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PHILIP LORAINE
Crackpot
HarperFiction
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
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
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
