Crime Pays

The long line of people snaked across the reading room, out of the door into the main bookshop; Julie Jackson was impressed. She'd always wanted people to like what she wrote, but early in her career she'd never dreamed just how popular she would become. In a recent interview for The Times, the journalist asked her if she realised she was the third best selling author in the history of the written word.

"Who are the first and second best selling authors then?" she'd asked, not quite managing to believe that she'd really sold that many books.

"God and William Shakespeare," the journalist had replied. She'd laughed at that. Let God and the Bard have the top two spots, she was content with being third for once.

Today she was signing copies of her autobiography, "Crime Pays". She'd written sixty three books in many different genres over a thirty year writing career, which included historical fiction, science fiction and even romance, but crime and thrillers were what she was best known for. She thought the title quite apt. Her writing had, after all, made her one of the richest women in Britain.

"Next please." She looked up and gasped audibly in shock. The man before her looked young, probably in his early thirties, with shoulder length wavy blonde hair and blue eyes, the colour of the sky on a cold winter's morning. She quickly smiled to cover up her surprise, then looked down and signed the title page of the book. The slightly worried look on his face showed that he'd noticed her frosty welcome, but he shrugged his shoulders and moved off. He need not have worried anyway; it wasn't anything specifically about him that had shocked her, but the uncanny resemblance he bore to her late husband, dead these last thirty years.

Suddenly she wanted to finish up and go home. She felt old, tired, and extremely lonely. The world commented on what a great writing partnership they could have made if he'd lived, but she never thought of that. She just thought about the kind and loving man that had been her husband, the things they'd done together, the good times they'd had. Julie Jackson was glad that this would be the last book published in her lifetime. She was dying, the cancer was slowly but inexorably eating through her, and now she could die in peace, knowing she had been true to herself.

The end of the line was at last in sight. Her hand ached from the constant signings. Many people came to get copies of her books signed so they'd be rarer, special, and more collectable. In truth though she was sure there were more signed copies of her books in the world than unsigned copies, that was certainly how it seemed sometimes.

"Julie Jackson?"

She looked up and was surprised to see that two police officers had managed to thread their way through the still crowded room, and now stood before her with solemn expressions. One, the shorter man with greying hair seemed to be in charge. From the look of his crumpled uniform he was an Inspector. The grey stubble on his chin and the dark smudges under his eyes made him seem worn from all the years of police work: a man who didn't get enough sleep, or spend enough quality time with his family. In fact, he reminded Julie Jackson of a character from one of her early books. The man opened his mouth to speak, fingering one of the buttons on his jacket. "Mrs Jackson, I am sorry to interrupt this event, but we'd like you to come with us, there are a few questions we'd like answering if you don't mind."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do mind. These book signings are the most important events in my busy schedule. How dare you storm in here making demands of me, do you know who I am?"

"I'd really rather you just came with us now for a quiet talk."

Feeling a little dizzy, she took a sip of water. "If you've got anything to say, you can say it right here, in front of all these witnesses."

The Inspector glanced nervously round the room before relenting. "Very well, if you insist." He drew himself up to his full height, and took a deep breath. "I'm arresting you for the murder of Andrew Jackson."

Julie's countenance betrayed her mild surprise. She gave a little dry laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, you can't do this. I am the greatest crime author that ever lived, and with all due respect sir, I should very much enjoy hearing your evidence. My husband died thirty years ago."

"We have a written confession ma'am. If I may?" he asked, taking the autobiography from a stunned fan. "Page 648:"

"I guess I was jealous. To be a writer, a best-selling author, that was my destiny, not his. I'd been working towards this since I was a child, when all my friends were out at the cinema or hanging round the off-licence drinking illicit bottles of beer, I'd been at home scribbling away, practicing, preparing for my future. Andrew got there first. While I had a desk piled high with rejection letters, he'd gone and written a novel, not even a very good one, and had it accepted. Yes I was very jealous. It caused a bit of a strain in our relationship; he always had time to help me, to read through my work, but it didn't stop me feeling inadequate, despite my love for him."

The policeman paused for breath and looked round the room. He hadn't meant to, but he had the whole room transfixed on his every word. Julie Jackson looked angry; her lips turned up in what was almost a snarl, maybe because he was revealing the end of her last book, the final twist. But this was the most important case of his life, and he wasn't about to stop there.

"That's why I did it, it was a sudden moment of madness, or clarity, I don't know which. God knows I loved him. I mourned terribly afterwards and carried the guilt always. We were walking along the cliffs one day, near our Devon home. We were talking about my writing, what he thought I needed to change. I realise now he was only trying to help, my poor, sweet Andrew, but I was just getting more furious. He began to compare our writing, using a description of the view. It was that description which I used as the starting point for my first successful novel. That was when he slipped, right on the edge of the cliff. I think some of the tightly packed earth crumbled under his weight. It was almost very serious, but my husband was a strong man. He'd managed to grab the wooden post at the edge of the cliff, and was pulling himself up. He was smiling with a dogged relief, which I interpreted as mocking. I was still reeling from what I considered to be his rejection. I kicked out at him in rage. A moment of horror: pain and incomprehension were written across his face. Then he fell."

"I think that's enough, don't you?" he said, shutting the book and handing it back. Half a hundred people, suddenly realising no more was going to be read out, scrabbled for their copies, desperate to know the end of the story, never mind that it was at the end of the book.

"As I was saying, I'm arresting you for the murder of your husband, Andrew Jackson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. If you'll come with us..."

* * * * *

The cell was cold, a deep chill that penetrated the soul. When she'd insisted, over her lawyer's strongest objections, that her confession stayed uncut in the book, she'd never believed that it would end like this. She never imagined they'd throw an old, dying woman as famous as her into jail. The words of the judge would forever be imprinted on her mind:

"Your crime was not just that you wilfully murdered your husband, but that you stole his life, his career, his ideas. Without that, it is arguable whether you would ever have become the success you are today. In passing this judgement my only regret is that you couldn't have stood trial for this terrible deed thirty years ago, to deny you the luxury and riches that you have had. You thought you were above the law, that this nation would never imprison one of it's most famous citizens, and allow you to spend what little remained of your life behind bars. In your arrogance, you were wrong. And the most important lesson that I hope you will learn before you die is that in the end, crime never pays."

It was strange, she thought. She had committed that terrible deed, she had murdered her husband, but she'd never stopped loving him, and had thought about him every day for the last thirty years. That was the real reason she had revealed her secret. Not for sensation, not for one last twist in the tale, but for the truth to be known, to appease her conscience and hope that somewhere, somehow, Andrew would forgive her. Now that the truth was out, maybe he would rest in peace at last.