To Kill A Critic Read online

  With the mutilated body of a world-famous critic dangling from the ceiling and pictures of clowns on CCTV, this was taking a surreal turn and Hooley decided to bring it to an end. He could tell by the way Dunwoody was eyeing Roper that yet another story highlighting his ‘plot lost’ qualities was in the offing.

  “This is my bad, so let’s get off the subject now.” Roper went to say something, but Hooley stopped him with a raised finger. “I know I said it was Ronald, but I was wrong. Looking at the film more closely it is obviously not him. The press will be having a field day with this as it is, so let’s not give them any extra ideas.”

  Mayweather, who had been listening, stepped in to help tighten the focus. “The doctor says the cause of death is most likely a broken neck.”

  For a moment every person within hearing range glanced down at the victim’s neck area - everyone except Roper. He had come to the same conclusion the moment he had looked at the body when he first walked into the living room, there was something about the angle of the victim’s neck that he spotted straight away.

  He didn’t wait to find out if Mayweather had more to say as he wanted to highlight something. He said. “I’ve calculated that Randall was about five feet and ten inches tall. Allowing for the distance he is suspended off the floor, which is twelve inches and his feet are eight inches above my head. Since I am six feet two inches, that makes him five feet ten inches.”

  It was amazing, thought Hooley; now that Roper had explained his calculations, it made sense. It was just that he thought it very unlikely he would have used the same method to work it out if he was on his own. In fact, he’d have waited for one of the forensics people to tell him.

  “While we are on the subject of height, anything else?”

  Roper hadn’t finished. “I think that the clown is about six feet five inches tall. On that bit of film from the lobby he walks past a light fitting which is level with the top of his head. When I walked in I noticed that fitting was three inches above my head, so I can estimate the height of the clown.”

  The DCI cast a quick glance in the direction of Dunwoody. The man’s expression conveyed an odd mix of amazement, laughter and incredulity, it was one he often saw on the faces of people listening to Roper explain his theories. It was now a certainty that a new squad room story about would emerge from tonight’s work.

  The man started guiltily as he noticed Hooley’s glance and tried to deflect his attention.

  “I hate clowns,” he said, slightly too loudly. “Always found them terrifying when I was little. Still not keen now. I liked it last year when all those idiots dressing up as clowns to frighten people got beaten up.”

  “Coulrophobia. It means fear of clowns and is regarded as something very serious.” Roper nodded at them all in what Hooley thought of as his school teacher manner. He needed to step in before this turned into a legendary evening of Roper stories, but was beaten to it by Dunwoody.

  “Not wanting to be funny, but I’d say our man here suffered an extreme form of, what was it, Coolio whatsaname?”

  “Coulrophobia - it comes from the Greek,” said Mayweather, glaring at the man. “And I might add that despite the bizarre circumstances, this is a crime scene and the victim is extremely well known.

  “As we all know he is a star of social media, so our work is going to be under the spotlight. The only thing missing is one of the Kardashians. And don’t worry, Jonathan, they’re well known to people who like that sort of thing, but you don’t need to worry about them.

  “Before you and Brian leave, can you put my mind at rest that there are no hidden voids anywhere?” Roper had once worked out there was a hidden space in a room by listening to echoes caused by Hooley shouting.

  He shook his head. “I doubt that will be the case here. All the buildings on the Barbican estate were built during the sixties and seventies. You don’t get many secret rooms from those days. But funnily enough people did start creating them again in the late eighties and nineties.”

  ◆◆◆

  Two hours and two cups of strong black coffee later, the pair were back in the Victoria offices that housed the Special Investigations Unit. Roper had signed on to his computer but before getting lost in online research he had a few questions.

  “Why do you think people want to read food critics, or theatre critics, or any critics really? Why don’t they just decide what to think for themselves? I always know what I like, and I don’t read anything critics say. Although I do listen to your recommendations because I know I can trust you.”

  The DCI was intrigued by Roper’s observation but wasn’t sure he wanted to start a conversation about it but, as ever, curiosity won out.

  “Well I suppose the point is that people want to read an expert view and it seems a lot of people trusted him, and he was good at his job. It can take courage to say something isn’t very good.

  “He was also a sharp operator. I remember, from years ago, when a newspaper tried to trick him. The reporters had discovered there was an elephant at London Zoo which could allegedly paint by holding a brush in its trunk. They got an example of the animal’s work and showed it to him.

  “He didn’t fall for it, just waved his hands to indicate he wasn’t going to speak to them. They persisted and finally he said it was one of the worst things he had ever seen and the person who did it should seek medical help for suffering the delusion that he, or she, was an artist.”

  Hooley smiled as more memories came back. “Before your time, really, but there was a period when he never seemed to be off the television or radio. He was invited onto political panels since people loved hearing what he had to say, even if it made them cross.

  “But going back to your earlier point about everyone should know what they like, it works both ways. There’s a Sunday paper film critic who seems to have the opposite taste to mine. So, when she pans something, I know I’m going to love it, and when she loves something it’s always best if I avoid it. I find it very reliable.”

