Cage Of Shadows. Anne Mather

Africa.’

      ‘Who knows why he’s gone out there? Maybe he’s discovered some new drug and he’s trying it out. That’s what I want you to find out. Joanna, Matthew Wilder is still big news. And he’s been out of the public eye for almost three years! Now we know where he is, at least let’s give it a try.’

      Joanna pursed her lips. ‘Marcia had no right to give you Daddy’s diaries. They were personal.’

      ‘They’re also worth a lot of bread,’ declared Evan flatly. ‘And Marcia was never one to shy at the main chance. Besides,’ he tried to reassure her, ‘your father was one of this century’s foremost writers. It was a tragedy he was killed like that, but his diaries belong to his readers. Your father himself would agree with me.’

      Joanna bent her head. ‘The private addresses should have been torn out. My father wouldn’t approve of you betraying his confidence.’

      ‘What the hell!’ exploded Evan noisily. ‘Drew’s been dead all of five months, Joanna. What he would or would not have done isn’t relevant. For three years, Wilder’s lived the life of a recluse. No one knew where he was. Now we have his address—rightly or wrongly. Would you rather I sent a news team out there? Spread the word around Fleet Street, and have every two-bit reporter with a telephoto lens crawling over the island?’

      ‘No.’ Joanna was sure about that. ‘But what makes you think Uncle Matt will see me? I was eight years old when I last saw him. Eleven years ago! I doubt he’ll even remember me.’

      ‘You’re Andrew Holland’s daughter. He’ll remember you.’

      Joanna shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Well, make up your mind. I need a decision. I’ve no intention of sitting on this for too long.’

      Joanna hesitated. ‘But why is it so urgent? You said yourself, it’s five months since—since my father was killed.’

      ‘Marcia only handed the diaries over two weeks ago,’ admitted Evan shortly. ‘I don’t think she realised they were of any value until your father’s solicitor suggested the idea.’

      ‘Howard Rogers?’ Joanna’s lips curled. ‘Oh, yes, it would be Howard who suggested it. My father’s privacy would mean nothing to him.’

      Evan frowned. ‘Do I detect a note of bitterness?’

      ‘No.’ Joanna was indignant, and then she sighed. ‘Well, not really. It’s just that Howard’s been around a lot more since Daddy died. I sometimes wonder exactly what his intentions are.’

      ‘Yes.’ Evan was thoughtful now. ‘Well, it has to be said, he hasn’t had much success on your behalf, has he? I should have thought that as your father’s solicitor, he would have suggested it was Marcia’s duty to provide you with an allowance, at least.’

      Joanna made no comment. She was reluctant to criticise her stepmother’s motives, even to Evan, who had been her father’s publisher for the past fifteen years. But it was hard to justify the mean streak in Marcia, that caused her to ignore her stepdaughter’s feelings, and create the kind of situation where Joanna felt obligated to support herself. It should not have been necessary; her father had died a wealthy man. But such were his feelings for the woman he had married ten years after his wife’s death, he had been blind to the flaws in her character. Joanna had no doubt he had believed Marcia would take care of his daughter should anything happen to him. But she couldn’t help wishing he had not been so unworldly, and left her at least enough to live on.

      ‘Five thousand pounds, Joanna.’ Evan interrupted her train of thought. ‘Five thousand pounds and expenses. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

      Joanna avoided his gaze, glancing round the restaurant where he had brought her for lunch with troubled eyes. It was rather an exclusive restaurant, and on any other occasion she would have appreciated his generosity. But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that this was all a deliberate ploy to get her into a frame of mind where she would jump at his proposition, equating the kind of money he was offering with the lifestyle she had grown up to expect.

      ‘Five thousand pounds,’ she murmured half inaudibly, but he heard her.

      ‘All right, six, then,’ he declared, ‘but it’s my last word,’ and Joanna felt even worse that he should think she was trying to bargain.

      ‘I—can I think about it?’ she asked at last, lifting her bespectacled eyes to his. ‘I mean—you do appreciate, I—I have commitments.’

      ‘What commitments?’

      Evan was sceptical, and Joanna assumed an aloof expression. ‘I do have friends, you know,’ she replied, stung by his indifference, and stifling his impatience, Evan acquiesced.

      ‘Okay,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll give you—forty-eight hours to think it over. If you haven’t contacted me in that time, I’ll consider the offer rejected, right?’

      ‘Right.’ Joanna spoke less confidently now. It was all very well making proud statements about commitments, but the truth was, if she didn’t take this chance, she would have to take a job—any job—to supplement her dwindling resources.

      ‘Right.’ Evan lifted a hand and summoned the waiter. ‘You know my number. I’ll be waiting for your call. Just don’t make me wait too long.’

      Going home on the bus, Joanna wondered what he would have said if she had challenged his bland bravado. After all, if Matthew Wilder had intentionally cut himself off from his friends and colleagues, what chance might a stranger have of making contact with him? Evan knew this, or he would never have contacted her. He knew that a news team from one of the specialist magazines he published might never stand a chance of seeing Wilder, let alone talking with him, and if she, Joanna, refused to co-operate, he could easily have to abandon the whole idea.

      From Matthew Wilder’s point of view, that could only be for the best, she reflected ruefully. The man obviously wanted to remain undisturbed. Was it fair for her, no matter what her connections, to consider invading his privacy? Of course it wasn’t. It was reprehensible, and she knew it. Particularly as Evan’s suggestion had been that she should pretend she was holidaying in the area, and had come upon his house unaware.

      Joanna closed her eyes in disgust. It was all so corny! Who would believe it? Least of all a man like Matthew Wilder, who had years of experience in dealing with the media.

      Fifteen years ago, when his first book was accepted for publication, Andrew Holland had bought a tall Victorian house, in an unfashionable suburb in north London. Since then, the suburb had become fashionable, and now the house was worth quite a lot of money, but her father had never wanted to move. Joanna couldn’t really remember living anywhere else, but now, as she walked along Ashworth Terrace, she couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Marcia decided to realise this investment too.

      There was a car parked at the kerb in front of the house, and Joanna recognised it with a deepening sense of depression. It was Howard Rogers’ car, and the fact that the solicitor was here meant that she and Marcia would have no chance to talk privately. She had decided on the bus to talk to her stepmother, ask her what she thought she should do; but now that Howard was here, any private discussions would have to wait.

      Joanna let herself into the house with her key, pausing in the carpeted hall to remove her fur-lined suede jacket. It was a chilly afternoon, and although she had scarcely noticed the temperature as she walked the couple of hundred yards from the bus stop, now that she was indoors, she lifted her shoulders appreciatively in the warmth from the heating system.

      She could hear no sound of voices from the library where Marcia generally entertained visitors, and she was about to mount the stairs to her room when the housekeeper, Mrs Morris, appeared from the kitchen.

      ‘They’re in the library,’ she confided in an undertone, surprising the girl. ‘Or at least they were half an hour ago. I was just going to bring some