Free Crime Writers and Other Animals by Simon Brett Page A

direction.
    Bartlett Mears would die in a fire at his home.
    It was hard for Carlton Rutherford – or anyone else – to avoid knowing his victim’s tall Victorian Hampstead house, so frequently was it featured in colour supplements and television profiles of its owner.
    Bartlett Mears took the image of the impractical artist to extremes and was nationally known to live in a state of paper-strewn chaos. Coupling this fact with his heavy drinking and smoking – not to mention his reliance on sleeping pills – what was more likely than that a casually discarded cigarette butt should ignite a pile of papers in his house and cause a life-ending conflagration . . .?
    Carlton Rutherford began surveillance of the murder scene, and soon discovered that Bartlett Mears never walked anywhere. If he was going out, a taxi would arrive to take him to his destination; and on his sodden return a late-evening taxi would pour him out on to his doorstep. Then he would presumably take a few more drinks to anaesthetize himself further before falling into bed and – usually – remembering to turn out the light of his first-floor bedroom.
    Obviously the fire would have to take place at night. At that time its victim’s stupor and the lack of witnesses would give the conflagration a chance to take a good hold before emergency services could be summoned. But a little planning was required to ensure that a really good blaze was quickly achieved.
    One day, when Bartlett Mears had been taxied away for a long lunch (all his lunches were long ones), his nemesis – Carlton Rutherford – slipped through the side gate of the house and examined the dustbins in the passage.
    He quickly found what he wanted. In common with many other writers, Bartlett Mears was a member of a whole raft of literary organizations like the Society of Authors, PEN and the Writers’ Guild. Also in common with many other writers, Bartlett Mears immediately consigned the literature of these organizations – the
Author, Pen International
, the
Writers’ Newsletter
– unopened and unread into his dustbin. Carlton Rutherford did not have to search long to find a sheaf of solid envelopes all printed with his quarry’s name and address.
    Once he had secured these, and bought vodka, cigarettes and matches, his preparations were complete. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to put his plan into action.
    The television gave him his cue. One Tuesday he was watching the end of
Newsnight
and heard the presenter say, ‘Tomorrow evening in
Newsnight
we’ll be discussing the pros and cons of the Net Book Agreement, and amongst those giving his – no doubt trenchant – views will be the author Bartlett Mears.’
    It was typical that the BBC should try to enliven an extremely dull topic by bringing in Bartlett. Whatever the subject, he could always be relied on to say something outrageous – particularly at such a late hour when his day’s drinking would really have started to build up. He was bound after the programme to have a few more drinks in one of the BBC hospitality suites, before rolling into the car that would decant him in Hampstead.
    Carlton Rutherford felt almost uncannily calm the following evening as he sat in his little flat in Upper Norwood, watching
Newsnight
. Bartlett Mears behaved predictably. He was rudely dismissive of other eminent authors, gratuitously offensive to the rather pretty girl conducting the interview, and he used the word ‘shit’ twice to ensure that the BBC switchboard would be briefly jammed by offended listeners. It was in fact the performance for which he had been booked.
    Carlton Rutherford was still calm as he got into his dilapidated Austin Allegro and drove easily across London to Hampstead. As he had anticipated, his quarry had refreshed himself for a while with BBC hospitality, and Carlton had been parked opposite the house waiting for a full