THE PRAWN SANDWICH

She lounged, shapely legs elegantly akimbo, on the ivory velvet chaise longue, with a glass of champagne in one hand and an exquisitely delicious chocolate in the other, grasped delicately between thumb and forefinger as she held it before her crimson lips, devouring its aroma.

A second, unused glass stood on the small table beside the open bottle of Dom Perignon nestling seductively on its bed of ice, together with the fancy box containing more of the hand-crafted sweets.

Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes fixed on the clock on the mantelpiece; she was evidently waiting for someone.

And that was obviously someone very special; she wore a softly shimmering red silk robe, carefully draped to reveal glimpses of the sheerest black stockings beneath, tapering down to her fabulous black shoes: the most impossibly high heeled pair that Jimmy Choo had to offer. Soft music filled the air, and the heady scent of expensive perfume wafted round the room.

The door of the bedroom was left invitingly ajar, offering tantalising glimpses of further delights in store.

And so she waited.

It was two weeks before her body was found, frozen in the act of savouring her chocolate, her face contorted in the ugliest of grins as her flesh began to shrink and wither, a white silk scarf tied tightly around her neck.

The heavy smell of perfume lingered in the room, still strong enough to mask the smell of decay; but it could not hide the odour of rotting fish emanating from the decomposing hors d’ouevres, still sitting carefully arranged on a silver platter on the dressing table.

As the neighbour whose cat had alerted her to the smell had told the police :
‘If it wasn’t for the prawn sandwich she might never have been found!’

And the perpetrator never was.