Sergeant Rory Maccallum was annoyed. Annoyed at these stupid little things which had stopped him getting the promotion he rightly deserved for years. Annoyed at how his wife was always eyeing his colleagues , especially the ones in uniform. Annoyed at his Detective inspector, who never gave him any decent cases, none of the ones which would maybe get him his promotion, up to Detective Sergeant.
Another beer or ten, and he might forget. So he got up, and went from his happy place, in a land where DI Donald aka DI Duck didn’t exist, along with his wife, and many other deeply annoying things such as taxes, his colleagues in uniform and paperwork didn’t exist, to his almost spartan living room, and started moving, towards his kitchen, where he kept the beer in a separate fridge, another 2 degrees colder than their proper one. Others may say he didn’t know much about his job, but no one could ever have said he didn’t know his beer.
One beer later, he was moving back to his favourite armchair when he dropped his unopened can. Bending to pick it up, he noticed his wife approaching, quickly, holding his uncooked and still frozen dinner. He even saw her arm descending, and even felt the first blow hit his head, but no more.
Finished, she dropped the lamb coil, now slick with her husband’s blood. No doubt people would find out, her worry wasn’t how to hide it, but how to pass the blame.
Maybe plead insanity? No, then it’d be off to the loony bin with her.
Dump his body in a ditch somewhere? Tempting, but no. The fat bastard must have weighed a tonne.
Maybe make it seem like a burglary gone wrong? Sure, she could do that. Only one problem. How to get rid of the murder weapon?
“Okay, people! Mrs Maccallum here has made us a wee bit o’ lunch, so ye can qui' scrapin' the puir bastard’s brains aff the walls,” started Inspector Whyte, only stopping after Vincent tapped him on the shoulder, and nodded in the direction of the late Sergeant’s wife. “Erm, wha' A meant is, erm...”
“What inspector Whyte meant is lets take a break, seeing as Doreen here has made us some lunch.” Vincent sprang in, and turned to Doreen. “so… What have you made, and where is it?”
“There’s a wee bit of lamb fer everyone, an’ some veggies tae,” she replied in broad Glaswegian, smiling in an odd way, “an’ I’ll be happy fer everone o’ yous tae eat their fair share.”
The officers filed past, chorusing their thanks with a few “ta”s and “thank ye”s.
None of them heard her muttering. None of them would have made sense of it any way.
“Almost cannibalistic, this is. Aye, almost cannibals. An’ none o’ them’ll e’er find it.”