‘He says he can’t remember,’ said DI Lansbury. I could hear Sergeant Tuck in the background.

The contestant with seven letters said the word ‘spatula’.

‘Anyway, sir, we just wanted to let you know that we’ve not forgotten about either you or your poems. In fact, you might say that you are our “rhyme” suspect.’

He was still chuckling as he put the phone down.

Susie Dent had got the word ‘autopsia’. I wrote the letters into 18 down of the crossword. ‘An alternative word to “autopsy”,’ she told us, ‘a post-mortem examination of a corpse.’

I went back out to the shed to review where things had got to.

Thursday November 8th

My meeting over-ran. By the time I got there, Bramwell Price was climaxing with a piece from his seminal collection, Emanations. The room was half-empty and it was clear that this was a poet whose star was on the wane, no matter how forceful and arresting his ejaculations were.

The audience dissipated quickly at the end of his performance and I seized my chance.

‘That was quite something,’ I said.

‘Was it really?’ he replied disinterestedly. ‘That’s a deeply unfashionable view to hold these days, you know.’

‘Yes. After what Toby Salt had said about you, my expectations were low. But . . . wow! That was . . . terrific!’

I knew it hadn’t come out quite right. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. ‘Who are you?’

‘A new fan?’ I tried.

‘Well, whoever you are, understand this. Toby Salt is someone of absolute inconsequence to me. And before you ask: no, I don’t have any idea where he is. He could have disappeared up his own arse for all I care. One more thing, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll call security.’

I wasn’t in the mood to be scuffled so I made myself scarce. But I left the building with the knowledge that Toby Salt’s disappearance had left Bramwell Price a very worried man.

Friday November 9th

Why I No Longer Write Love Letters

Oh b oody he  !

My keyboard has a broken ‘ ’.

It seemed to work OK ast night,

as far as I cou d te  .

h n  ! The ’ ‘ has g ne as we  ;

yet an ther key that’s damaged.

Such misbeha i ur’s ery weird.

And n w my  ’ ‘  has anished.

It isn’t easy t write ike this.

My w rds are p aced in fetters.

k! N w th  ’   ‘  has disapp ar d!

That’s th last f my      tt rs.

Sergeant Tuck has been to collect the typewriter from my shed; DI Lansbury was attending a murder-scene health and safety course in Loughborough, he told me.