I received an automated reply within about fifteen seconds, one I probably deserved: Professor Wendow was on a twelve-month sabbatical and regretted he was not able to reply to emails in person. All enquiries should be sent to his assistant.

I had already sent copies to her or him: I knew only a surname and an initial.

Spoder telephoned me again.

‘Sir, I wondered if you would put me in touch with an editor at your publisher?’

‘My publisher?’

‘Well, not necessarily yours. One of the others, if you prefer. You must know most of them – could you suggest some names?’

‘Why on earth do you need to contact a publisher?’

Spoder was briefly silent.

‘I’ve been doing a bit of writing,’ he said in a moment. ‘Nothing like yours, but I thought I might try to get it published. I’ve seen how you do it, how you take some of the things I tell you and turn them into a book. It looks so straightforward. I thought I could try that. Just an idea. Then I could find out if what I’ve written is any good or not. Maybe you could give me some advice?’

‘What kind of thing is it? Are you writing a novel?’

‘It’s a sort of memoir. About my life before I joined the force.’

Images of unwonted autobiographical literary activity briefly danced through my mind. Hitherto unsuspected. What else was I likely to learn about Spoder?

‘Can you tell me anything more about this?’ I said.

‘Next time we meet, sir.’

‘I don’t want to put you off. But you know, it takes many years to establish yourself as a writer. A lot of hard graft is necessary.’

‘That’s all right.’ Spoder’s voice was suddenly less assertive than normal, almost timid. He was backing away, sounding as if he wished he had not called. ‘I have to go now.’

I realized I had been insensitive. I should have been more supportive.

‘Let me read some of it soon?’ I said.

‘Yes, sir. If it’s not too much trouble. Thank you.’

Before he could hang up I said: ‘Did you ever hear again from the person you told me about? The man called Jeksid?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

I felt sorry and guilty after the call. Spoder was a good man and I believe he was hurt by my reaction. I regretted what I had said, and what I had not.

Engine of Destruction

20

Engine of Destruction

I heard the car before I saw it. I would never have seen it anyway because the road runs at a lower level than our garden and was screened off behind the foliage of the trees. The sound of its powerful engine was distinctive, full of reminders. The smell of engine fumes started drifting towards me on the sea breeze almost at once.