Wild Fiction

‘Well we know that you’ve just tried to kill the author and you were prepared to pay to have him killed,’ Conrad said.
There was an awkward silence and Conrad looked away. He brought his hand up to his goatee and fiddled with it before moving away and tapping his fingers lightly on the panelled wall.
‘I don’t know what possessed me,’ Genevieve said. ‘It’s only recently that I’ve developed the feeling that I wanted to get rid of him. I became frightened when I found out about this book, this Wild Fiction, which he’s secretly writing. I didn’t know I was a fictional then but it was the first time he wouldn’t let me look at work that he was doing. He didn’t even tell me he’d started a new book. I was scared. I wanted to be with Stephen and have this baby. The author has all the money. Stephen has nothing except debts. Without the money it would have been a miserable life and I know that the author wouldn’t give me a penny if I left him.’
‘That’s something that’s been confusing me,’ Rebecca said. ‘Where does all his money come from? He’s a terrible writer and he’s never managed to publish anything.’
‘From what I’ve managed to work out and pick up, it all came from dubious sources. For a while he was the captain of a large luxury boat for a French business tycoon in the Med. One of his friends let slip that he’d run arms to North African countries. I think he also had a lot to do with organised car theft. He says he’s left all that behind now and refuses to have anything to do with it. He’s wiped his hands clean. I’ve heard him refer to himself as the English version of Michael Corleone from The Godfather. You know the book by Mario Puzo. He thinks of himself as a sanctified criminal who’s come clean and is now doing legitimate business. Except he doesn’t do any business. I think he’s put the money in offshore accounts and investments. A dodgy little lawyer-investment-type bloke comes around every now and then. They go off and huddle together in his study and talk. They always come out smiling and patting each other on the back. I’m sure it isn’t as legal and above board as he makes it out to be.’
Genevieve breathed in suddenly in an involuntary after-crying sob.
‘Standing next to each other, the two of you look very alike,’ James said. ‘You could almost be sisters. I think the author suffers from pathological beauty creation.’ He looked directly at Genevieve. ‘Do you remember our sister? Do you remember how beautiful she was?’