The blood had trickled across the wet mud, round the sunken footprints and merged with the dirty puddle. Moonlight reflected in the reddened water, along with the worn face of Detective Rominus Badger. 2am and he had just begun to shake off his last brandy from a sobering wake in Harringate. Wet and grey, the coffin had been as unassuming as its occupant and had slipped into the ground just as Morgan Elliot had slipped into the backgrounds of everyone’s lives for the past 5 decades. 50 and dead. Prostate.
The corpse in front of him now was as recognisable as Badger’s own reflection. He had read and watched the events of the past 72 hours unfold in a media fuelled frenzy of rage and political suicide. The Deputy Prime Minister lifeless now, wouldn’t be making any more shocking and inexplicable speeches on women as weak, feminists who have destroyed family values and why mothers are only fit to mother. How someone so sexist, so prehistoric, so influential, so educated, had risen to such office without these beliefs ever being voiced or unearthed before had dumbfounded the nation and almost bought the current government to their knees.
Women across the world had taken to the streets with placards and anger. Student bodies had brought down social media sites with outraged traffic. Families had attacked the government’s morals and agendas. The media had gone to town, near demolishing the PM and all who had supported this prehistoric nut. The news of the death of the deputy PM would no doubt bring cries of rapture from many, but there were those who would not cheer, the ones that lurk in shadows and hide behind usernames , too cowardly to stand up for their twisted beliefs, who cheered as women were slated and who egged on the sexist rift that was being torn.
The victim’s family were all sat inside, a few crying, no one inconsolable. Badger went in, stamping the mud off his boots in the doorway. He knew who had pulled the trigger, people are so feckless yet think they are so smart. His brandy head was beginning to grind so he dug around his pockets for some painkillers. Tissues and gum, poor nicotine substitute flavour. No headache pills. Pissed off he opened the door to the large drawing room. The fire was blazing and he immediately felt the wave of heat hit his thick head. He was going to make this quick.
“Maxwell Farringball, I am arresting you for the murder of Margaret Dallington.