The Handshaker Read Online Free PDF

getting into deep waters, he wanted to know what. If only she would give him a hint.
    He looked across at her again, her head bent over the labels as she wrote them out.
    “My father’s a judge you know. Queen’s Bench Division.”
    “I know.” Still she did not look up.
    “You seem to know an awful lot about me,” he complained.
    “You’re Scarbeck’s only celebrity.”
    “Aside from The Handshaker.”
    At that she froze and held herself rigid for what seemed like a long time, holding a cassette tape in her right hand, the pen in her left. Slowly she raised her head, bringing her eyes up to meet his. Croft felt a shudder of nervousness run through him. He buried it under a barrage of self-recrimination. He was a master hypnotist, a man accustomed to being in control. What’s more he had done nothing wrong. What did he have to fear from a police officer; a woman at that.
    He castigated himself for that final thought. The fact that Inspector Matthews was a woman was completely irrelevant. Trish was a woman too, but more than capable of dealing with any opponent, male or female, and similarly, Ms Matthews would have undergone extensive training in maintaining control with either sex.
    “What did you say?”
    So much time had passed between Croft’s comment and her response that he had forgotten what he said. Something about The Handshaker, was it?
    “What did you say about The Handshaker?” she reiterated.
    His words had obviously touched a nerve. “You commented on my celebrity status in reference to Scarbeck. I simply said that these days, The Handshaker is the best known export of this town.”
    The intensity had returned to her eyes again. He felt as if they were bows, ready to unleash their arrows and impale him. “What do you know about The Handshaker?” It was almost as if she were accusing him.
    “What I read in the press and hear on the radio.” Croft was subliminally aware that he had already slipped into the curt, defensive responses of the accused.
    Matthews put down the cassette tape. “Where were you in the early hours of this morning?”
    Her question hit him like a hammer and apprehension struck through him again. Surely she didn’t think he was The Handshaker? “At home, in bed, with my partner, who by the way is –”
    “Patricia Sinclair,” Matthews interrupted, “the barrister. I already know.”
    “Well there you are then.” Croft made an effort to go on the attack. “Inspector, this is becoming tedious. Will you please say what is on your mind?”
    Matthews sat back in her chair and tossed the pen on the table alongside the cassette. “All right. Tell me about The Handshaker. Tell me why he’s called The Handshaker.”
    His heart began to beat stronger. She really did think he was The Handshaker. Could he prove that he was not? He wasn’t sure.
    “I, er, I don’t know,” he rambled. “I thought either you or the media gave these people their nicknames. The Yorkshire Ripper, The Black Panther, The Handshaker.”
    She did not answer, but instead threw another question at him. “Do you own a Smith Corona typewriter?”
    Spotting the opportunity, Croft went on the attack. “If you know so much about me, you should be aware that I’m a sixties freak, and I do own a manual typewriter, but I don’t believe it’s a Smith Corona. I think it’s a Remington.” Controlling his insecurity, Croft modulated his tones, keeping them calm, controlled, yet challenging, and said, “I love cryptic crosswords, I love computer adventure games where you have to engage your left brain to solve the puzzles, but this particular riddle is becoming tiresome. Would you please explain what is going on?”
    At last, she yielded. “We are involved in an investigation into the so-called Handshaker killings,” she explained. “I don’t know how much you know about police procedures –”
    Croft interrupted her. “More than you may imagine. I told you, my father is Sir James Croft and my