Shepherd's Pie

Shepherd's Pie

The killer came into London, riding on a high of euphoria, floating on
a tide of newly-found freedom. The killer danced, circling his first
victim before striking in a cold back alley in Bethnal Green. They
found her the next day. A woman in her early twenties. It was tragic,
as it turned out she had been very much loved.
Inspector Rumble shed a discreet tear as he confided woefully to a
colleague, "Ah these women in their early twenties. They always cop
it!"
"Bloomin' askin' for it weren't she Guv?" replied the sergeant. "I
mean, being a woman, in her twenties, going down a dark alley and
wearing a short skirt! Take it from me, Guv, she went out last night
intending to be murdered." The sergeant nodded to himself. "Tart!" He
added as an afterthought. "Nice legs though!"
The killer, hiding in the dark corners of the alley, listened
dispassionate and unseen by her majesty's constabulary, and spent the
night there, gloating, long after the police had left.

The next day, WPC Goodie-Two-Shoes burst into Inspector Rumble's
office. "Just had a call from our King's Cross station Sir, to report
the murder of an acoustic guitarist."
"So?" The Inspector replied nonchalantly.
"Well Sir, it seems Sir, that he died of asphyxiation, Sir."
Meaningful looks went from WPC Goodie-Two-Shoes to Inspector Rumble.
Then back from Inspector Rumble to the WPC.
"Good work Constable!" He said dramatically.
Pushing back his chair he stood up, marched out of his office, his
face full of determination as he strode unstoppable towards a door
marked 'gents'.

And so the saga continued. It seemed that everyday the Inspector went
into work and yet another photograph of some suffocated victim had
landed on his desk. He had both the sergeant and the WPC working on
this now and just didn't feel he could plunge anymore of his valuable
resources into the case. The tube network would become a fare-dodger's
paradise if he did that. But no one, no matter how clever, no matter
how accomplished or deceitful, no matter how cunning or manipulative...
No one could pull the wool over the Inspector's eyes for too long.
Eventually between the three of them, they came to this resounding
conclusion.
"There is a killer, at large. And we have reason to believe that this
killer is a serial killer."

Believing that the good, honest and decent British public deserved to
know all the facts, Inspector Rumble announced this information on the
telly. He wore his best Inspector's outfit, the one with the shiny
badges, to show the people of London that they were getting their
money's worth out of the Metropolitan police and that their council tax
was being well spent.
"WE WILL GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS!" Inspector Rumble boldly promised
the good, honest and decent British public, bouncing his fist up and
down on the podium. He was already beginning to feel better about
things, and hoped that his wife had managed to set the video recorder
to tape the news. (Mrs Rumble, a dear woman by all accounts, was apt to
find the video recorder beyond her technical capabilities, and this
fact weighed heavily on the Inspector's mind.)
As he left Scotland Yard that evening, Inspector Rumble stepped over
the rough sleepers, telling them to get a job, and then watched
affectionately as the good, honest and decent British public clawed and
fought with each other to get on the tube.
As he stepped off the train at Ealing Broadway a wonderful thought
occurred to the Inspector. A thought that clearly demonstrates how good
triumphs over evil. Tonight was Shepherd's Pie night, and Mrs Rumble
does make a lovely Shepherd's Pie.
Inspector Rumble proudly displayed his fully valid travel-pass on
leaving the station, and as he walked down the street, he thought about
how the cheese melts and goes all nice and crispy on the top. As his
mind meandered, he realised that this was in fact, his very favourite
bit of all the Shepherd's Pie. Inspector Rumble was lost in his
thoughts. And perhaps... perhaps things might have been different if
his mind had not been so distracted by all that nice, crispy
cheese...
He did not notice that he was being stalked by the killer, which, as
it descended from the sky drew in closer. When Inspector Rumble turned
the corner into his street, it struck.
Full in the face as if the wind had blown it, the plastic bag stuck to
him relentlessly. In shock, Inspector Rumble gasped. The dusty
pollution on the bag enveloping his lungs. The scaly plastic twisting
with his tongue. Unable to cry out for help in that deserted Ealing
street, the Inspector fell to the ground. Choking on the dirt from the
rubbish tip, throttled as the handles of the bag wound round his neck.
He tried to bring his hands up to his throat, tried to tear off the
bag... But it was too late.
Mrs Rumble knew something was wrong when the Inspector was late home
for his tea. It wasn't like him to be late on Shepherd's Pie
night.
They found him where he'd fallen. His face fat and lardy. His eyes
popping out of his head.
"No sign of any struggle then." The sergeant observed.

But at least some good did come out of this otherwise horrendous
story. Inspector Rumble had managed to hook his little finger round the
handle of the bag, and in so doing, had apprehended the murderer.
"A tragic death, but a brave one!"
"Killed in the line of duty!" They said at his funeral.
His coffin was wrapped in the union jack. Mrs Rumble, weeping, scraped
the cold helping of Shepherd's Pie into the grave to rest with her
husband.

And the plastic bag?
The plastic bag was locked up for good. The key to its cell, thrown
away. So that we, the good, honest and decent British public, can sleep
peacefully in our beds once more.