Painting ruby tuesday [antikvár]

When I was ten and our humdrum Essex village was convulsed by a series of murders, I worked myself up into a fever, afraid that the police had me down as a suspect. Well, of course they didn't -1 was no more of a hooligan than the average ten-year-old daughter of respectable parents, and mine were so respectable that they ran our village school; it wasn't likely that I would suddenly go berserk with a meat-axe, even taking into account what elders everywhere had been warning for years about the influence of rock 'n' roll. Besides which, one of the victims had always been a friend to me; she taught me how to hula, and do the twist, and play boogie-woogie on the piano. So no, the CID did not suspect me of killing anybody, least of all our lovely neighbour Mrs Clitheroe. They only suspected me of breaking and entering, theft, tampering with evidence, and conspiring to pervert the course of justice. Which I couldn't really quibble with. Unusually for an Essex story, this one begins and ends with New York. In that same summer of 1965, my