"Kim Newman - The Serial Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

"That's one type of ghost," he said. "Empty, but going through the motions. A record stuck in a groove. This
is a presence, with the trace of a personality. Very faint. She probably won't last much longer."
"Then where will she go?"
"Good question. Search me for an answer though. We have to let some Eternal Mysteries stand."
"You know more than you're letting on."
He really didn't want to answer that. But he had reasons other that shutting off this line of questioning for
kissing Barbara Corri.
She had reasons for kissing him back, but he didn't feel the need to pry.
"You two, watch out, or the fire marshal will bung a bucket of sand over you," shrilled Lionel. "Come away
and exeunt studio left. Pardon me for mentioning it, but you're an unprofessional pair of ghost-hunters. It's a
wonder you can find so much as a tipsy pixie the way you carry on."
Richard and Barbara held hands, fingers winding together.
The studio was dark now, floor treacherous with cables and layers of sticky tape. Lionel led them toward the
open door to the car park.
As they stepped outside, Richard felt a crackle nearby, like a lightning strike. He flinched, and Barbara felt
his involuntary clutch. She squeezed his hand and touched his lapel.
"Nothing serious," he said.
She lifted aside his hair and whispered "You are such a poor liar" into his ear.
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VII
They had two rooms at a guest house near the studio. As it happens, they only had use for one room.
Richard decided the unnecessary expense wouldn't trouble the accountants of the Diogenes Club. After an
"It's not just the precious metal, it's the workmanship" argument over a bill for silver bullets, his chits tended
to get rubber-stamped without query.
He let Barbara sleep on, primping a little at her early morning smile, and went down for his full English.
Framed pictures of supporting players who'd stayed here while making forgotten films were stuck up on the
dining-room wall. The landlady fussed a little but lost interest when he told her he wasn't an actor.
The third pot of tea was on the table and he was well into toast and jam when Fred arrived. He had come
down from London on his old Norton and wore a leather jacket over his Fred Perry. The landlady frowned at
his heavy boots but became more indulgent when Richard introduced him as a stuntman who had worked on
Where Eagles Dare. More toast arrived.
Fred had new information. He was fairly hopping with it.
"Guv, this is so far off your beat that it has got to be a false trail," he said, "but I've tripped over it more times
than is likely, and in so many places I'd usually rule out coincidence."
Barbara appeared, light blue chiffon scarf matching her top, tiny row of sequin buttons down the side of her
navy skirt. Her hair was up again, fashioned into the shape of a seashell. She joined them at the breakfast
table.
Fred, quietly impressed, waited for an introduction.
"This is Professor Corri, Fred. Barbara, this is Fred Regent. He's a policeman, but don't hold it against him.
Continue with your input, Fred. We keep no secrets from the professor."
Fred hesitated. Barbara signalled for the "continental breakfast": grapefruit juice, croissants, black coffee.
"I'm all ears," she announced, nipping at a croissant with white, even, freshly brushed teeth whose imprint
Richard suspected was still apparent on his shoulder. "Input away."
Fred cleared his throat with tea and talked.
"I've been calling in favours on the force and the crook grapevine, asking about as requested. I started with
Jamie the Jockey, since he's our most recent case. Then I looked into Sir Joseph and Prince Ali. Plus a few
we didn't think about, Queenie Tolliver and Buck D. Garrison."
Richard furrowed his brow.
"Queenie Tolliver ran nightclubs in Manchester," put in Barbara.
"That's one way of putting it," said Fred.