"Kim Newman - The Serial Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)
by Kim Newman
"Surely, this is common or garden crime," said Richard Jeperson, knuckle-tapping one-way glass, getting no
reaction from the woman in the interrogation room. "The Diogenes Club doesn't do ordinary murders."
"Don't watch ordinary television either, do you?"
Inspector Euan Price had a strong Welsh accent: "you" came out with extra vowels, "yiouew."
"The odd nature documentary on BBC2," he admitted, wondering what the goggle-box had to do with the
price of tea in China.
"And Doctor Who, sir," put in Fred Regent, Richard's liaison with Scotland Yard.
"Professional interest," explained Richard. "If you had Daleks, we'd do Daleks. Or Autons. That would be
Diogenes Club material. We are the boysтАФand occasional girlтАФwho cope with the extra-normal. This is so
тАж so News of the World."
"'Jockey Ridden to Death by Top Model,'" said Vanessa, the "occasional girl" Richard had thought of. "Sport,
crime, smut тАж just needs a randy vicar to tinkle all the bells."
Richard looked again at the murderess beyond the mirror. She wore jodhpurs and a scarlet huntswoman's
jacket. Her hard riding hat was on the table, but her blond hair was still bunned up. He might assume the only
creature Della Devyne wanted to see killed had a brushy tail, pointed ears, and a folkloric reputation for
cunning. This was not a description of the corpse in the case. Della had calmed down and was waiting
patiently for what came nextтАФwhether another cup of Ealing Police Station tea or a twenty-five-year stretch in
Holloway.
Though the mirroring was on the other side of the glass, Richard saw the tinted ghost of his reflection
superimposed over Della. He looked like a crash-dieting Charles II. His moustache alone required more
barbering than a glam rock pop star's hair. Today, he wore a tight white-and-pink striped waistcoat over loose
through a scrimshaw ring representing the Worm Orobouros. He did not match the olive-and-tobacco
institutional d├йcor.
Keenly attuned to unvoiced feelings, he could sense mental turmoil whenever a policeman saw him. Your
basic bluebottle constantly had to fight a primal urge to yell "Get yer hair cut" at him. When a policeman saw
Richard Jeperson, it was usually because his particular, peculiar services were urgently needed. A measure
of tactтАФnot to say begging and pleadingтАФwas required to secure his assistance.
"Which of you is going to tell him?" said Price to Fred and/or Vanessa.
TactтАФindeed, begging and pleading - seemed not to be on offer today.
Richard had the unfamiliar impression that everyone else in the room knew more than he did. He was
supposed to be the sensitive, who told people things they hadn't picked up on, then baskedтАФjust a littleтАФin
the glow of admiration.
Fred and Vanessa looked at each other furtively. His sensitivities prickled again. Neither wanted to own up тАж
but to what? They had alibis, and this wasn't even a whodunit. Price had evidence and a confession. He
should be turning Miss Guilty over to briefs, quacks, and the Old Bailey.
"Where have you heard this before?" began Price. "Discovering that her famous, Grand National-winning
jockey boyfriend secretly hates horses and takes every chance to maim, injure, or abuse one of the blessed
beasts, our lovely lass feels compelledтАФby a gold-maned nag which speaks to her in dreamsтАФto saddle him
up and gallop him around the practice track, with liberal applications of the whip and spurs, until he drops
frothing dead?"
"Unique in the annals of crime and lunacy, I'll be bound," said Richard. "But still not a matter for us. Miss
Della Devyne тАж"
"N├йe Gladys Gooch," put in Vanessa.
"тАж the former Miss Gladys Gooch is out of her tree, Inspector. That's why she rode Jamie Hepplethwaites to
death. And don't try to say the dream horse nonsense makes this a paraphenomenon. Pack her off to
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