Journalism Can Be Murder

“What are you doing here?”

The fear in Dalton’s voice was evident; to hear it was a real excitement for Langdon.

“I’m meeting Denlow; Why are you here?”

Langdon laughed quietly. There was an unmistakably manic smile on his face that looked reptilian with his mouth slightly open and his tongue protruding between his teeth.

“I thought that you wanted an end to all of this, Dalton. Why did you arrange a meeting on the Pier of all places? Did you think that a public space would offer you some protection?”

The sights and sounds of Brighton Pier had been a comfort to Dalton, while he had waited, but now they suddenly seemed to be a noisy background that might cover any kind of mischief, rather than expose it.

Suddenly Langdon closed the gap between them and thrust a stiletto between Dalton’s ribs, perfectly bisecting the aorta; he would be dead soon, and with limited mess. Langdon sat Dalton down on a nearby bench, lay him down and then opened his copy of the Daily Mail and laid it across his victim’s face.

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