I pulled out a book at random – it had a solid yellow spine and a DAW logo. The cover looked like a classic Frazetta or a good imitation – all muscular white men and women in implausibly tight spacesuits with bubble helmets. The title was The Crystal Spires of Mazarin by T.J. Morton. I checked the next book along and found it was the same title – this time the New English Library edition with a cover depicting a strange alien landscape with globular trees and improbably low-hanging planets. A random sample of the rest of the bookcase revealed multiple first paperback editions of three SF writers I’d never heard of – although I was pretty sure I’d read at least a couple of the books – the aforementioned T.J. Morton, Allen Vincent and Carter Houston. There was a lot of Carter Houston, who apparently specialised in mighty thewed barbarians and, if the quotes on the front were to be believed, was favourably compared with Howard’s Conan and John Norman’s Gor.

‘Interesting choice of authors,’ I said.

‘Not authors,’ said Albertina. ‘Author – they’re all pen names.’

‘Not your dad?’ I said. It couldn’t be, because some of the books dated back to the 1950s – although he could have been a teen prodigy like my father.

‘Close,’ she said. ‘It was Granddad.’

Who, according to my obviously flawed IIP report on the Pryce family, had led a blameless life teaching Military History at Aberystwyth University. And, according to Albertina, who was obviously a fan, also had a sideline as a prolific pulp SF writer until the early seventies – just about the time his son Albert had picked up his first literary award for his debut novel Cunning Men.

And I thought of the person who had written, in Elvish script, the words If You Can Read This You Are Not Only A Nerd But Probably Dead across the face of a Demon Trap.

I was trying to think of a way of segueing the conversation around to asking whether her dad ever talked about magic or ghosts or anything of that ilk, when my phone rang. It was a call from Bromley Crime Squad regarding Aiden Burghley.

‘Have you found him yet?’ I asked.

‘Sort of,’ said Bromley. ‘Bits of him, anyway.’

10 Picking Up the Pieces

10

Picking Up the Pieces