Hands of the Ripper by Adams Guy

Author:Adams, Guy [Adams, Guy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781446492079
Publisher: Random House UK
Published: 2012-07-05T06:00:00+00:00

Ten

The Tragedy of the Elizabeth

WHEN THE PHONE rang, Probert was relieved – though he wouldn’t be for long. He had been unsure quite how much shoddy musical theatre he could stand before smashing his wine glass and digging out his eardrums with the stem.

One of the very worst things about his marriage with Kathleen was her insistence on spending the majority of their time in the city. He would much prefer to be lounging around the estate. Getting lost in the woods, perhaps. Maybe shooting the odd animal and pretending it was his wife. But no; Kathleen loved culture. As much as he tried to convince her that the majority of it was as rancid and bacterial as the name suggested, she would not be swayed. They went to theatres, opera houses, concert halls, anywhere the review columns in the bloody Telegraph convinced her artistry might be found. Probert hated it all. Currently he was being bombarded by five faux transsexuals exploring the difficulties of post-op psychology through the medium of the rock ballad. The lead, an imported Yank apparently famous for being in some medical drama or another, was currently straddling a large chipboard scalpel that thrust into the audience. The imagery was so unsubtle Probert’s eyes were bruised almost as badly as his ears.

‘What about tomorrow?’ the Yank sang, ‘who shall I be then?’

‘An out-of-work actor if there’s any justice,’ mumbled the peer just as his mobile phone began to beep loudly.

‘You’re supposed to turn it off!’ reminded his wife, with a spray of spittle that might as well be venom. It’ll probably burn a hole in the upholstery, he thought and actually smiled. ‘I don’t know what you think’s so funny,’ she added, ‘turn it off! You’re disturbing the rest of the audience.’

‘I think the cast are doing that perfectly adequately,’ he replied, answering the phone and stepping out of their box into the corridor outside.

‘Whoever you are,’ he said, ‘I’m so glad you called.’ He strolled along the passageway of deep-red velvet and yellowing cornicing, like a pretentious airport tunnel leading passengers back to their real lives.

‘You won’t be by the time I’ve finished,’ said Aida Golding. ‘There’s been another death.’

‘Nothing to do with me, my dear,’ he replied. ‘Might I suggest you call a lawyer instead?’

‘I’m making it to do with you,’ she snarled, ‘unless you want people digging back over what happened last night.’

‘The old priest topped himself with a bread knife,’ Probert said, lowering his voice when he saw the look of horror on the face of an elderly steward waiting by the entrance to the stalls. ‘He can hardly have done so again so I fail to see the connection.’

‘Tonight was definitely not suicide. Someone took my poor Alasdair and nailed him to the door of the venue …’

Her voice broke off and Probert realised that you could unnerve Aida Golding, you just had to work very hard to do so.

‘That’s perfectly horrid,’ he said, ‘and you have my sympathies naturally, but I still don’t see what the connection is.

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