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Express, who I drink with, rang me up an hour ago. One of the cops told him they found a Crime Writers’ Society membership card in the name of Mary Malone when they went through her desk. Wondered if I knew her.”
    “And what did you tell him?” I asked, wishing I could have told him I’d already tipped Karen off. 34
    Paul Johnston
    I heard Hinkley draw hard on a cigarette. “Well, what could I say? I never met her, did I? None of us ever met her. I did check the membership directory, though. Confirmed that Shirley whatever was her real name.”
    “And no doubt your name will get mentioned in tomorrow’s paper,” I said snidely.
    “Of course, old cock.” He laughed. “I don’t need a column in the Daily Indie to show how smart I am.You can pass the pseudonym on to your girlfriend with my compliments.”
    “You’re too late, Josh,” I said, terminating the call. Sometimes he could be a gigantic dickhead. Then it occurred to me that Karen obviously wasn’t being kept up to speed by Homicide West. Someone was going to get their ears burned. I considered calling her again, but decided against it. She would only have told me to get on with my own work. But the crime writer’s murder was very much in my domain. Could the killer be making a point to me? That was exactly the kind of thing I’d been expecting Sara to do for the last two years. I went over to the window that ran all along the south wall of my flat. Spring still seemed as far away as Acapulco, the Thames running gray and chill. On sunny days the view was great, but in winter London looked like a dead zone from the fourth floor. At my old place in Herne Hill, I hadn’t had a view beyond the neighbors’
    overgrown Leylandii. I didn’t miss it—the place in Chelsea had cost me a large part of my earnings from The Death List, but it already had happy memories. This was where Karen and I had begun to spend time together as a couple—the start of a new life for me. The problem was, I hadn’t been able to write fiction since I’d moved in. It wasn’t that I needed the money. The newspaper column The Soul Collector
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    covered most of my living expenses, and I’d been a journalist before I was a novelist. But something was missing. It was as if my involvement with a real serial killer had stolen my ability to write fiction. I’d lied to Karen and I didn’t feel good about that. I hadn’t written two thousand words of a novel. I had barely written one word. I went to my workspace, an enormous, antique partners’ desk in the corner of the living area. There were three computers on it, although I only used one. That was the problem when you made a lot of money unexpectedly—you bought a load of unnecessary gear. I booted up and logged on to my e-mail program. Among the new messages was one from my editor, Jeanie Young-Burke. I hadn’t accepted an advance for the new novel, so there wasn’t a deadline. But she was still pressing me about how I was getting on. There was also one from Christian Fels, my agent. Although he was nearing retirement, he still had the instincts of a great white shark when it came to making deals. He’d had several offers from publishers for another nonfiction crime book. The problem was, I didn’t have any material. Could the murder with the white-chalk pentagram be exactly what I needed?
    “What’s this about the victim being a bestselling crime novelist, Inspector?” Karen Oaten demanded, the phone pressed tight to her ear.
    “How did you—” Luke Neville audibly gulped. “I was just about to ring you, ma’am…I mean, guv.”
    “I’m sure you were,” Oaten said, frowning at John Turner. “Have you seen the preliminary CSI and postmortem reports?”
    “They’re just in.”
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    Paul Johnston
    “E-mail me everything you’ve got. The next time you hold out on me, you’ll be talking to the AC. Am I clear?”
    “Yes, guv.”
    Oaten slammed the phone down. “Wanker.”
    “Neville the Lip?” Turner