Where There's Smoke

When she had answered the door to her flat that evening she had been surprised to find the Inspector standing outside. She’d spoken to him only that morning, when she’d told him about the second poster. Seeing him there had given her a start, but he’d quickly reassured her. No news, he said. Just an informal visit.

He settled back heavily in his seat, legs apart, meaty hands resting on his thighs. His brown suit looked even more rumpled than usual.

“It isn’t so much the poster, as what he’s doing with it.” Collins shifted on the chair, uncomfortably. “Sorry. Got a problem with my back,” he explained.

“Would you like a straight-backed chair?”

“Oh, no, I’ll be fine, thanks.” He stopped fidgeting. “No, the thing about this second one is that he doesn’t seem to be as keen to paste it everywhere for you to see. He took a lot of risks with the first poster, sticking it up in underground stations and busy streets. But how many of this new one have you seen so far?”

“There were one or two near King’s Cross on the way home.” She considered. “It was dark, though. I could have missed more this morning, because I was still looking out for the first one.”

“Even so, there aren’t as many. He isn’t going as berserk this time.” The Inspector gave a wry smile. “I’d like to claim credit for that and say it’s because of our patrols. Which I don’t doubt it partly is, but I think there’s another reason as well.” He leaned forward and reached for the cup and saucer again. They looked like a child’s tea-set in his hand. “The first poster was almost purely for your benefit. He was hitting out. Calling you... well, insulting you, using pornography, and putting them where he knew you’d see them. He was getting something out of his system. Now he’s calmed down a bit, and instead of risking himself putting them up willy-nilly, he’s latched on to the idea of sending them to your clients by post. Even the poster itself is less... well, less hysterical. More deliberate.”

Kate looked down at her tea. It had gone cold. “You make it sound as if he’s building up to something.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to say for sure what he’s doing. Ellis isn’t exactly a rational individual. He might be just doing whatever comes to mind.” He flexed his shoulder and winced, careful not to upset the cup and saucer. His voice was studiedly casual. “Still, I think it might be a good idea for you not to go anywhere on your own for a while. Either get a taxi or ask someone to walk with you. A man, preferably.”

“You think he might attack me?”

“I mean I don’t think you should take any chances.”

Kate folded her arms protectively over her stomach. The gas fire hissed into the silence. Wanting to change the subject, she asked, “Have any more of our clients been in touch so far?”

She had decided that the only chance of minimising the damage done by Ellis’s poster was to confront the problem directly. She had spent the rest of that morning drafting and faxing a letter to each of her clients, explaining that the posters were part of a campaign to discredit her, and asking that anyone receiving them should contact Collins. Then she had added a footnote. Kate Powell is also proud to announce the forthcoming birth of her first child. It gave her an odd thrill to see the words written down, and she had handed the letter to Clive before she could change her mind.

“That’s fighting fire with fire,” he grinned, then pulled a face. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

The Inspector took another drink of tea. “Quite a few. I think you were right to assume that he’s sent it to all of them.” It was no more than Kate had expected, but the bald statement still produced a hollow tightness in her chest, like brief asthma.

“So far it looks like he’s stuck fairly rigidly to the same routine,” Collins continued. “Same brown envelopes, cheap quality paper, but we haven’t traced where they were bought yet. Postmarked central London, with nothing inside except the new poster. That’s pretty well the same sort of job as the first, so there’s nothing new there, either.”

Kate forced a smile. “Well, we weren’t really expecting a return address, I suppose.”

“No,” he agreed. He made another attempt to ease himself into a more comfortable position. “How have your clients reacted to all this?”

“Two cancelled their accounts this afternoon.”

One was a small publishing company that specialised in children’s books. The other was a fine-art dealer, who used Kate to promote occasional exhibitions at his Covent Garden gallery. Neither were big accounts, or currently active, but the dealer’s was a prestigious one, and Kate had enjoyed the contact with the rarified art world. The publisher had been polite but firm when she had telephoned. The art dealer, a man called Ramsey whom Kate had always liked, refused to discuss it.

“No chance of getting them to change their minds?” Collins asked.

“No.”

The Inspector tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. “Ah, well. I suppose it could have been worse.”