Writing Between the Lines is now published.
Two chapters into his new novel and his main character goes missing…
In desperation, crime writer Mack Hannah heads to Italy only to find private detective Dexter Cathcart caught up in a case of his own. Cathcart nurtures literary pretensions, too, and threatens to undermine the writer’s control of the narrative. The detective wants murders, the writer wants none. While Cathcart reluctantly resumes the novel’s case of suspected fraud, Hannah finds himself drawn into the detective’s own mystery, involving the journal of a murdered Italian poet…
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There is just enough light to make out the lace curtain flapping against the window half-open, enough light to realise it is no longer the middle of the night. Is it even six o’clock? Quarter to. Mack Hannah lets the call go through to message.
The writer rolls onto his back, bunches up the pillow, pushes it under his neck. Above, the ceiling rose seems to swell, to distort, then dissolve. Silence, apart from his faint gasping breath. He closes his eyes. A minute becomes an eternity.
The phone rings again, louder this time. A number he does not recognise.
‘Mack Hannah.’
‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you. I know it’s early, but this is urgent. Dexter Cathcart has disappeared!’
‘What? Who is this?’
‘Violet.’
‘Violet?’
‘Violet Hughes! Dexter Cathcart has disappeared, you have to do something!’
Violet Hughes is on the phone telling you Dexter Cathcart has disappeared. Do something!
‘What do you mean, he’s “disappeared”? He’s gone to Italy on the case.’
‘He’s disappeared in Italy! I phoned him as soon as he arrived, everything was fine. Now there’s no answer. I rang the hotel in Vicenza. They told me he had only slept in his room that first night. All his things are still there but he has just disappeared.’
‘Look, I’m not up. I’m not really awake…’
‘You have to do something!’
‘I’ll ring you back.’
‘Now, this morning.’
‘Okay, okay…but did you say Vicenza?’
‘Yes, Vicenza.’
‘Vicenza…I’ll ring you back.’
Mack Hannah drags himself out of bed, steps across to the bay window, looks out on the world. All of Sydney seems to have woken up now. He can hear a garbage truck shunting along the street and someone’s pulsing car radio. An impatient taxi pulls up outside number ten. An airport fare, luggage tossed in the boot, a goodbye kiss from the dressing-gowned husband. As dressing gown heads back inside, he gets distracted by the solitary shrub in the garden. Needs pruning.
What the fuck would Cathcart be doing in Vicenza? He went to Verona. He’s in Verona. Dexter Cathcart hasn’t disappeared, he’s on the case, he’s in Verona. That’s where the house burnt down, that’s where he’s gone to track down the mysterious executor, Raffaello Medicini.
Mack powers on the desktop machine, scrolls down through the opening chapters – Cathcart at the gallery opening, Cathcart meeting with Violet Hughes, Cathcart arguing with Sofia, Cathcart musing on his collection of political ephemera…and there it is, end of Chapter Two – Verona. Cathcart arrives in Milan, wanders around the stazione, talks about Mussolini, then catches the train to Verona.
For all the money and effort that went into the building, it is crowded, uncomfortably so at this hour. Queues of people outside the food stalls, masses staring at the screens, waiting for trains that haven’t arrived. There is hardly anywhere to sit, and nowhere, it seems, to relieve himself. He will have to hold till on the train. The interval calls for exercise, anyway, walking around, taking photographs. He will send some to Sofia. ‘You could’ve been here, too,’ they’ll say. For what it’s worth. He survives an hour like this, then thankfully the train for Verona arrives…
Verona. Violet Hughes rings and tells you that Dexter Cathcart has gone missing in Vicenza, but there’s nothing in Vicenza, no reason at all why he would be there, and there’s nothing to explain why the detective would suddenly ‘go missing’ at the beginning of a case. At the end of Chapter Two, Dexter Cathcart is safely on the train to Verona, just as you wrote, and that’s the end of it.
Except that it isn’t, even though the writer is awake now, even though none of this makes any sense.
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linzi murrie 