~11 rights
f this book
ut written
a critical
， ss， 175 Fifth
ONE
Murders are messy. Some， of course， are more messy than
others; smother the victim with a pillow， strangle him with
piano wire， use arsenic instead of castor sugar on his sponge
cake and unless， as sometimes happens， the bowels and the
bladder empty themselves when he gives up the ghost， you
have a non-messy murder. Comparatively non-messy. But
blast off at him with a shotgun， slice his windpipe with a
sharp knife or bash his skRll in with a blunt instrument and
you have mess all over the place. Gallons of it. If the killing
takes place in a room the carpets and furnishings are
saturated in gore. Great streaks and gobs of the stuff
pattern the walls. It even splashes the ceiling. And not only
blood. Brain tissue， slivers of shattered bone， multi-
coloured mucus and membrane. All the general goo that
biology masters talk about， but rarely put on show. This
time it s all on show!
And when Clive Richardson got his， it was a very messy
murder.
Seven days ago， when his daily cleaning woman had
opened the bedroom door to deliver his morning cup of
pre-breakfast coffee， she d seen the mess and promptly
fainted. Then she d come round long enough to call the
police before fainting again.
Since then it had been all go. Door-to-door questioning，
long sessions with his friends and acquaintances， forensic
science jiggery-pokery， post mortem prodding and probing，
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