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303 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 2, 2024
And so I became a Gladden Green enthusiast and then, once I arrived at the Neele, a Gladden Green expert – though on the sly, since I do not really like the idea of anyone knowing that anything matters to me very much. I especially did not want them knowing about my love of what they might wrongly consider the subliterary corpus of a conceited old sow.
For I should say, even now, people mostly do not take Gladden Green seriously. But then, people are idiots.
Crime bookshops smell weird, because of all that cheap paper in one place. The crime-fiction subculture is a world in which, my career in Green notwithstanding, I have never had much interest. There is something vaguely pornographic about it. When one talks to hard-core crime people, one invariably has the impression that they would much rather be listening to a description of the mutilated body of a young girl than whatever one is saying.
Was I a crazy woman, haphazardly but unmistakably drifting down and out, sick, unemployed, drunk, obsessed with solving a murder that had never occurred? Or was I a maverick, pursuing truth and justice when no one believed in me, even at the cost of my own well being? I should have bought myself a cat way back, when Nancy got the curator's job at the Neele, and saved myself all this anguish. But then I would have had (ugh!) hairs and poo and cat puke all over my flat at the Gatehouse – I understand there are things called hairballs that cats produce. I didn't even want to think about those. No, a cat was not a price I would have been willing to pay, even in retrospect.