  Roper sat up straight. Hooley realised his suggestion of a sort of ‘reverse critic’ was clearly about to strike a chord. He decided that coming back to the office was a mistake. They needed to regroup.

  “Tell you what. I’m happy to talk about this some more tomorrow. I’m going to get home, grab some sleep and make an early start - say 6am back here? - and why don’t you get some rest as well? I’d suggest having something to eat but it’s too late for me, I’ll just be up all night.”

  He glanced up and could tell Roper was thinking of saying something. He beat him to it.

  “Don’t worry, you’ve told me often enough that at my advanced stage of life I need to avoid heavy meals just before I go to bed. I’m sure that your advice is ensuring I will live longer and healthier. And definitely hungrier.”

  ◆◆◆

  When Hooley arrived the following morning, he was surprised to find there was no trace of his colleague. He’d left the younger man in the office last night and wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pulled an all-nighter. As he was sitting down his mobile chirped into life - it was Roper.

  “Don’t tell me, the great Jonathan Roper has overslept?” He didn’t often get the chance to get one over on him so always enjoyed it when he did. The snort of indignation that came over the phone made him smile.

  “I’m not late. The cafe owner was though. He arrived fifteen minutes ago so has only just got the bacon on the griddle. I’ll be another ten minutes. I take it you still want yours on white bread with brown sauce?”

  Hooley had forgotten they’d had a conversation about this last night. It had completely slipped his mind. He was glad Roper hadn’t cottoned on to this and experienced a cold chill as he couldn’t help wondering if this was some sort of early onset dementia. He pushed the thought away. “See you shortly then,” he replied before ending the call.

  He’d nearly said he would see Roper in a ‘minute’ but had remembered just in time that this would make him really irritable.
He’d already said he was going to be ten minutes, so that was his final word on the matter, unless Hooley wanted to risk a lecture about being accurate with information.

  This was going to be a long day, he’d only just arrived and already he was feeling exhausted. He needed to get a grip so decided to fire up his computer, if you could flatter his clumsy, two-fingered assault on the keyboard with such a description. Just then his mobile went off again, making him jump.

  It was Detective Sergeant Peter Moore, he’d been in charge of the team that had stayed on site at the flat. Mayweather had insisted they conduct a full search as soon as possible, which meant plenty of overtime coming into play.

  “Morning Peter. How did it go?” He liked Moore; the DS never wasted words and got straight to the point, something Hooley admired.

  “Most of it pretty routine but I wanted to give you a heads up on a couple of suitcases we found under his bed.” The detective was born in Belfast and still had the slightly harsh accent of the region, the word bed had been stretched out as though it was spelt ‘bedd.’

  “They are full of threatening letters from people who haven’t taken kindly to some of the reviews by our victim. I thought you and Roper might want to get an early sight of them so I’m having them brought straight to you.

  “I’ve already spoken to reception, so they know to call you the moment the stuff gets there. I didn’t want to risk it being sent off to the wrong place because no one was expecting it. I’m coming in myself to hand over to the day team.”

  Hooley had to suppress a sense of excitement. Could it be that the information they were looking for would be in the suitcases? It was possible the vital clue was there, but he knew well enough that even if there was something, it could take time to find it. Moore had said the two suitcases were full of material.

  At that moment Roper arrived with his bacon sandwich which, temporarily at least, drove other thoughts from his mind. He was also presented with a cardboard cup of strong, black coffee. The younger man had been relentless in persuading him to give up milk, producing a series of statistics about how many calories he was saving on a weekly basis; enough, he claimed, for the DCI to gradually lose weight.

  With almost perfect timing the two suitcases were delivered to their office just as they finished off their food. Roper looked quizzically at the DCI as he stood up and walked round to open the first bag. Looking inside he could see it was packed with sheets of paper. Some had hand-written messages, others were made up of individual letters cut from other publications.

  Of those he could make out, the least offensive questioned the Slayer’s birth status, while most suggested he take various actions that would result in immediate loss of life. The second bag was the same. Roper had come around to kneel on the floor in front of the open suitcases. He was staring intently at the contents but like Hooley was careful not to touch anything. They’d need to work with a crime scene technician to do that.

  “There’s a lot of bright colours being used here. I can see a lot of green ink.” His expression suggested he was not impressed with what he was looking at.

  Last year Roper had become fascinated with the phenomenon of people who wrote letters in green ink and had spent time investigating it. He’d reported back to Hooley that ‘the colour indicated the writer was emotionally unstable and likely to be making unsupported allegations.’ Hooley was underwhelmed with surprise on hearing this.

  The younger man had also fixated on some information he had dug up from the Internet. It took the form of a short Q&A, published online, by a university researcher. She explained she had written to news reporters, working for national and local media, and asked them what they thought of being targeted by correspondents who favoured green ink.

