Condensed Crime #1

“Guv, biscuit courier down on the east side of town, crumbs everywhere!”  He was thinking about yoghurts, I could tell.  “Guv!”  We sped through the streets like the fire brigade.  A duty officer met us in the shadow of the old caramel factory, ducking under the tape that had been stretched around the crime scene.  “Sirs, I think you’d better see this.”  We quickly identified the shot-up body of the victim.  “Gigi Raspute!”  Yes, this was serious. Raspute was the Italo-Russian head of the city’s Mafioska.  “We need to find out if this is really him,” he’d been body-doubled since the age of three.  Something in the olive pit of my stomach told me that it was him and that we were standing on the crumbly edge of a city-wide biscuit war.  Back in the car we thought hard and ate yoghurts, splitting up a four pack by taking a strawberry one each and then arguing over the peach one and the raspberry.  As my senior, the Guv won.  Teaspoons in hand we dug away at the case, the two most important policemen in a city pulled apart by warring gangs of biscuit suppliers, old enough to remember the peaceful times, struggling to stop them twisting away from us.  The body had been rushed to the coroners and soon we heard:  it was Raspute.  We sent instructions to keep the news quiet for as long as possible but rumours would be sweeping the city soon like a plague of puzzled apprehension.  “Well, someone saved us the trouble,” I observed.  “And caused a heck of a lot more,” the Guv pulled his hands down his face and the sound of his thick stubble filled the car.  “I give up.  Lets get on the road.”  We had finished our yoghurts and now accelerated away from the crime scene, onto the ring road and soon we were on the motorway.  As it began to grow light we stopped for breakfast at a service station.  The Guv paid for out breakfasts, as I carried our tray to the table.  “OK, I give up.  I don’t know how you found me but I admit.  I saw it all.”  The man at the next table had turned pale and begun to rabbit nonsensically as soon as I approached.  Excuse me?  “I saw him get shot, Gigi Raspute.  I’ll tell you what I saw but you gotta put me on witness protection.”  He proceeded to tell us how just hours before he had seen a shot fired from the shadows rip through Gigi Raspute’s briefcase full of biscuits, scattering crumbs across the floor and then a second one straight into his heart.  The assasin wore size eight shoes he informed us and provided us with a scale drawing of the shoe.  “I don’t know owt about bullets, but shoes…”  The Guv did not ask him any further questions.  As I ate my breakfast yoghurt I wondered if we had just let a prime suspect get away.  “Well, we can’t go back now,” said the Guv as he reached across the table and took my hand.  “Do you think you could be happy, with me, living in the country?”


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