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

"What about the throat-cutter? Do we let him go too? He killed five people to get at the prince."
"Leave him be, for now."
"For now?"
Price would have to do a deal of fancy footwork to explain the handling of this case. In the end, it would be all
right. If viewers felt the martyred Delia was more than justified in treating the odious Jockie the way she did,
they would feel the same about Della. Besides, The Northern Barstows was officially fiction. If it couldn't be
proved that what they showed on television had happened in real life, then Delia was off the hook.
"Look at it this way, PriceтАФwhat with the TV tie-in, you'd never be able to get an unprejudiced jury. It'd be a
show trial, run longer than the series, and we'd all end up looking like right plonkers. This way, she gets her
own spin-off, and we can go after the real source of the problem."
"Which is тАж?"
"The Northern Barstows. I want to know more about how the programme is made and the people who make
it. Don't worry, I've not forgotten your ordinary murder. It's just something extraordinary is mixed in."
Price shrugged. Richard saw through his gloom to dour Celtic triumph. The Inspector had been right to call
the Diogenes Club. Now he could let them make the running.
Vanessa returned.
"How did she do?" Fred asked.
"Stunning тАж marvellous тАж saucy тАж," said Vanessa.
"So much for the Grauniad?" said Fred. "What would the News of the Screws say?"
"'My Kinky Sex Hell With Jammy Jamie: Top Model Tells AllтАФExclusive!' She called her agent and had him
pass on a message to her lawyer. She knew just how much slap to put on for that tearful yet glamorous
look."
"Bless," said Richard.
"Now what, guv?" asked Fred.
"You're going to follow up the police cases. Go over the Disappearances, the Throat-Cuttings, and
Hepplethwaites. Plus anything else that turns upтАФmy gut tells me there'll be more. Vanessa, doll yourself
down to mere gorgeousness so you can pass for a struggling actress and have Della's agent get you an
audition for this Barstows effort. Seems like they could do with a touch of metropolitan glamour. I will get up
to speed on this apparently significant cultural phenomenon that has somehow managed to pass me by. It
seems likely the programme is at least haunted and at worst cursed, so it behooves someone like us to
investigate тАж oh, wait a mo, I've just remembered, there isn't anyone like us. We're the only hope for a happy
outcome. Any questions?"
Price, Fred, and Vanessa were all about to speak.
"No, I thought not," Richard said hurriedly. "Let's get cracking. Mysteries don't solve themselves, chaps and
chapesse."
┬╖┬╖┬╖┬╖┬╖
III
"When I were a lass, Brenda-girl," said Mavis Barstow, ever-accusing finger jabbing at her long-suffering
daughter's eye, frosted perm shaking with indignant fury, "times were 'ard тАж bloody 'ard."
It was a familiar speech, delivered in an accent thick as a Yorkshire coal seam or a Lancashire piecrust
without feeling bound to the specific vocal traits of any geographical county. The Barstows lived in Bleeds, an
industrial stain on the misty moors of Northshire, a region impossible to locate on ordnance survey maps. In
black and white, Mavis was resplendent in a sparkling jet beaded ensemble over a blinding silver blouse. Her
diamonds kept flashing under the studio lights. Richard assumed the idea was a low-budget, North of
England Joan Crawford. The frankly frumpy Brenda, victim of many a cutting remark, wore a grey swirly
minidress and was self-conscious about her chubby knees.
"We 'ad none o' yer fancy edyecashun," continued Mavis, warming to a favourite subject, 'an' only a tart'd
wear a frock like tha,' but we 'ad respect, Brenda-girl тАж bloody respect! I'll hear no more o' this tripe an'
onions about you gettin' engaged to a sooty, cause ye're no' too grown-up to bare yer rump an' get a stripin'
from yer Da's old miner's belt."