The Literary Spider,

Carlton looked up long enough to readjust his glasses, and then he was back to work. There had been another murder, just like all the others, and still he was no closer to catching the twisted soul who did it. Whoever it was had left no hair, no blood, no DNA, so he abandoned that road and concentrated on the last victim instead. She had died from a single knife wound in the jugular, no apparent struggle. In her last moments she had no traces on her hands except satin, and that could mean..? Truth was, he didn’t know. It was a hopeless puzzle with far too many pieces and Carlton was getting impatient.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced at the picture of the crime scene. He wished he could be there, he had a feeling it would help somehow, but his superiors had been banned from the entire case. They had only hired him, an amateur, because he wasn’t likely to disobey rules and go.

However, his employers weren’t the nicest of people. They had marched in, flicking ash from their smoke-sticks everywhere and stated (politely though, to do them credit) that if he didn’t accept the case with its conditions he would be executed or worse. Most of him screamed that was an empty bluff, but fear, or grudging respect for the official seals on their jackets, made him agree.

And where had that got him? Drowning in a sea of conflicting sightings, reports and theories, and he wasn’t even allowed near the bloody crime scene. Carlton scraped his chair back angrily and paced, which was what he did when faced with difficult decisions. What right did they have? People nowadays were like sheep, they would panic at the slightest opportunity, and considering there had been 6 murders before this one, it wouldn’t be long before fear began to spread. His employers were preventing him from getting to the bottom of the case, and every second he waited the crowds got closer to rioting, then it would the Burnings all over again.

Suddenly, the phone rang, jerking Carlton out of his internal debate. It was a cheap thing, not even real brass, and the steam that it issued was black and foul smelling. He tentatively lifted the receiver and listened, aware that he was holding his breath, He wasn’t quite sure why he was so frightened as such, but after the rebellious thoughts he had been playing host to, there was no telling if they had heard him or not. In a world like this, it paid to be paranoid.

‘Detective’ came a gravely, far off voice. ‘Are you there?’ Carlton couldn’t speak. You could almost hear the man pause to think. ‘No matter, you need to know, I can only hope you record your calls. I have a tip for you. Go to the Third Eye immediately, there you will find a newspaper, take it. Don’t talk to anyone about this; you understand I am putting myself on the line to get you this information.’ Carlton forced his sandpaper tongue to work, and managed to stutter one question ‘Who are you?’ The man laughed, or it sounded like it. ‘That is something you do not need to know, or can’t know at any rate. Goodbye’

He hung up.

Carlton stood with the mouthpiece limp in his hand, dumbfounded. Every man in a ten-mile radius knew about the Third Eye, it was the best place for a pint of bitter in the whole of New New England. It would be an ideal place to hide something, with its huge crowds, loud laughter and off colour jokes giving the place an air of being full even when it wasn’t. Almost without realising he had picked up his coat and donned his hat, and he was out of the door before he even considered the consequences.