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Patrick Flanagan grabbed it the day it was pushed through the letterbox and hid it here. Now turn to page thirty-eight, headed
Bullets,
and look at this week’s thousand pound winner.”
    The inspector read aloud, “
Mr PF, of Teddington, Middlesex
. That’s Patrick Flanagan. No wonder he was out celebrating.”
    â€œBut Patrick didn’t do the Bullets!” said Mrs Flanagan in awe.
    â€œRight, it was your father who provided the winning entry. Being unable to walk more than a few steps, he relied on Patrick to post it for him. Patrick ripped open the envelope and entered the competition under his own name. I dare say he’d played the trick before, because the old man was known to have a flare for Bullets.”
    â€œThey’re second nature to him,” said Mrs Flanagan.
    â€œPatrick delayed paying in the cheque. I’m sure we’ll find it in here somewhere. He hid the magazine under the carpet so that your father shouldn’t find out, but the old chap managed to get hold of a copy.”
    â€œHe sent me out to buy it.”
    â€œAnd when he saw the competition page, he was outraged. The main object of his life was to win that competition. He’d been robbed of his moment of glory by a shabby trick from his son-in-law. So last night he went to the study and collected the gun and lay in wait. The rest you know.”
    The inspector let out a breath so deep and so long it seemed to empty his lungs. “You’re clever, Father.”
    â€œA man’s soul was at stake, Inspector.”
    â€œNot a good man.”
    â€œIt’s not for us to judge.”
    Mrs Flanagan said, “What was the winning entry?”
    â€œWell, the phrase was ‘A Policeman’s Lot’.”
    â€œâ€˜A Lawfully Big Adventure’,” said the murderer with pride, entering the room.

RAZOR BILL
    C onstable Thackeray gripped his skirt and managed a few more steps towards the next lamp. Then he tried glancing over his shoulder, as women of that profession do. Difficult. He was wearing a leather collar that was meant to protect his throat. This was the most worrying assignment of his long career.
    â€œIt’s simple,” Sergeant Cribb had told him. “You’re a decoy. We dress you up as a streetwalker, fit you with a padded leather choker and invite Razor Bill to slash your throat.” Regardless that Thackeray looked nothing like a streetwalker and anything but inviting. “In a bonnet and skirt on a foggy night, you’ll do famously. Our man isn’t too particular.”
    In that harsh winter of 1882, Razor Bill was the Yard’s top priority. Four prostitutes had perished on the streets of Pimlico, throats severed from ear to ear. Not much detective work was needed to tell that the murder weapon was a razor; not much editorial work from the press to give the perpetrator his nickname. Newspaper sales shot up.
    Thackeray sniffed meat-pie as he passed an eating-house. No use thinking of supper. He was under constant surveillance by Cribb and a handful of B Division detectives disguised as revellers across the street. The minute the attack came, they would pounce, so they said. All he had to do was grab some part of Bill’s anatomy and hang on.
    Hang on with what? He could barely feel his fingers. He was hungry, cold and miserable. Cribb had insisted his beard came off – five years’ magnificent growth. “What are you griping for? It’ll grow again.”
    Worse, they’d got to work on his pale face with paint and powder. In the end he’d submitted to the whole boiling: petticoats, skirt, blouse, boots, feather boa, wig and a large plush hat. His first concern wasn’t Razor Bill. It was being recognised by someone he knew.
    Around two p.m. Chelsea Bridge Road started to empty. All the activity of the last hour dwindled to an occasional cab. This was when Bill was most likely to strike. One unfortunate creature