units on either side of the marble fireplace that displayed a range of hardcover and paperback books. Several of the authors were familiar to Tartaglia, including Tom Niccol, a fellow Scot and former Detective Chief Superintendent he had once worked for, who had turned his hand to thrillers on retirement. Tartaglia was about to take down a copy of Niccol’s latest novel when the door opened and a sturdily built, dark-haired woman, dressed in a bright, geometric-patterned shift dress, entered the room.
‘I’m Jana Ryan, Joe’s editor,’ she said, closing the door behind her.
Tartaglia introduced himself and Donovan, and Ryan motioned for them to sit down. ‘I’ll close the windows,’ she said, as a bus rumbled past. ‘If it gets too hot for you, you’d better say.’
‘You know why we’re here?’ Tartaglia asked, as she came over to the table and sat down.
She nodded. ‘We’re all in shock. Can’t really believe it. Can you tell me what happened?’ She spoke quietly, with a light American accent; East Coast he thought, although possibly diluted by living in the UK for a long time.
‘There’ll be a press conference later this morning. I’m sorry but I can’t say anything until then.’
‘But he was murdered?’ She held his gaze. Her heavy, black-framed glasses gave her an earnest, academic look, but there was warmth in her eyes and genuine feeling.
Tartaglia nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I saw something in the paper this morning about a man’s body being found in the Brompton Cemetery. A name wasn’t mentioned, but I wondered if it was Joe.’
‘Yes, it’s Mr Logan.’
She shook her head slowly as though she couldn’t believe what had happened. ‘Do you have any idea who—’
‘Not so far, which is why we’re here. We need to find out everything we can about him.’
‘What was he doing in London?’ Jana Ryan asked, looking at him questioningly.
Tartaglia frowned. ‘He was living here. You didn’t know?’
‘No. Last I heard, he was teaching at some school down in Somerset or Dorset.’
‘He left just after Easter. For the last couple of months he’s been staying on a houseboat in Little Venice.’
Ryan grimaced. ‘That’s really odd. I had lunch with him only a few weeks ago, and he didn’t say anything about being in London. I guess he didn’t want us to know he was here.’
‘I understand you’d been trying to get hold of him.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. He was avoiding me, if you want the truth.’
‘Why was that?’
Looking from Tartaglia to Donovan, she leaned forward and folded her hands neatly in front of her on the table. ‘Have you read his novel Indian Summer ?’
‘I’m sorry, no,’ Tartaglia replied. Since leaving university and starting work, reading had become a luxury, confined mainly to holidays. But he was surprised to see Donovan also shake her head. She was rarely without a book in her bag and often swapped titles with a couple of the other women in the
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