  Among the many replies she received, there was the near universal response that the letters were filed, unopened, in the nearest rubbish bin. A few journalists said they had read the contents but added they still ended up in the same place.

  For some reason this had the effect of making Roper feel sorry for the letter writers, and he had come to the conclusion they were largely lonely individuals who were entirely benign in their attentions. Hooley was more pragmatic. While he suspected most green inkers were harmless cranks, some were not.

  His opinion was shaped by the experience of working on a London pub bombing which turned out to be the work of a lone-wolf who had various grudges against society. In what turned out to be a very slow build up, he had written dozens of letters to various newspapers. These had all been dumped without being opened and to this day the DCI wondered if they had contained warnings about the terror to come.

  He was well aware that it was going to be a challenge to get Roper to share this view, since he could become remarkably stubborn once he had formed an opinion, especially one he had spent time researching.

  He made a private deal with himself. Unless he could quickly persuade the younger man this was a good direction to go in, he would pass the note filled suitcases to another pair of detectives. It wasn’t long before he got his answer.

  “No.” The reply had been accompanied by arm folding and frowning. When he was in this sort of mood Roper was pretty easy to read. He also knew his man well enough not to waste time trying to get him to change his mind. When Roper said ‘no’ he meant it.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t ask questions. “Before I pass this on, do you mind telling me why you are so convinced that there is nothing to be gained by going through the contents?”

  Roper snorted. “It seems quite obvious to me that we are looking for someone who spent a lot of time planning and wanted to make a clear statement.”

  He stopped talking and went back to his desk clearly about to get stuck into some online research. Hooley thought for a moment then decided that even by Roper’s standards this was an extreme example of communication issues.

  “I think I need a bit more from you than that. In my opinion we have to go through those suitcases and in many ways, you are the best person to do that. I know you’ve said we are looking for a careful planner, but to be honest, that is pretty obvious. Why does it rule out these letters?”

  This last was said in a slightly sarcastic tone, which was a waste of time since Roper wouldn’t notice. Roper didn’t immediately reply as he went into ‘thinking mode’ as he gathered his thoughts.

  “You’ve already told me the answer yourself.”

  A pause. “I have?”

  Silence.

  “Well if I have then could you remind me what I said. As you constantly tell me, at my age memory problems are only to be expected.” He couldn’t help sounding sarcastic for a second time.

  “While I was examining the body, I heard you say his killer had to know him really well. You were quite right.”

  While his observation last night had been pretty obvious, especially to someone who’s been a policeman for a long time, Hooley couldn’t help feeling pleased, which then made him feel embarrassed for being so easily praised. He was glad no one else was around to see him get flustered. Cooling down he realised that Roper was in one of those moods where he treated information like a miser, unwilling to release too much in one go. He was going to have to step through this to try and work out precisely what he meant.

  “Just to clarify before we go further, are you saying that because there was no sign of forced entry then he had to know his killer and it would have been someone he wouldn’t be surprised to see at his flat? So maybe a friend, or a lover?”

  “That’s right. But I doubt he would have been a friend as such, from what I’ve read he didn’t have any friends. Sounded as though he was a bit like me in that way. He didn’t know how to make friends, and the people he did know were mostly the people he criticised.

  “Everything I’ve read says he was always very careful, so he would not have allowed an angry chef through the front door, or one of the artists he accused of being talentless. But it had to be someone he knew. That’s why I’ve ruled out
the green inkers, because they would have been strangers.”

  “Ah ha,” said Hooley, thinking he had just spotted a flaw in the great man’s logic. “What if the person he knew was secretly sending him hate mail?”

  “I thought about that and dismissed it as too silly for words.”

  It was a mental slap in the face which made him purse his lips as he thought Roper was probably right, if a little undiplomatic.

  “So, what else have you been thinking about?”

  “I’ve been looking at the 3D model I created. I noticed that the scaffolding poles at the front, as we walked in, had very faint traces of paint on them, which suggests they were part of a decorating platform. With planking it would make a safe way to reach higher up spots, or ceilings.”

  “Are you suggesting that this person who knew him was a painter and decorator?”

  Roper nodded. “We do need to find out if he was having his flat redecorated. Now that I have re-called up my memories, I can see his place was in need of a coat of paint, or two. It hasn’t been touched for a long time.

  “That would explain how someone was able to get that scaffolding in there and why he let his killer in. Which also shows that this was carefully planned out and not a spur of the moment thing. Another reason why it won’t be a green ink writer, people like that wouldn’t have the patience.”

  “That’s a very interesting theory, it would explain how someone was able to get close to him, especially if, as you say, it wasn’t a friend. Why don’t we talk to his agent again, see if he can help out? Is there anyone else who might know about his private life?”

  Roper looked up and flexed his fingers. Hooley noticed this was a new habit and suspected it was a way of steeling himself for some serious research.

  “I am going to concentrate on that type of information for a while because I haven’t come across anything like that. Even though there are lots of news articles, blog posts and comments about him, there is very little about his private life. Do you think that makes him a bit strange?”