‘For heaven’s sake, Jordan. You can’t accuse me of cultural appropriation. I mean … I’m not saying it doesn’t exist. Of course it does. It’s terrible!’ I realised I was burbling. ‘I’ve been in the room with you loads of times,’ I went on. ‘I knew about your heritage before I even met you. What difference does it make? Are you saying I can’t write about Ahmet because he’s Turkish? Or Pranav because he comes from India?’
‘If you’re talking about Pranav the stage manager, he’s from Pakistan!’ His eyes blazed. ‘How have you described me? Have you mentioned the colour of my skin? My ponytail?’
‘I may have mentioned them …’
‘Those are more stereotypes.’
‘You’ve got a ponytail!’ I said. ‘It’s not my fault. And it’s very nice. It suits you.’
‘The other things I told you. Rosebud. Pomona. Are you going to write about all that too …？’
‘Why not? I didn’t know about any of it. The way you were taken away from your family. The assimilation programme. The Carlisle Indian Industrial School. It’s awful! Isn’t it important that people know these stories and learn about them?’
‘But they’re our stories.’
‘Yes, of course. I understand that. But the whole point about stories is that they’re for sharing. That’s the very nature of their existence. Stories are what bring us together. It’s how we try to understand each other and understanding is exactly what my job is all about.’ I didn’t want to be having this conversation. I was tired. I wanted to be in bed. ‘Are you saying you’d prefer it if I ignored what you told me? If I pretended you hadn’t said it?’
‘I’m saying it’s none of your business. You have no understanding about how I feel.’
‘And so I can’t even try? What does that leave me with? We’ve already agreed that I can’t write about Ahmet or Pranav. So presumably I can’t write about Maureen or Sky either … because they’re both women! Or Lucky because he’s a dog! At the end of the day, if I listened to you, I’d only write about myself! A book full of middle-aged white writers describing middle-aged white writers being murdered by middle-aged white writers!’
We both drew a breath. And that was when the absurdity of it hit me.
‘That’s not why you’re here,’ I said. ‘This has got nothing to do with cultural appropriation. You just don’t want me to write about you because you’re ashamed.’
‘I have nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘You threatened to kill Harriet! You stabbed a cake. There was that business with Sky. And you’ve had a row with your wife.’
Jordan visibly shrank. ‘That’s not true …’
‘I’m sorry. I have absolutely no interest in your private life. But everyone’s heard you shouting on the phone – and she didn’t come to the first night.’
‘I told you. She was working.’ But even as he spoke, he sounded half-hearted and I knew that I was right. ‘I don’t want you writing about Jayne.’
I was disappointed with myself. I’d liked Jordan Williams from the very start and I was grateful to him. It had been a real breakthrough when he’d agreed to take the part of Dr Farquhar and he’d thrown himself into it, supporting the play from the start. Only the week before we’d opened, he’d been on the radio, saying nice things about me. And here we were shouting at each other for no good reason at all.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Right now I’m not even thinking about the book. I don’t even want to write it. All I care about is who killed Harriet Throsby.’ I took a deep breath. ‘And you might as well know that the police are convinced it was me. They kept me locked up for twenty-four hours and they interrogated me. I think, technically, that I’m out on bail. There! Now you know.’
‘But I was the one who threatened her!’
‘I know that. But it was my knife that ended up in her chest.’
He looked at me, puzzled. Then he remembered. ‘You had it in the green room!’ he said. ‘I saw you with it.’
‘You don’t remember what I did with it?’
‘I think you left it over at the side. Near the fridge. Yes! I’m sure I saw it there.’
‘Was it still there at the end of the evening?’
‘I can’t remember.’ He shook his head. ‘Someone could have taken it.’