Murder by the Book (25 page)

He indicated along the street. Beyond the bus station a long row of red-brick terrace houses receded into the distance. They began walking.

‘You've done well, Ralph. How did you find the address?'

‘Hard slog,' Ryland grunted. ‘Hours and hours of bloody footwork. All I had to go on were the Camels, the bullets, and the fact our friend rode a Triumph.'

‘A needle in a haystack comes to mind.'

‘Yeah, well, I don't like blowin' me own trumpet. But I'm like a bleedin' terrier when I get the bit between me teeth, to mix metaphysics as you writer chappies say.'

Ryland nipped the fag end from his thin lips, flicked it into the gutter and lit another cigarette, all without slowing his pace. ‘I know this geezer down Bermondsey. What he doesn't know about stolen shooters isn't worth knowing. He owes me a trick or two, so I ask him if anyone's been asking around for a .38 recent like. A day later he comes back to me with a couple of likely suspects: a toff – who I discounted straight away – and a small ginger bloke riding a Triumph. Ginger bought a pistol off a mate of his, and this mate is canny, right? Didn't want to do the swap on his own territory, so he said to Ginger that he'd deliver. Ginger agreed and said meet him in the Crown and Sceptre, Streatham.'

‘So that narrowed it down a bit,' Langham laughed.

‘Just a bit,' Ryland agreed. ‘All I had to do then was a bit of door to door calling in the Streatham area.'

‘And?'

‘I asked if the householders knew anyone with a motorbike, specifically a Triumph. Took me two bleedin' days, it did. Talk about shoe leather. Anyway, this old biddy in her nineties bent me ear about the noise this bloke made with his motorbike – said he lived just across the road. A short, fat, ginger bloke, never without a cig in his cake 'ole …'

Ryland stopped dramatically and, with a flourish of his right hand, indicated the terrace house they were standing outside.

Langham stared at the house. ‘Right … now I see what you were driving at.'

The house was burned-out, its windows missing and half of its roof collapsed. Langham thought that there was nothing as sad as a fire-damaged house with its pathetic reminders – in this case singed lace curtains and a hat stand just inside the door – of the former home it had been.

‘Any idea when this happened?'

‘The old biddy said about a month ago. One night she was woken up in the early hours by a right commotion across the street.'

Langham glanced at Ryland. ‘Been inside?'

The investigator shook his head. ‘There was a fire officer inspecting the place when I came round yesterday. I thought I'd leave off till I contacted you.'

Langham nodded and looked up and down the street. The place was deserted. He nipped up the short garden path and slipped in past the remains of the incinerated door, askew on its hinges. Ryland followed.

He looked up a flight of stairs, abbreviated halfway by the fire. To the left was a gutted kitchen and to the right a front room occupied by blackened chunks of furniture, a three-piece suite and what might have been a Welsh dresser.

Langham crunched over debris and stood in the middle of the room. The charcoal reek was matched only by the fuggy aroma of waterlogged plasterboard.

Ryland was saying, ‘I looked into who owned the place, of course. Some slumlord down Greenwich way, he says he rented it for a couple of months to a geezer called Smith, who matched my description in every department – viz, short, fat and ginger. Smith paid on time and the landlord never had any complaints. The rent was paid right up to last month.'

Langham turned, taking in the blackened bricks, charred carpet and sagging ceiling. ‘What do you think happened?'

‘You want my opinion? I think Mr Effing Smith, before he starts killing, he decides to cover his trail. Just to be on the safe side, he thinks he'll torch the place so no one sniffing around can find any incriminatory evidence.' He shrugged. ‘Makes sense, if you ask me.'

Langham nodded in agreement. ‘Burns the place down, covering all traces of who lived here, takes off and goes to earth. He might be anywhere now.'

‘I asked the biddy if she ever talked to this geezer, Mr Smith. Said she complained about him revving his bike at midnight a few weeks back, and all she got for her trouble was a mouthful. The other neighbours didn't have anything to do with him. Said he kept himself to himself, never had anyone round. I tried the Crown and Sceptre and a few other boozers in the area, but if anyone recognized Smith's description they weren't saying nothing.'

Langham said, ‘You did well, Ralph.'

