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

Broadmoor and get on with your proper mysteries, like the Ministerial Disappearances or the City
Throat-Cuttings."
"Unique, you say?"
"In my experience, whichтАФas you knowтАФis extensive, yes."
"It's not unique, though, look you? DS Regent, tell him."
Richard arched an eyebrow at Fred, who looked distinctly sheepish. Vanessa found something absorbing to
examine in her paper cup, which couldn't be tea leaves.
"Zarana, my girlfriend," began Fred, "she follows it, and тАж you know тАж you watch a couple, and you need to
keep on watching, just to find out what happens next. It's rubbish, of course. Real rubbish. But тАж"
He fell silent, as if he'd just delivered a speech which began, "My name is Frederick and I'm an alcoholic" to a
circle of inadequates on primary school chairs.
"Miss Vanessa," prompted Price. "Could you enlighten our Mr. Jeperson?"
Vanessa crushed the cup and dropped it in a bin.
"We're talking about The Northern Barstows, Richard," she said. "A television programme. A soap opera."
"I've never heard of it."
"It's on the channel with adverts."
"Ah." Richard made a point of limiting his select viewing to the BBC. So far as he knew, the channel-changer
on the front of his set only went up to "2."
"Richard believes commercial television was invented by Satan," Vanessa explained to Price.
Actually, Richard didn't believe thatтАФhe knew it for a fact.
"What about this 'soap opera'?" he asked.
"Last night, on the Barstows," said Vanessa, "'Delia Delyght' killed 'Jockie Gigglewhites' with exactly the
same m.o. Whips, spurs, saddle, the lot. I didn't see that coming, and the storyline's been running for
months."
Yesterday evening, Vanessa had cried off a visit to a reputedly haunted tube station, disused since the Blitz
and blighted by spectral ARP wardens. Her story was that an unexpected aunt was in town and needed
looking after. It seemed improbable to Richard that he hadn't sensed the dissembling, but Vanessa was too
close. He didn't suspect his associates of leading secret, shameful lives. The "haunting" turned out to be
down to rumbling drains and a rack of forgotten gas masks.
"Highest viewing figures since that documentary about the Queen eating cornflakes," said Fred. "Pubs empty
when the show is on. People everywhere rabbitting nine to the dozen about Delia and Jockie. And you didn't
notice."
"I imagine I was too busy re-reading Proust in the original," said Richard.
"I don't doubt it, guv," said Fred. Richard picked up his glum resentment. Now the secret was out, Fred would
be in for some ribbing. Except ribbing usually came from Vanessa's direction, and she evidently shared his
shameful addiction.
Richard raised an eyebrow at Price, who was lighting his pipe.
"Oh yes," he said, "me too. Never miss the Barstows. At the Yard, see, the lads have a portable set. If you
want to rob the Bank of England, do it on Tuesday or Thursday between eight and eight-thirty. No one will
show up to nick you 'til you're well away from Threadneedle Street with the loot and Max Bygraves is on."
"I didn't think it was possible to learn anything new at my age," said Richard, "but you've all surprised me.
Congratulations."
Clearly, he was the only one whose brain wasn't fogged with "soap." He needed to deliver an incisive
explanation, then go back to Albertine disparue. The rest of the populace could happily gorge their minds on
rubbish twice a week without bothering him.
"This woman is another sad addict," he declared, pointing at Della-n├йe-Gladys, "and has become a 'copycat.'
Struck by the coincidences of names and professions in the fiction, she felt compelled to enact the television
story in real life. An argument for severe regulation of such programming, no doubt. The answer to crimes like
these is more nature documentaries. But this is a psychological curiosity, not a supernatural event."
"It's not so simple, Jeperson," said Price. "The Northern Barstows guard their future scripts better than MI5