Ernest Hereford surveyed the scarlet mess with his talented eyes. Blood covered a large percentage of the room. He turned his head four degrees left and saw about three new and unseen pints of the old claret on an antique wardrobe, Blood. Blood was a major benefactor to the atmosphere of this particular gaff. Blood!
He turned back. A starling darted past the window at an immediate proximation to the single glazed glass pane and Hereford was sure he would have heard the flapping of it’s wings if it wasn’t for Jenkins. He studied the room as Jenkins’s vomiting began to cease.
“Control yourself Clifton.” Said Hereford in his deep east end tone.
“Sorry Inspector.” gasped Clifton Jenkins earnestly.Hereford took two steps forward toward the deceased. One glance at the victims face and he confirmed within himself that yes, this was the savaged cadaver of the recently absent nightclub owner Trev Bent. His eyes danced across the crimson scene as elegantly and handsome as Patrick Swayze in the 1987 classic “Dirty Dancing”, until they met their unknown target. He bent down to take a closer look. Yes, this was what he was looking for. This was the Golden fleece to Jason, The Rosebud sled to Charles Foster Kane, the trip to Wally World to Clarke Griswold. This was the dagger with the base inscription that read..
Deborah the whore