James M. Cain

Hammett

Chandler.

Here’s a thing. I can’t read Chandler’s novels any more, but his letters, phew-oh, now you’re cooking. They’re on my bedside table, resting on my old man’s Bible. His book passed down through generations of navvies to land here in Clapham. Could be worse, could be Kilburn.

Might be yet.

Used to be if you were in a hotel and wanted a hooker, open the Gideon Bible back page, bingo. Not any more. I blame the Internet, all that cybersex and chat rooms, they’ve taken the zing out of dirt.

I’m not going to get caught. I’m due for another kill on Friday, a woman this time, keep the balance. The reason I won’t get caught is not just cos I’m smart but I have an edge.

I watch CSI.

STUDY IT.

So I’m au fait… With all the DNA fibres, signatures, trophies, crap. Two things in my corner, I’m random and I’m careful.

Hard to top.

They won’t.

I’ve read the true crime books, from Ann Rule through Joe McGinnis to Jack Olsen. Man I know my shit. Am I a psychopath? A sociopath? A paranoid schizophrenic? A narcissistic disorder? A blip on the human radar?

Who the fuck cares. What I am is good and angry, like Peter Finch in Network. You think you can label me, tame me?

Dream on, sucker.

I’m the pale rider of Clapham.

But hey, let’s get it down. I’m not into weird shit. None of that cannibalism or jerking off on bodies. Jeez, I hate that stuff. Truth to tell, I can’t even read about it. And child molesters? Don’t get me started.

Kids? Would I kill a kid? No way, Jose. Not unless he was in a boy band.

This is my reality TV. Killing for prime time.

Here’s another thing, hope you’re taking notes cos, like, I’ll be asking questions. Ever see that profiler shine they pedal? Me now, they’d typically pin as: