with racks full of money and what looks like packages of cocaine. The rooms are locked, but the cameras are everywhere.”

with racks full of money and what looks like packages of cocaine. The rooms are locked, but the cameras are everywhere.”

“No! I have known this man for ten years. There is no way he could be dealing drugs, and me not know about it. It’s utterly preposterous. Billingsly, I’ve heard enough.” Detective Underhill turned to walk away. A red glow emanating from his usually pallid complexion.

“Now Kate, look what you’ve done.” Billingsly stammered.

“Wait. Detective. He was murdered.” Kate called out, loud enough for the reporters to hear.

Underhill stopped. His shoulders dropped. His head fell forward. He slowly turned. “What?” He snarled.

“It wasn’t an accident.” Kate was beaming. She’d dealt with this sort of arrogance her whole life; she wasn’t in awe of this scarecrow.

“Okay, I’ll humour you. Who killed George Persimmon?”

“That’s the wrong question.”

“Oh for God’s sake. What?”

“Yes. What killed George. It was Fat Cat. George Persimmon made a file of attempts made on his life. There is a folder on his server. I looked at a couple of these before checking today’s footage. Fat Cat once turned the gas stove on, while he had his back turned; George nearly died from the gas. Another time, it knocked the hair dryer into the bath, with George in it. Luckily it wasn’t plugged in, but it looked very deliberate. Earlier today, Fat Cat hopped out of its bedroom window, made its way down onto the garage, then that garden shed, and waited by that little window till George came down to the basement. The cat was very patient. After a few minutes, it reached through the broken bit and knocked the light off the ledge. You can see the flash in the footage. Then Fat Cat wandered to the front door and sat in front of the TV until we arrived. It’s all there. The forensic tech guys are going over it now.”

Clive Underhill was seething. Like a movie vampire, he swooped on the girl and grabbing her arm, dragged her away out of earshot of anyone. “Okay, girlie, what’s your play. Who sent you. It was that Sherlock Holmes wannabe from Shelbyville. Wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know who that is. Anyway, I didn’t mean to make you look bad. I just got lucky, I guess.” Kate was enjoying herself. Then, pulling a photo from her notebook, she handed it to the now gobsmacked giant in front of her. “So, apparently, our friend had another secret life they kept from the general public, and they had a friend.” The photo was of two drag queens, one, rather fat, in heels and a gorgeous sequined gown, the other a very tall skinny one in a shiny black dress, a mass of giant feathers framing their head. On the back it was inscribed, ‘Tasty Treats and Betty Spaghetti, Happy New Year, 2022’. “You know for a celebrated detective, you make a great drag queen.”

Sensing a threat to his reputation, Underhill’s demeanour changed. “You know, you showed great resourcefulness to uncover the truth and even greater courage to challenge me the way you did. You could make a great detective one day. Work with me and I will teach you everything you need, to be a renowned investigator.”

“I think I’ll have to pass. You couldn’t handle me, and I don’t want to be handled. Anyway, I don’t want to work with you, I want your job…One day.”

With this final comment Constable Kate Yearling left the slack jawed detective to join her colleagues.

Authors notes:

The photo above is of George, my wife's 16 year old cat, who I affectionately refer to as 'little bastard'. He regularly interrupts my sleep (4am most mornings) for food, then decides he doesn't like the food I offer. In his defense, he may have something like cat alzheimers. He is very old. Needless to say, he was my inspiration, because I truly believe cats are evil and will one day rule the world.