Ryland grunted. ‘Not as well as I wanted to, mind.'

Langham noticed the crocodile-skin remains of a small bookcase in the corner of the room. He crossed to it, stepping over a hole in the floorboards, and squatted beside the case.

A row of a dozen damp-fattened paperbacks occupied the top shelf. There was something about the arrangement of the titles that struck Langham as odd, as if the books had been placed there
after
the immolation of the house. Surely, if in situ at the time of the fire, they would have been incinerated beyond recognition?

He pulled out the books and stacked them on the floor, his stomach turning.

There were seven titles in all, by Nigel Lassiter, Gerry Carter, Frank L. Pearson, Justin Fellowes, Dan Greeley and Amelia Hampstead, and the last one –
Murder in Malapur
– by none other than Donald Langham.

‘Found something?' Ryland asked.

‘What do you make of these?'

Ryland squatted beside him. ‘Mr Smith was a reader with good taste?'

Langham grunted a laugh without humour. ‘These weren't here when the fire was started, Ralph. They're not fire-damaged, just damp. My guess is they were left here afterwards.'

The weaselly investigator gave him a sceptical look. ‘OK – but why?'

Langham went through the books one by one. ‘Nigel Lassiter – dead. Gervaise Cartwright – writing here as Gerry Carter – dead. Frank Pearson – dead. That leaves Fellowes, Greeley, Hampstead and … myself.'

Ryland squinted at him. ‘Coincidence?'

‘Bloody strange coincidence, I'd say. I think Mr Smith is having a little fun at our expense.'

Ryland nodded, slowly. ‘OK, so … Look, you don't need me to tell you this, but you take care, Don. Lie low. Want my opinion, you get yourself out of London.'

Langham nodded. ‘I intend to do just that.' He decided to take the books with him as evidence.

Ryland took Langham's elbow and helped him to his feet. ‘Seen enough? Let's get out of here.'

As they left the house and made their way back down the long street, Ryland said, ‘What now?'

‘I think I'll contact the writers.' Langham held up the books. ‘Tell them about what's happened and suggest they take precautions.'

‘Good idea. You want me to keep looking for the bastard?'

Langham stopped by Ryland's Morris Minor. ‘It can't do any harm to have an independent on the case.'

They shook hands. Langham thanked him again and crossed the road to his car.

He drove on automatic pilot, the damp paperbacks on the passenger seat beside him. Why did he have the distinct impression that, to the murderer, this was little more than a macabre game?

Once back at his flat he sat at his desk and rang Jeff Mallory at Scotland Yard. He'd tell Jeff what he'd found at the burned-out house and say that he intended to contact the writers in person to explain the situation.

The phone was answered after a minute by a receptionist who informed him that Detective Inspector Mallory was not available. Langham said he'd ring back later.

He stared at the pile of sad-looking paperbacks on his desk. He picked up the Nigel Lassiter, the Frank Pearson and the Gerry Carter and set them aside. The next on the pile was the title by Dan Greeley, which he was pretty sure was a pseudonym. The publisher was Digit Books, and he knew an editor there. He got through to the editorial office and asked to speak to Bill Riley.

A minute later Riley's County Clare brogue boomed down the line. ‘Donald! It's been a long time. How's life treating you?'

Langham said he was fine, then went on: ‘I'm actually trying to get in touch with “Dan Greeley”, but I'm right in thinking it's a pseudonym, aren't I?'

A silence, then, ‘That's right. Greeley was the pen name of Alexander Southern. But you obviously haven't heard.'

Something turned to ice in his stomach. ‘Heard?'

‘Poor Alex died last week in a road traffic accident in Canterbury. Knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. Didn't stand a chance. Killed instantly. He was such a gentleman. We're all devastated here.'

Langham murmured his shock and commiserations, and said something about having wanted to do an interview with ‘Greeley'. He chatted with Riley for another minute, said they'd have to meet up again for old time's sake, then rang off.

He sat back in his seat and picked up the Greeley title. He'd never heard of the writer Alexander Southern – but clearly he was another scribbler who had in some way earned the ire of the killer. ‘Dan Greeley,' he pronounced, ‘aka Alexander Southern – dead.' He placed the book in the discard pile.

