Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Majors cleared her throat. “The idea for the book came about because I thought I saw a man that looked like an older Troy Firth, many years later. That’s it. A fleeting glimpse that triggers a random memory. That’s all we hunt for, Hatch, if you don’t understand. Writing is merely piling up the sticks and the grass and then hoping a tiny flicker sets it all aflame. Like all the best ideas, it just snapped into focus as a story. What if I’d just seen Troy Firth? That’s what I told Henry in two thousand and three. My idea. But it had details of Anna’s story. Real details. Enough to convince Douglas that it was really true. But then he approaches me at dinner after the first panel, where McTavish and I argued over Off the Rails

, and he thinks I also suspect what he does. I tell him he’s mad, that my grievance with McTavish lies elsewhere, and that the plot is fiction.” I remembered them whispering, excluding Royce from their conversation. “And then I let him have it at the Telegraph Station the next night. Troy Firth was a terrible man, but he’s been dead a long time. Douglas let his desire for vengeance blur fiction with what he wanted to be the reality.”

I focused on Douglas. “That’s why you thanked me and tossed the gun after McTavish had died—you had come here to kill him, and you thought I’d just done it for you. Majors was yelling at you at the Telegraph Station because she thought you’d acted on your suspicions and killed him. Of course, you were dead wrong. Henry McTavish is Henry McTavish: where in his biography would he find time to drive school buses in Australia? And Troy Firth died in the crash. McTavish got his injuries in a hit-and-run. That’s documented. But the fact that you came here believing otherwise, and willing to kill for it—well, that’s true.”

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Douglas said, looking around the room. “Just like I told you. I picked the gun up in Darwin with revenge in my heart, sure. But I changed my mind, after what you said. About the toll it takes. I skipped the bushwalk to scatter Noah’s ashes, and I let it go.”

“Legally speaking, I didn’t kill anybody either, remember,” I said. I believed that Douglas’s intent and actions were separate. Of course, forgiveness was easier when McTavish was already dead, but Douglas had had plenty of opportunities to shoot him on the first day and hadn’t. Maybe Majors had put just enough doubt in his mind, and I’d helped him realize that true justice isn’t simply revenge. Either way, he’d come to his senses and binned the revolver at Alice Springs station. “At the formal dinner, you looked like you’d been set free. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now.”

“You’ve solved a lot of half crimes,” Hatch said, folding his arms. “But I was promised a murderer.”

“Right. Before I start this next part, I just want you all to remember the murder weapon used on Wyatt.”

“A pen,” Hatch said.

“Not just any pen,” I corrected him. “A Gemini Publishing pen. A gift to all of Wyatt’s authors, which extends to, as I understand it: Royce, McTavish, probably Jasper, and Lisa, for her first book. Plus Simone, to whom Wyatt gave a pen yesterday.” I had recalled Wyatt’s snarky words at dinner: She didn’t come away entirely empty-handed. I gave her a consolation prize. Not that she’ll be signing anyone with it.

Wyatt wouldn’t have been able to resist the opportunity to patronize Simone, handing her a pen with a Better luck next time frown. “And, of course, Wolfgang.”

“Wolfgang is published by HarperCollins, actually,” Simone said.

“Wolfgang.” I turned to him. “Just how interactive is your art project?”

Chapter 34

Wolfgang brought his hands together in a slow, droll clap. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?” He stopped clapping and spread his hands. “The floor is yours. Entertain us.”

I didn’t hesitate: I’d been looking forward to this part. “Ever since I saw the name of your project, The Death of Literature, I knew it had to encompass some kind of humiliation of the establishment. Because you believe that your works are art, and anything else is . . . What did you call a writer like me?” I did air quotes as I reminded Wolfgang of his words on the panel. “Ah, yes. Pulp. And who’s the very embodiment of pulp fiction at the moment? Well, one might say the Scottish crime sensation Henry McTavish. Another might say Wyatt Lloyd himself, specializing in publishing commercial fiction, including not only McTavish but also Erica Mathison.”

Wolfgang yawned. “Royce tried this on already—you’re going to need a little more than that.”