Free Dead Funny by Tanya Landman Page A

school – but by the time we reached Orangeblossom Boulevard my heart was pounding so hard that it was bruising my ribs from the inside; my lungs were threatening to burst; and I had a stitch that was practically bending me double. Poor Graham looked as if he was about to die. We paused at the end of the street just long enough to recover.
    “1171’s over there,” Graham wheezed.
    “Right,” I huffed back. “I’ll go in and see if I can find Len Radstock. We need to get him out of there. You stick around out here. Keep an eye on the door, OK? If anything happens, shout for help.”
    I took a few deep breaths and calmed myself. Then I set off along the street. I reached 1171 and studied the door. The smart apartment block had fifteen buzzers in a column. None of them had the name “Radstock”, but then that was hardly surprising.
    How was I going to find him? Once more I read the list of names next to the buzzers. They were all neatly printed and perfectly legible apart from one. The flat at the top had a label that was scuffed and the ink had run so badly that the name couldn’t be read by anyone: not pizza delivery guys, not the postman, not friends. Either it was empty, or whoever was staying there didn’t expect any visitors. Following my hunch, I pressed the buzzer. No reply. I pressed it again. Nothing.
    But then he wasn’t going to answer, was he? For all he knew, I could be the police … or the murderer. I’d have to find another way of getting in.
    I pressed the buzzer below and a voice barked through the intercom, “Yeah?”
    It was nearly lunchtime. Worth a try. “Pizza delivery!” I yelled.
    “I didn’t order no pizza.”
    “Sorry, wrong buzzer.”
    A stream of rude words crackled back at me, making me wince. I tried the next one down.
    This time the offer of food was rewarded with, “That was quick! Come on up.”
    There was a click from the lock as the person on the other end of the intercom pressed the button to release it. Pushing hard against the heavy front door, I slipped quietly into the building.
    I opted for the lift, but it moved achingly slowly. I jiggled nervously on the spot as it rose through the levels, stopping at each one, finally pinging to a complete halt on the fifteenth floor.
    This was it. I was here. I stepped into the narrow hallway. The stairs leading back down were to my right. Opposite me was the front door to the apartment Len Radstock was staying in. Or might be. I hoped I’d got it right. Swallowing nervously, I crossed the hall and knocked on the door. Not loud enough, I thought. I banged harder. No one came to answer, but I heard something inside – the faintest movement, as if someone had been startled, but had now frozen into silence. I banged again. Nothing.
    So I cleared my throat and called, “Mr Radstock? My name’s Poppy. You don’t know me, but I think I can help.”
    There was definite movement now. I heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, but it still didn’t open.
    “Please, Mr Radstock,” I tried again. “I know you didn’t do it. Kill Miss Sugarcandy, I mean. You have to get out of there. You’re in terrible danger.”
    No answer. Just the sound of someone’s breathing – short and hard as if they’d had a shock.
    “Let me in, Mr Radstock. I know who did it. I’ve worked it all out.”
    At last the door creaked open and a deep, warm, American voice drawled, “You do, huh? Like I said, you’re one smart cookie.”
    And as I was seized by the arm and yanked inside my eyes widened with horror. Because the man who had answered the door wasn’t Len Radstock.
    It was Toby.

fighting the devil
    “You know what my mother used to say to me when I was a kid?” asked Toby calmly as he tied me to a chair. Len Radstock was lying on the floor nearby, his thinning hair crusted with scarlet. He wasn’t moving. “‘Toby,’ she used to say, ‘You’re so sharp that one day you’re going to cut yourself.’ I never