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

Barbara was wound tight. Her arm around his waist was nearly rigid with suppressed terror.
"If you haven't learned something by the end of the evening," said Squiers. "I'll eat my hat."
"And what a fine hat it is," said Richard.
The room filled up. The theatre seats took up barely a quarter of the screening room, which was otherwise
available for general milling and swilling. Minions in black and white livery weaved among the guests with
trays of food: little cubes of cheese and pineapple on sticks; champagne glasses stuffed with prawns,
lettuce, and pink mayonnaise; quartered individual pork pies, with dollops of Branston's pickle; fans of "After
Eight" mints; ashtrays of foil-wrapped Rose's chocolates. A barman served wine (Mateus Ros├й, Blue Nun,
Black Tower) and beer (Watney's Red Barrel, Whitbread Trophy Bitter, Double Diamond). There had been an
attempt to market a real Griddles Ale, but it was not successfulтАФbeer connoisseurs reckoned the cold tea
they drank on telly had a better flavour.
Not everyone from O'D-S was here. Richard and Barbara kept score. Anyone on this guest list was almost
certainly in it with Squiers; the rest were on the outside and innocent. So far, the guilties ran to Tara (no
surprise), Dudley Finn (but not his boyfriend), Jeanne Treece, and a good three-quarters of the writing pack.
Lionel was evidently guiltless, and so was Gerard Loss. Some people surprised you.
Squiers whizzed about, ten-gallon hat bobbing among a sea of heads, pressing the flesh, meeting and
greeting. Richard saw three people come in who were his own invitees. Squiers had pause when he
recognised Vanessa but clearly had no idea who Fred was and was puzzled to see the third added guest,
whom he must be dimly aware of but couldn't put a name to. That was another black mark against Evil on the
scoreboard.
Richard was about to make introductions when a fresh knot of outside guests appeared and Squiers barged
through the crowd to welcome them, sweatily unctuous and eager.
Now Richard understood Squiers' crack about nothing going to waste in television.
"Good grief," he said, "we're starring in a sales pitch!"
Squiers led his VIP guests down the aisle toward Richard and company. Richard sensed Vanessa and Fred,
dapper book-ends in white matador-cut tuxedos, taking flanking defensive positions. Good move.
As Squiers grinned and got closer, Richard saw Mama-Lou and June O'DellтАФas near to disguised as they
could manageтАФslip in and take seats hunched down in the back row, huge hat-brims over their faces.
"Mr. Jeperson, Professor Corri," said Squiers. "I'd like you to meet some people. Prospective sponsors. This
is Adam Onions."
"O-nye-ons," corrected a youngish man in a blazer and polo-neck. "Not like the vegetable."
He stuck out a hand, which Richard opted not to shake.
"Hello, Barb," said Onions, shyly fluttering his fingers.
The professor was furious at Onions' presence, which she took as a personal betrayal.
Richard guessed how Onions fit in. He was from the Brighton University Department of Parapsychology.
Barbara had talked to him before getting involved with the Diogenes Club. His ambition must have been
piqued, along with his curiosity. He had made connections and ridden the hobbyhorse.
"I'm with a government think tank now," he said. "The Institute of Psi Technology. Pronounced 'Eyesight.'
We're getting in a position to be competitive, Mr. Jeperson. Your gentlemen's club has had the field to itself
for too long. Your record is astounding, but your horizons have been limited. Effort has been wasted
smashing what should be measured. There are applications. Profitable, socially valuable, cutting edge."
Richard could guess what Onions' political masters would want to cut with their edge.
"Heather Wilding," continued Squiers, indicating a woman with a ring-of-confidence smile, slightly ovoid pupils
like cat's-eyes, feathery waves of honey-blond Farrah hair, and a tailored red velour suit with maxi-skirt and
shoulderpads. "She represents тАж"
"I know what Miss Wilding represents."
"Ms.," said the woman, who was American.
"Private enterprise," commented Richard. "Very enterprising enterprise."
Heather Wilding was a name Richard had come across before. She fronted for Derek Leech, the newspaper
proprietor (of the Comet, among other organs) who sat at the top of a pyramid of interlinked corporations and