"Kim Newman - Soho Golem" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

unnatural and occult. Still, in this parish, it'd be unusual not to find a soupçon of eldritch atmos, eh? This
is east of Piccadilly, mon ami. Vibes swirl like a walnut whip. If London has a psychic storm centre, it's
on this page of the A to Z. Look about, pal—most punters here are dowsing with their dickybirds. It's
not hard to find water."

A skinny blonde in hotpants, platforms and a paisley haltertop sidled out of Crawford Street. She cast a
lazy look at them, eyes hoisting pennyweights of pancake and false lash. Richard bowed to her with a
cavalier flourish, smile lifting his Fu Manchu. The girl's own psychic powers cut in.

"Fuzz," she sniffed, and scarpered.

"Everyone's a detective," Richard observed, straightening.

"Or a tart," said Fred.

The girl fled. Heart-shaped windows cut out of the seat of her shorts showed pale skin and a sliver of
Marks and Sparks knicker. Four-inch stack-soles made for a tottering, Thunderbirds-puppet gait that
was funnier than sexy.

"That said, shouldn't this place be veritably swarming with the filth?" commented Richard. "One of their
own down, and all that. Uniforms, sirens, yellow tape across the door, Black Mariahs hauling in the
usual susses, grasses shaken down? All holidays cancelled, whole shift working overtime to nick the
toerag who snuffed a copper while he was about his duty? And where's the wreath? There should be one
on the street, with some junior Hawkshaw posted in that alcove there, in case the crim revisits the scene
to gloat and lingers long enough to get nabbed."

Richard had put his finger on something that had bothered Fred. One of the man's talents was noticing
things unusual by their absence. The proverbial dog that didn't bark in the night.

"This isn't Dock Green, Richard. And DI Brian 'Boot Boy' Booth isn't—wasn't—George Dixon."

Now he thought about it, Fred wondered if Busy had even told the Yard about Booth. He might have
thought giving Fred the shout was all duty, and a sense of self-preservation, required. In which case,
there would be a load of forms to fill in before bedtime.

Usually, Fred got involved in cases by Richard. They were both assets of the Diogenes Club, an
institution that quietly existed to cope with matters beyond the purview of regular police and intelligence
services. Last month, it had been flower children plucked from Glastonbury Tor by "bright lights in the
sky" which the boffins reckoned were extradimensional rather than extraterrestrial; before that, a Brixton
papa loa whose racket was giving out teterodotoxin-cut ganja at a street festival and enslaving a cadre of
zombies through the voodoo beat of a reggae number Fred still couldn't get out of his head.

This time, the call came directly to Fred from Harry "Busy" Boddey. Fred's secondment to work with
Richard had been extended so long he sometimes forgot he was still a sergeant in the Metropolitan
Police, with space in the boot-rack at New Scotland Yard. He hadn't seen Busy since Hendon College,
which was deliberate. DC Boddey was a trimmer, a taker-of-shortcuts; the cheery cheeky chappie
chatter and carved-into-his-cheeks smirk didn't distract from ice-chips in his eyes. Through rozzer
gossip, Fred heard Busy had landed his dream job.

On the phone, Busy hadn't sounded as if he were still smirking.