“He took the right risks,” Lindsay said.

“That about sums it up. And now Monarch has got a real brand identity with its readers. People read a Monarch title and they like it, so they try another one. Pretty soon, they start to buy the new titles automatically.”

“Sounds a bit too much like a dream come true,” Helen said skeptically.

Kirsten rumpled her hair. “You’re just a twisted old cynic. Not every business has a skunk like Guy and a snake like Stella.”

Lindsay nodded. “Maybe you should pitch Danny King into the film business, Helen. Sounds like he’s got the golden touch.”

Helen snorted. “Spare me any more boy wonders.” She glanced up at the schoolroom clock on the wall. “Speaking of which, I’d better get my skates on before I find we’re contracted to make a soap for satellite.”

After Helen had gone, Lindsay said, “Did you happen to meet Baz Burton? She was Penny’s editor.”

“Can’t help you there. After I disentangled myself from Danny’s dad, I was doing the rounds of the authors, trying to see if I could pick up any program ideas. I didn’t actually talk to anybody from Monarch. Sorry.”

Then it had been Kirsten’s turn to leave. Even after Lindsay had loaded the dishwasher and put the remains of the previous night’s takeaway in the fridge, it was barely eight o’clock. Showered and dressed, she’d been on the street by half past and in the supermarket opposite Monarch’s Shepherd’s Bush office twenty minutes later. Now all she could do was wait for the publishing day to begin. At least, for the first time in her life, she was on surveillance somewhere with an unlimited supply of coffee and, more importantly, a toilet.

By ten fifteen, Lindsay reckoned that anyone who was planning on coming to work at Monarch was probably there. Besides, the table clearer in the café was starting to become restive, sighing heavily every time she passed Lindsay’s table with its coffee cup still half full. She picked up her backpack and strolled out into the car park, where the warmth hit her, a shock after the air-conditioned cool of the store. “Just like being at home,” she muttered. At least she was dressed for it today, in Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless tunic with a mandarin collar.

As she got closer, Lindsay could see that the ground floors of five of the mews cottages had been knocked together to give a semi-open-plan appearance to Monarch’s ground floor. The reception area, in the middle cottage, was decorated in the same sunshine yellow and forest green as the distinctive livery of the imprint’s paperbacks. The receptionist sat behind a high yellow desk like an airport check-in. Her acid fuchsia T-shirt clashed magnificently with the decor. Clearly not a place to work if you were prone to hangovers or migraine, Lindsay thought as she approached with a smile. A green sign told the world the twenty-something receptionist’s name was Lauren. Somehow, she looked like a Lauren. She had long hair the color of set honey, big blue eyes and a bone structure that hollowed her cheeks. In spite of the right components, she somehow missed being beautiful. “Good morning, Lauren,” Lindsay said. “Is Baz Burton in?”