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

It was the first time she had used his first name. He had an impulse to take things from here in a direction
entirely unconnected with the mystery. He recalled his duty and took back his hand, hoping he could sense
in the professor a response that should be filed away and dealt with later.
"Barbara,' he said, savouring the syllables, "I believe there is only one logical place to go. Bleeds, in
Northshire."
Her eyes were startled a moment. Then she smiled, shocked to giggles."Can I come too?"
"I insist on it."
"What fun. I'm on sabbatical, so I'm yours for as long as you need me."
He could not resist putting his hand back on Barbara's knee.
"Excellent," he said. "I'm sure you'll come in handy. You can be my native guide in the jungles of тАж
television."
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IV
"Northshire" was confined to Haslemere Studios, deep in the Home Counties. As a boy, Richard had
assumed there was a connection between the Home Counties and the BBC's Home Service. The cut-glass
accent he had grown up speaking issued from both.
"Semiologically, Surrey is more 'Southern' than Brighton," observed Barbara as they drove past a road sign
indicating the turnoff for the studios. "The South Coast is Southerly in a mere geographic sense. Haslemere
is what Northerners mean when they talk about 'the South.'"
Professor Corri was from Leicester, originallyтАФwhich was neither up nor down. Like Richard, she spoke with
an accent learned from the wireless and films with Celia Johnson. It struck him that in thirty years' time
everyone in the United Kingdom might speak like The Northern Barstows. He felt a chill in his bones.
"To a world of bad faith and inauthenticity," he pronounced.
His gloomy toast sounded odd in the leather-upholstered interior of the Rolls Royce Silver Shark. After all, his
own "natural" voice was a legacy of listening to the clipped, posh urgency of Dick Barton Special Agent and
Journey Into Space. Still, he dreaded the idea of newsreaders, cabinet ministers, and Harley Street
specialists who sounded like Mavis Barstow.
The car slid down a narrow lane, with tall hedgerows to either side, and a tree canopy that gave the road
ahead a jungle dappling. He remembered Barbara was supposed to be his "native guide."
They were waved past a barrier by a uniformed guard who didn't check the authorisation Lady Damaris had
provided. Anyone in a Rolls was entitled onto the lot. After they had passed, the boom came down on a
carpenter's van, and the guard executed a thorough inspection of a load of lumber some production designer
was probably fretting about.
A young man with hair past the coat-hanger-shaped collar of his tight-waisted lemon-and-orange shirt was
waiting in the car park. He carried a clipboard and a shoulder-slung hold-all that could only be called a
handbag.
"Lionel Dilkes," said the professor. "PR. An old enemy."
For an old enemy, Lionel was demonstratively huggy and kissy when Barbara got out of the Silver Shark. He
looked at everything sidelong, tilting his head one way or the other and peering through or over aviator
shades. Richard estimated that he was envious of Barbara's plunging crepe de chine blouse and pearl
choker.
"This is Richard Jeperson," she said.
Lionel tried looking at him with and without the tint and from several angles.
"The Ghost-Hunter?"
"Think of me as a plumber. You have a funny smell coming from somewhere and damp patches all over the
living room ceiling. I'm here to find out what the trouble is and put a stop to it."
Lionel shrugged, flouncing his collar-points.
"Make my job easier, luv," he said. "All the rags want to write up is the bloody curse. Can't give away pics of
Ben Barstow's new bit on the side. And she's a lovely girl. She'll show her tits. She says she won't now, that
she's an 'actress,' but a flash of green and it'll wear off. No worries at all on that score. You'd think she was a