A few years ago, the metropolitan police spent £246,000 on music licences. I bet none of it was opera. Fools. They wouldn’t get away with that in my force. Canned music in the office is OK, if you like that sort of thing; live opera, on the other hand, is food for the soul, but it requires dedication.
My local opera house is old. When I bought my first season ticket, the only seats I could afford were in the stalls below the Circle. The sound there is terrible. Five rows in front of me, beyond the shadow of the Circle, the seats are in clear air and the sound is pure. Those seats are all taken by season ticket holders who have the right to first refusal on renewal each year.
A year after I bought my season ticket, an elderly couple a row in front of me died, and when I renewed my ticket, the next year I was moved forward one row. One row nearer to bliss.
Over the next two years, I suffered the agony of muffled arias and muted violins. How many more of those anonymous heads in front of me needed to die before I could get a seat in the pure sound? At least six, I calculated, but something nearer to a dozen would be more reliable. None of them looked ill.
I can’t remember what took up the most time: finding their names and addresses, or researching ways to kill them so that every death was different. Any hint of a common modus operandi might create suspicion.
The first year of my campaign, I moved forward two rows. Better, but not good enough. My salary improved as I moved up the ranks and I knew I could afford one of the best seats, if only they weren’t all taken, year after year. I killed seven old stagers the next year and moved forward two rows, almost there. One or two more years and I would be in clear air, with almost perfect sound.
It became ever harder to find original ways to kill. The next year I managed only four more. I was astonishingly careful, obsessive about every detail, reverse engineering the forensics to throw off suspicion. Thank God for opera. Without that, I might have freaked out completely. Two performances each month, even in my dull seat, kept me sane.
It was so hard to go a whole year without putting a foot wrong, but I got my reward. Two more rows forward and perfect acoustics. From that time on, the uplift I felt after each concert was so great, I was able to face the continuous hassle at work. Every day I’d sit at my desk, surrounded by keen young detectives, full of enthusiasm and bright ideas.
Today we were staring at a huge map with sixteen unexplained deaths. “Tell me again,” I said.
“It’s some sort of revolutionary group boss, with a grudge against toffs. The opera’s the clue. Someone who hates opera has been killing them off. Look at the victims, they have one thing in common, they’ve all bought Opera CDs, season tickets to the opera house, trips to Covent Garden. They are all opera buffs. Someone hates them, but all the MOs are different, so it must be a group.”
“You think there’s a revolutionary group bumping off opera lovers? That’s your best guess? Any other signs of this group? Any manifesto on the net? Have the spooks given us anything?”
“Not so far, boss.”
Now for the cunning bit. “I commend your enthusiasm, boys,” I said, “but I can see a weakness in your argument. That spending pattern, for example, it could be me, I’ve bought all of those things myself. I fit the victim profile exactly.”
I scanned around the serious looking faces in front of me. “It’s a plausible story, but there have been no deaths this year. Unless you can find this group, it looks like a dead end.” I said. “There is one thing though.”
“What’s that boss?”
“I’m obviously lucky to be alive.”
My local opera house is old. When I bought my first season ticket, the only seats I could afford were in the stalls below the Circle. The sound there is terrible. Five rows in front of me, beyond the shadow of the Circle, the seats are in clear air and the sound is pure. Those seats are all taken by season ticket holders who have the right to first refusal on renewal each year.
A year after I bought my season ticket, an elderly couple a row in front of me died, and when I renewed my ticket, the next year I was moved forward one row. One row nearer to bliss.
Over the next two years, I suffered the agony of muffled arias and muted violins. How many more of those anonymous heads in front of me needed to die before I could get a seat in the pure sound? At least six, I calculated, but something nearer to a dozen would be more reliable. None of them looked ill.
I can’t remember what took up the most time: finding their names and addresses, or researching ways to kill them so that every death was different. Any hint of a common modus operandi might create suspicion.
The first year of my campaign, I moved forward two rows. Better, but not good enough. My salary improved as I moved up the ranks and I knew I could afford one of the best seats, if only they weren’t all taken, year after year. I killed seven old stagers the next year and moved forward two rows, almost there. One or two more years and I would be in clear air, with almost perfect sound.
It became ever harder to find original ways to kill. The next year I managed only four more. I was astonishingly careful, obsessive about every detail, reverse engineering the forensics to throw off suspicion. Thank God for opera. Without that, I might have freaked out completely. Two performances each month, even in my dull seat, kept me sane.
It was so hard to go a whole year without putting a foot wrong, but I got my reward. Two more rows forward and perfect acoustics. From that time on, the uplift I felt after each concert was so great, I was able to face the continuous hassle at work. Every day I’d sit at my desk, surrounded by keen young detectives, full of enthusiasm and bright ideas.
Today we were staring at a huge map with sixteen unexplained deaths. “Tell me again,” I said.
“It’s some sort of revolutionary group boss, with a grudge against toffs. The opera’s the clue. Someone who hates opera has been killing them off. Look at the victims, they have one thing in common, they’ve all bought Opera CDs, season tickets to the opera house, trips to Covent Garden. They are all opera buffs. Someone hates them, but all the MOs are different, so it must be a group.”
“You think there’s a revolutionary group bumping off opera lovers? That’s your best guess? Any other signs of this group? Any manifesto on the net? Have the spooks given us anything?”
“Not so far, boss.”
Now for the cunning bit. “I commend your enthusiasm, boys,” I said, “but I can see a weakness in your argument. That spending pattern, for example, it could be me, I’ve bought all of those things myself. I fit the victim profile exactly.”
I scanned around the serious looking faces in front of me. “It’s a plausible story, but there have been no deaths this year. Unless you can find this group, it looks like a dead end.” I said. “There is one thing though.”
“What’s that boss?”
“I’m obviously lucky to be alive.”