Read Online The Anniversary Man by R.J. Ellory - Free Book Online Page B

every line, every potential scenario that Irving could extrapolate from the girl′s death, had been explored, explored again, explored a third time. The parents′ alibis were incontrovertible. There was nothing. Irving repeatedly put his hand into a paper bag and came back empty.
    The file sat on the edge of his desk. It was very soon hidden beneath a copy of The New York Times, an envelope of photographs that seemed to have lost its case-ID tab, a coffee cup, an empty Coke can.

    No more than half a dozen blocks south west, John Costello sat staring at a cork board across from his desk in the research office of the New York City Herald. Pinned at eye level was the small two-inch column detailing the discovery of Mia Grant′s body, the few details regarding her age, her school, her father′s occupation, and at the very bottom - now underlined in red - the fact that she had apparently been en route to a job inquiry in Murray Hill.
    Beside the newspaper clipping was a half page torn from the locally circulated freep, and on it - circled in ink - was an ad from Thursday June 1st.
    Girl wanted. Part-time domestic work. Negotiable rates of pay. Flexible hours.
    The phone number given carried a Murray Hill prefix.
    In John Costello′s measured and precise hand he had written June 3 Carignan Want Ad and then, alongside the circled item ????.
    It seemed, from where he sat and the intense expression on his face, that he was transfixed by these items.
    When the phone on his desk rang he started, snatched the receiver from the cradle.
    He listened, half-smiled, and then said, ′Yes ma′am, be there in a moment.′

THREE
    ′T he simple truth is that we′re looking at something like eighteen T thousand murders a year in the U.S. That′s fifteen hundred a month, roughly four hundred a week, fifty-seven every day, one every twenty-five and a half minutes. Only two hundred a year are the work of serial killers . . .′ John Costello smiled. ′As far as is known.′
    New York City Herald Assistant Editor-in-Chief, Leland Winter, leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and looked enquiringly at Karen Langley, Senior Crime Correspondent, the woman for whom John Costello worked as a researcher.
    John Costello counted the bonsai trees on Winter′s desk. There were eight. The second from the right was almost perfectly symmetrical.
    ′So what do you want from me?′ Winter asked.
    ′Three pages, three consecutive Sundays,′ Langley said. She glanced at Costello and smiled.
    ′Feature editorial on the serial killer victims that never make the headlines?′
    ′Right,′ Karen Langley said.
    Winter nodded slowly and then turned to Costello.
    Costello looked at Winter. He tilted his head to one side. ′Can I ask you something, Mr Winter?′
    ′Sure,′ Winter said.
    ′The trees . . . the ones on your desk—′
    ′John,′ Karen Langley interjected. The sound of his name was a whispered syllable, a prompt, a reprimand.
    Winter smiled, leaned forward. ′The trees . . . what about them?′
    Costello nodded his head. ′I don′t know that I′ve ever seen anything so beautiful, Mr Winter. They really are the most remarkable specimens.′
    ′You know bonsai?′ Winter asked. ′And for God′s sake, John, no-one calls me Mr Winter except the IRS and the police. Call me Leland.′
    Costello shook his head. ′Do I know bonsai? No, not really, only enough to know when someone else knows what they′re doing.′
    ′Why thank you, John. That′s most appreciated. They really are a great passion of mine.′
    ′I can see that, Leland, I really can.′
    Leland Winter and John Costello sat there for some moments. The room was silent. They looked at the bonsai trees from opposite sides of the desk. Karen Langley believed she might as well not have been there.
    Eventually Winter turned and looked at her. ′So propose me something, Karen . . . put a few boards together, let me see how it looks, okay? I don′t know about three