‘I was hoping to see you,’ he admitted. ‘I was going to stop at your flat if the lights were on, but as I came out of the station, I saw you crossing the road with your dog so I followed you here.’
‘Why?’ I realised I was sounding defensive, but even though I now knew who I was dealing with, Jordan still seemed quite menacing. This was, after all, the man who had threatened Harriet Throsby, who had hurt Sky Palmer and was, I’d been told, on the verge of leaving his wife. If it had been Tirian or Ewan surprising me in an ex-cemetery in the middle of the night, I would have been much more relaxed. They were more my size. ‘It’s quite late, Jordan. Maybe we could talk tomorrow.’
‘I happened to speak to Maureen Bates today,’ he said, ignoring this.
‘Oh really?’ I replied, cheerfully. ‘I was at her office this evening. She didn’t mention she’d seen you.’
‘We spoke on the phone. She told me that you might be writing a book.’
‘A book?’
‘About us. About Harriet Throsby.’
I wondered how Maureen had known this. I hadn’t told her. With everything that was going on, I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.
‘Apparently, you’ve already written a book about that detective you were with. She said that was why the two of you were together.’
‘Well, I haven’t made a decision yet. If you really want to know, Hawthorne and I are out of contract.’ It was stupid of me, but I couldn’t resist adding: ‘But I suppose it’s always possible.’
That started him off again. ‘You should have told me that before you came into my dressing room.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to be in your book. Do you understand me? If you’d told me that was what you were thinking, I wouldn’t have spoken to you.’
‘Why not?’ I was genuinely puzzled. My only thought was that he had murdered Harriet and he didn’t want it made public. After all, it wouldn’t exactly help his career. ‘Are you afraid of something?’
‘I’m not afraid of anything!’ He hadn’t raised his voice but he was fighting for control. ‘You have not asked for my permission to use any aspects of my life and I’m not giving it to you. I don’t want my name in your book. I don’t want to be any part of it. And that’s the end of the matter.’
‘Hold on a minute, Jordan.’ I was angry too. He had no right to track me down in this way, to spring out of the shadows, half terrifying me in the middle of the night. Suddenly I was annoyed. ‘Look, I may write about this. I may not. But either way, I don’t think it’s any business of yours. I don’t see what right you’ve got to stop me.’
‘So you haven’t written anything yet.’
I couldn’t lie to him. ‘I may have taken notes.’
He jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘You write about me and I will make sure that all hell comes in your direction. I have my life. I have my experiences. And you have no right at all to appropriate my story, turn me into a cultural stereotype, simply to embellish your own view of the world.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about a privileged white writer describing things he knows nothing about, profiting – in every sense – from an experience he will never understand because he hasn’t lived it. I have!’
‘You’re not being serious!’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Are you saying that if I decide to write about the death of Harriet Throsby, I can’t put you in the book, that I can’t even mention you – because of your heritage?’
‘How have you described me? In your notes? Have you said I’m a Native American?’
The ground had shifted beneath me and I suddenly felt sick. He was talking about cultural appropriation! I don’t even like writing those two words. There’s a reason why I never go anywhere near politics or social issues. I write to entertain people. If I have one determination in life, it’s that I don’t want to do anything that will upset anyone. I’m always aware of that great beast Twitter lurking on the sidelines, waiting to tear out my throat.
I desperately tried to work out an answer to what he had just asked me.
‘I suppose I might have thought of you as a Native American. I mean, your background … being adopted … you told me everything yourself.’
‘That didn’t give you permission to use it. I only told Mr Hawthorne because I was under police investigation. I had no choice. You were there as an eavesdropper. You had no right to be in the room.’