Free Bloodhounds by Peter Lovesey

McDonald."
    "Yes. He'd adore the humor, and he'd appreciate the logic of the plots and he'd soon be into Westlake and McBain and Block and ultimately Ellroy."
    "There is a way in through women writers," Shirley-Ann pointed out.
    "True." Jessica laughed. "True in theory. But you don't know Milo."
    Shirley-Ann raised her eyebrows, and Jessica nodded.
    Much more gossip about the Bloodhounds would certainly have emerged, but Shirley-Ann didn't want to appear overcurious. She turned the conversation back to the art and was rewarded with an invitation to a private view on Wednesday of the following week.
    "I won't pretend it's anything amazing," Jessica explained. "Rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic, A.J. calls it. The same people tend to come each time, but it does pull in a few dealers, and I sell enough to cover the cost of the buck's fizz and Twiglets. You'll see a couple of faces there you know. And don't, for God's sake, feel under any obligation to buy."

Chapter Ten
    When John Wigfull emerged from his press conference Diamond was in the main office reading the poem—if that isn't too grandiose a description of the four lines of verse that had misled everyone, including himself.
    "Was it grueling, John?" he asked, with a matey grin.
    "I didn't expect an easy ride."
    "You took.my advice, I hope?"
    "What was that?" said Wigfull in a hollow, preoccupied tone. "Look, no offense, Peter, but I don't have time to talk. There are urgent things to attend to."
    "Like a strong coffee? The throat does get dry, answering those damn fool questions."
    Whatever the state of Wigfull's throat, his vocal cords had no difficulty in projecting his growing impatience. "I'm heading a major inquiry. This is the world's most valuable stamp. It's far more serious than your shooting in Saltford."
    "Not in the eyes of the law, it isn't, and not to the bloke who was Jdlled. So you're calling for reinforcements, no doubt?"
    "I'll use every man and woman on the regional crime squad if necessary." There was no doubting Wigfull's commitmerit. His jaw jutted like Churchill's uttering the "blood, toil, tears and sweat5' speech.
    "And what are your lines of inquiry?"
    "For a start, I'm going to have that bloody poem analyzed by forensic."
    "What for—to see if it scans?" Before Wigfull reacted to that, Diamond added, "Because if you hope to learn something from the copies that were sent to the media, you'd better think again. I've got one here." He held out the sheet of paper he had been studying, but Wigfull displayed no interest. "There was a time when it was possible to look at a piece of typing and say which typewriter was used, thanks to some tiny flaw in one of the characters. 'Pray examine this small irregularity in the letter W. It proves conclusively that the note was typed on Professor Moriarty's Smith-Corona.' Not these days, laddie. Moriarty puts it through a word processor and runs it off on a laser printer that gives a perfect finish, indistinguishable from a million others. Then he photocopies it. Your forensic friends aren't going to help you, John." A favorite theme of Diamond's, and worth repeating each time he got the chance.
    Wigfull was not to be downed. "Wrong. With fluorescence under laser illumination they can get good fingerprints off paper these days."
    "All the prints except the thief's."
    "You can't say that."
    "This guy is smart, John. He won't have left any prints. Have you checked the spelling?"
    "The spelling?"
    "Of the words in the note."
    "Let me have another look." Wigfull snatched the scrap of paper from Diamond and stared at the words. "I can't see anything wrong with this."
    "Nor I," said Diamond, after a pause. "Like I said, he's smart. We know the bugger can spell."
    That "we" rang an alarm bell for Wigfull. He thrust his head forward combatively. "You and I had better get one thing straight, Peter. This one is mine. Just because I listened to you about the press conference it doesn't mean you can muscle