morning spent drinking coffee and flicking through design books of faraway houses on stilts in the ocean or on beaches or cliffsides. A shiver ran up her spine. She took a deep breath and walked towards the W Hotel. She stood at the window and saw everyone gathered in the early morning darknessof the bar. She recognized the back of Marc Lunel’s head, his long, black shiny hair, the red tab on his Prada shoes. She saw four models, two makeup artists, two hair stylists, the intern from Vogue Living … everyone waiting for her guidance. She saw her reflection in the glass, her tired eyes, her downturned mouth, the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She turned away. She started walking. And she hailed the first cab that passed by.
When Joe got back to his desk, a white envelope lay there, stamped and addressed to him. Most of the mail he got was yellow-envelope inter-departmental. He picked it up. It was light but bulky; cheap paper with no return address. He grabbed a ruler from his drawer and sliced through it. The thin white pages were folded in half and sprang open, both sides covered in scrawled writing and short sentences: Dear Detective Lucchesi, The noise this morning was almost unbearable. I could try to create it in letters and words. I got out of bed. I wouldn’t know how. Two directions. And it’s agony. I get anxious sometimes if I do. And actually what I need is peace to find my way through everything. There was no point in just laying there. One forward, one back. I made coffee and fixed myself scrambled eggs. I still know how to do that. I’m not sure which is harder. But it was loud. Not everyone else does. I don’t think I can figure it all out without quiet. Bass and drums. There are times when I’m nearly there …
Joe paused, rubbing his temples. He flipped the page over and kept reading. On it went, a random series of thoughts and the vague sense that there was a story inside, one that only the writer knew. It was a complexity of simple facts, observations, theories and descriptions. What Joe read on the sixth page made it relevant to him. Vertically, in the right-hand margin was written: Lying, badly beaten. Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently .
Something cold shot up the back of Joe’s neck. He scanned quickly through the pages that followed, through writings about rooms and stories and calculators and theatres. It ended after sixteen pages, signed off namelessly: More will come. Captured at the right time .
‘Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘What the fuck was that?’ He called the others over.
‘Guys, I just got a letter about Ethan Lowry.’
‘A letter?’ said Danny. ‘From who?’
‘A randomer,’ said Joe.
‘Who’s Arrandoma?’ said Rencher.
‘Randomer. A random person. Person unknown. It’s something I picked up from one of Shaun’s friends in Ireland.’
‘OK, what’s this randomer saying?’ said Rencher.
‘A little and a lot,’ said Joe.
‘Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got,’ said Danny.
Joe ignored him and looked down at the letter.‘OK, so we got a lot of information on exactly where the salt is in the kitchen for when the guy is microwaving his eggs in the morning, a bunch of other stuff about what he likes to do – major detail there …
‘Did he sign it?’ said Rencher.
‘Yeah, sure he did,’ said Danny, ‘with his address too, that’s why we’re all sitting around here, trying to figure out who could have sent it.’
‘Yeah, I meant with anything—’
‘What? Like, From the killer …?’ said Danny.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Rencher.
‘Shut the fuck up all of you,’ said Joe. ‘Let me read this out to you.’ He read through the letter and waited in the silence that followed.
‘Are we taking this seriously?’ said Rencher.
‘I think we should be,’ said Joe.
‘But “ lying badly beaten ” – you could get that from a media report, that’s no insider information there,’ said
When Joe got back to his desk, a white envelope lay there, stamped and addressed to him. Most of the mail he got was yellow-envelope inter-departmental. He picked it up. It was light but bulky; cheap paper with no return address. He grabbed a ruler from his drawer and sliced through it. The thin white pages were folded in half and sprang open, both sides covered in scrawled writing and short sentences: Dear Detective Lucchesi, The noise this morning was almost unbearable. I could try to create it in letters and words. I got out of bed. I wouldn’t know how. Two directions. And it’s agony. I get anxious sometimes if I do. And actually what I need is peace to find my way through everything. There was no point in just laying there. One forward, one back. I made coffee and fixed myself scrambled eggs. I still know how to do that. I’m not sure which is harder. But it was loud. Not everyone else does. I don’t think I can figure it all out without quiet. Bass and drums. There are times when I’m nearly there …
Joe paused, rubbing his temples. He flipped the page over and kept reading. On it went, a random series of thoughts and the vague sense that there was a story inside, one that only the writer knew. It was a complexity of simple facts, observations, theories and descriptions. What Joe read on the sixth page made it relevant to him. Vertically, in the right-hand margin was written: Lying, badly beaten. Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently .
Something cold shot up the back of Joe’s neck. He scanned quickly through the pages that followed, through writings about rooms and stories and calculators and theatres. It ended after sixteen pages, signed off namelessly: More will come. Captured at the right time .
‘Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘What the fuck was that?’ He called the others over.
‘Guys, I just got a letter about Ethan Lowry.’
‘A letter?’ said Danny. ‘From who?’
‘A randomer,’ said Joe.
‘Who’s Arrandoma?’ said Rencher.
‘Randomer. A random person. Person unknown. It’s something I picked up from one of Shaun’s friends in Ireland.’
‘OK, what’s this randomer saying?’ said Rencher.
‘A little and a lot,’ said Joe.
‘Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got,’ said Danny.
Joe ignored him and looked down at the letter.‘OK, so we got a lot of information on exactly where the salt is in the kitchen for when the guy is microwaving his eggs in the morning, a bunch of other stuff about what he likes to do – major detail there …
‘Did he sign it?’ said Rencher.
‘Yeah, sure he did,’ said Danny, ‘with his address too, that’s why we’re all sitting around here, trying to figure out who could have sent it.’
‘Yeah, I meant with anything—’
‘What? Like, From the killer …?’ said Danny.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Rencher.
‘Shut the fuck up all of you,’ said Joe. ‘Let me read this out to you.’ He read through the letter and waited in the silence that followed.
‘Are we taking this seriously?’ said Rencher.
‘I think we should be,’ said Joe.
‘But “ lying badly beaten ” – you could get that from a media report, that’s no insider information there,’ said
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