View Full Version : sue the detective, magical toads and mad dogs - colleagues

January 25th, 2011, 08:25 PM
need to write a female detective struggling to create a solid persona.

The always encouraging sight of half a dozen boiler suited forensic teams was what welcomed me to the small, isolated and apparently mostly desereted cafe just outside the M25. I would love to say that I can remember rolling storm clouds upon the horizon, or a flock of birds flying away or that I heard some mocking ravens call foreboding the mountainous amounts of paperwork that would ensue from this horrific case.

But luckily considering the regularity of murders the weather dose not always feel the need to reflect the morbid mood and I found myself blessed with a fairly pleasent breeze alongside bright sunshine, even so climbing from the sanctum of my mercedes was not something I looked forward to.

However as with ost things in life, that which we least look forward to comes to us swiftly, like the shadow of death my seargeant came drifting across the car park in his regular respectful attire of a neat black suit and misleadingly gormlesss manner. I knew if I said in the car Ian would climb in, which would be a disaster becuase he would then beleive that this blasphemic intrusion on my holy sanctum was acceptable behaivour, which as you may have gathered - it is not.

Fortifying myself much I imagined princesses do before having to kiss a magical frog, I stepped (confidently, if not willingly) out into what is now and forever a ‘murder scene’, so as to begin my own tiresomely pleasent dialouge with my dearest magical frog.

I understand Ians’ magical frog nature may need some explaining, he is magic becuase as a seargent although appearing gormless he almost always has everything under control, he does most of my job for me except without the extra responsibilty or pay. He is a frog as he appears to have missed the two hundred years of developement relating to the treatment of women and would still happily have them chained to the hearth and home.

To exemplify this conversation began with “those are very sensible shoes you’re wearing today Mam, unuseal to see such practical sense in a pretty womans footwear – I brought spare wellies for you in the car.” Followed by a belch of titanic proportions, short of his tongue flying out to catch a fly in mid flight the man could not have better supported his image.

We then (with me overlooking the sexism) nose dived delightfully into the seas of technical proffesional police jargonated terminology which allowed the expression of the simpliest facts to appear as though brilliant deductions and acts of dection. To spare you the use of the police hand books terminology guide glossary I shall provide a breif summary which Ian so elouquently provided at the end of the jargon bath “ basiclly a bird butchered this bastartard, took off in his car and left him looking surprised”.

The soft lyrical welsh accent of his seemed to reverberate so dischordantly with these blunt staements of truth that I was almost tempted to send him to Birmingham or perphaps Newcastle so as to alter the tenor of his voice to suit the derogatory and often disgusting things that came out of it better.

Before I had the time to enjoy this thought of mild racism, my second favourite person turned up, millie the mutilator, the greatly adored coroner, whom on meeting me suggested that we always work together as we were both female in this terribly male police force, and to my dismay she appears to have enough influence to have insured we do.

Enjoyable company as Millie was her nickname was unfortunately well earnt, never before had I met a woman who took so much enjoyment away from a good murder. I honestly beleive she may have bribed or saboutaged forensics so as to indulge further her semi pyschopathic fantasies about the methode and motive behind each of her disected victims without having the intererfence of actual events. She would in short be slightly devastated by the CCTV of the murder as it was far too helpful. Additionally unlike Ian she had absoutely no respect for the dead, I imagine this is becuase she has been somewhat over exposed to their company in her profession.

“Where is my cold one?!” was the gleeful greeting I got shouted out through the window of her approaching van, head hanging out of the window, like a dog excited to be driven to its newest walkies location. Positively drooling she sped towards the depressingly dilapadated cafe for her exciting invesitgations.

Walking steadily alongside my much beloved magical toad I approached this new murder, reflecting not for the first time that I would have very much liked to have stayed on the drug squad where you could always have a little of the evidence 'lost in the system' so as to make the job a little more bareable.