He picked up the next book –
Murder in Confidence
by Justin Fellowes – and riffled through his address book until he found Fellowes's number.

The call was answered by a housekeeper, who informed Langham that Fellowes had just gone into town and wouldn't be back until at least six that evening. Langham thanked her and said he'd call back later.

That left one writer to contact – Amelia Hampstead.

If Justin Fellowes was the Grand Old Man of British crime fiction, then Dame Amelia Hampstead was the Grand Old Lady. In her seventies now, she had fifty titles behind her, a trophy cupboard full of awards and sales in their tens of millions. Despite all that, she was as personable now as she had been twenty years ago when Langham had first met her. The youngest of Lord Pastonbury's three daughters, Dame Amelia wrote whodunits in the Agatha Christie mould which, while not to Langham's taste, of their kind were excellent.

She had a townhouse in Chelsea and kept a country retreat in Berkshire. Langham tried her London number and got through to her secretary, who informed him that Dame Amelia had left that very morning for Castle Melacorum – the rather highfalutin name she gave her country pile.

Langham thanked her and rang off. He dialled the castle and a minute later Amelia Hampstead herself answered the phone. ‘Why, Donald Langham,' she declared in her rather plummy contralto. ‘I was thinking about you just the other day.'

‘You were?'

‘Indeed. I was reading your column in the
Herald
, and it occurred to me that you hadn't covered one of my titles for a positive aeon. Remiss of you, my dear boy. Most remiss.'

‘My apologies, Amelia. I promise I'll rectify that at the earliest opportunity.'

‘I should jolly well think so, Donald. Now, you're interrupting the first day of my holiday. How can I help you? Out with it, boy.'

Langham smiled to himself and said, ‘This is a rather delicate matter, Amelia. You've no doubt heard about the recent deaths of Nigel Lassiter, Gervaise Cartwright and—'

She interrupted. ‘If you think for a minute I'm going to write their obituaries …'

Taking a deep breath, Langham assured her that this was the last thing he was ringing about and went on to explain the situation. Four dead writers, a dead editor and an agent shot and left for dead … ‘And far be it for me to be sensationalist, but I think you and I are on the hit list, too.'

‘What is this?' Amelia exclaimed. ‘Are you running the plot of your latest thriller past me, young man?'

‘I wish I were, Dame Amelia. No, this is serious.' He explained the other deaths and what he'd found in the shell of the house in Streatham.

A lengthy silence was followed by, ‘And just what do you expect me to do about it, Donald? Hire a bodyguard?'

‘Dame Amelia, don't think this melodramatic, but I advise getting away for a while. That's what I intend to do – leave London and lie low.'

Amelia harrumphed. ‘But Donald, that is exactly what I have just done. I
am
– I was, until you called – enjoying my first country break in months.'

Langham pulled a pained face. ‘If I may say so, the killer probably knows about Castle Melacorum.' He stopped, then said, ‘You haven't noticed anyone strange lurking in the vicinity of the castle since your arrival, have you? He rides a motorbike—'

A silence greeted his words.

‘Dame Amelia?'

‘A motorbike, you say? Why, Harker – my driver – mentioned on the way up that a motorcyclist had been following us all the way from Ealing.'

Oh, Christ
… Langham thought. ‘Right,' he said, suddenly businesslike. ‘Get Harker to drive you to a hotel somewhere well away from where you are now. And stay there until I say so. I'll give you my number.'

‘But I've dismissed Harker an hour ago,' Amelia said. ‘I told him to have a few days off.'

‘Very well. Ring for a taxi.'

‘A taxi. Do you realize how isolated I am out here, Donald?' To give the old girl her due, she sounded to be taking the situation in her stride.

‘Very well, I'm on my way.'

‘What? Donald, don't you think you're being a trifle sensationalist about all this? The motorcyclist was probably just a coincidence.'

‘I'm not taking any chances. Lock the doors to the castle and don't let anyone in. I'm on my way. And Dame Amelia, ring the local police and explain the situation, understood?'

‘Well, if you say so,' Amelia said dubiously.

Langham thanked her and rang off.