Around the market, oh, around the market, over the river, the streets are quiet. So quiet. Behind the stoic, happy faces of the terraced houses there is an animal squealing. Most likely a fox. A fox getting fucked. A fox getting killed. Although the houses are happy, their light is warming, I feel scared.
The sounds of squealing could be a human.
A lady human.
Young lady human.
The sounds could be a, they could be. Would I feel differently? I’d chase them. I’d chase the sounds. But I know it is a fox. I’ve heard women squeal. And foxes too. Foxes squeal like that. They do. They do squeal like Mrs. Crew.
The first message is in and it’s some fucker telling me to get a grip with the case, never before have they ever seen such police complacency, never before on such a horrible, disgusting, vile case, never before have they seen such a fat police officer.
I hate the internet. When I first started this damned job there was no such thing as the internet. No judgement outside the newspapers, who with a few sly words could play up to your way of thinking, which I never said, I never said that, this is just between me and you.
Now every fat lady with her lonely, slimy fingers on the keyboard can tell you what they think, sat in a restaurant, or a pub, by themselves, drooling and snivelling all over the screen.
I trawl through a hundred or so of these messages. This case, as my daughter might say, has gone “viral.”
Then, from the pile of shit, emerges something. Just a small clue, from someone anonymous. Could be a prank. But from that profile-less page, with no details at all, and the name of “R. J Hurt” I can’t help but think this is a fake account, not to deceive, but to tell me everything from the safety of internet anonymity. What was I saying about the internet?
I fucking love the internet.
You know why?
Because the message reads: “I know who killed Mrs. Crew. Meet me at the Puggleton Inn, 7:45 PM, Friday.”
That, my boys, my girls, sounds like a tip.