Crackpot

Crackpot
Philip Loraine

In the opening paragraph of the novel a murderer describes the process of picking up an unknown girl in a club prior to strangling her, and admits to disposing of nine others in similar manner. The murderer then returns to Crestcote House, a gothic mansion which has been turned into a peaceful retreat for ‘artists of recognised stature’.The community comprises an eccentric composer, a reclusive iron-worker, a beautiful sculptress, a discontented novelist, and three assorted painters, one female, two male. The lord of this remarkable manor is a philanderer, and the place is known locally (and not surprisingly) as Crackpot Castle. No one suspects, however, that one of the denizens is a serial killer.And no one need ever have suspected if the killer had not elected to play a practical joke on fellow residents which led to a spate of lies, an unsuccessful blackmail attempt – and another killing.This time Chief Inspector Tom Pennard is very much on the scene. Under his questioning suspicion flickers like a will-o’-the-wisp from one person to the next, while all the time the murderer, anonymous and supposedly secure, offers the reader a first-hand commentary on the unfolding of events, leading to a dramatic unmasking in the final paragraphs of this cunningly plotted story.

PHILIP LORAINE

Crackpot

COPYRIGHT (#ulink_fdbc6b72-7611-56dc-ba87-1c9e7f62179f)

HarperFiction

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First published in Great Britain in 1993 by The Crime Club

Copyright © Philip Loraine 1993

Philip Loraine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780002324366

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252748

Version: 2017-03-29

Crackpot

In the opening paragraph of Philip Loraine’s novel a murderer describes the process of picking up an unknown girl in a club prior to strangling her, and admits to disposing of nine others in a similar manner. The murderer then returns to Crestcote House, a gothic mansion which has been turned into a peaceful retreat for ‘artists of recognized stature’.

The community comprises an eccentric composer, a reclusive iron-worker, a beautiful sculptress, a discontented novelist, and three assorted painters, one female, two male. The lord of this remarkable manor is a philanderer, and the place is known locally (and not surprisingly) as Crackpot Castle. No one suspects, however, that one of the denizens is a serial killer.

And no one need ever have suspected if the killer had not elected to play a practical joke on fellow residents which led to a spate of lies, an unsuccessful blackmail attempt—and another killing.

This time Chief Inspector Tom Pennard is very much on the scene. Under his questioning suspicion flickers like a will-o’-the-wisp from one person to the next, while all the time the murderer, anonymous and supposedly secure, offers the reader a first-hand commentary on the unfolding of events, leading to a dramatic unmasking in the final paragraphs of this cunningly plotted story.

CONTENTS

Cover (#u318e2634-4121-5117-9267-fe173f962cbf)

Title Page (#uce0ed8d7-1bee-5c81-b37e-5549e348250f)

Copyright (#ulink_fd558324-f133-5565-a4e1-e42015955658)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_bc8ff328-26aa-59e8-b7fe-d4684888dd8d)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_2a4bd5df-24a1-5808-91f3-6dc747720a5d)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_cb036252-fc0f-51bc-90fe-338b32898707)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_1d8f4632-38e1-5c7f-8601-0fdf68d65dc7)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_fbc3464a-560b-5bea-846a-8227c888f368)

Before I actually kill I seem to experience tunnel-vision, my whole being concentrated on the search and its inevitable conclusion. Although I don’t care for the idea, I suppose I’m like a junkie aiming for the next fix, and certainly what I do is addictive; but at least it doesn’t leave me a snot-dribbling half-human who will only move again when the desire for more becomes unendurable. Like certain drugs, killing enlarges and revitalizes me, enables me to work twice as well and twice as hard, but the period between my fixes is mercifully a long one—I seldom kill more than once a year.

As for the danger of being caught, it seems that I must take reasonable precautions because I never have been caught, nor, as far as I know, come within a mile of it. I’m not aware of these precautions, any more than a hunting animal is aware of the necessity for slow and cautious movement as it approaches its prey.

Take tonight. I found the name of the bar in Time Out, always a useful source of information. I’d never been to it before, and it was in a part of London, Battersea, which I hardly ever visit. It was called Lucky’s which amused me. As always, I found myself walking up and down the streets on either side of it. Planning? I don’t know, I’m not conscious of that part of my mind, it works as a separate entity, doing its own job and reporting what it feels. Sometimes the report is negative; I don’t inquire into the reasons, there’s no point. I simply take another look at Time Out and choose another place. Tonight the report was positive.

So I went into Lucky’s, paying an exorbitant ‘membership fee’. This didn’t worry me because I saw the girl as soon as I entered the large dimly-lit room, not for once rocking with the mindless racket of disco but with the comparatively subtle rhythm of the Charleston. The place, what one could see of it, was decorated to match in a vaguely 20’s style. But I only noticed this later; my eyes were initially blind to everything except the girl, or rather to her long neck caught by a random spotlight.