In all my experience as Detective Inspector for Noff PD, I haven’t faced a case as tough as this in my life. I have seen the good, the bad, and the pretentious, but nothing has perplexed me – NAY! enthralled me! – as much as the Club de Pompidou Palava of ’19.
I arrived in the club with my trusted associate and partner in crime (Jokes! I’m not a criminal!) DCI Emma Rogerson. We arrive on the beat as ordinary club-goers looking for a little boogie and some sweet sweet vibes. We passed the bouncer outside the club easily, one Studley 'spiky blue hair' Davis. He didn’t seem to be that good at his job – we were in!
On the dancefloor we began our work. We heard of some tension between rival club owners, one national treasure Samantha Di Pompidou and one Cecile Foxtrot. We were there to gain intel, resolve the tension and get lit. But what started as a simple reconnaissance mission turned sour when the lights blacked out. In the darkness, I heard mutters of confusion, overdramatic bickering and a GUN SHOT. This shit just turned into a HOMICIDE INVESTIGATION!
The victim: one Sterling Dollair, noted philanthropist and philanderer. Just earlier he presented Mme Di Pompidou with a cheque for ONE MILLION DOLLARS. Moments later his chest was covered – NAY! soaked! - in red marker pen BLOOD!
The twists just kept on coming. It turns out I was not the only undercover DCI on the case – the place was absolutely OVERRUN with them!
With such large numbers, Chief Inspector Gurnings had to split the team up. Each was headed by senior members of the force; the forensics team, Dr Colin Bradford and Dr Betsy Conybere led my team around the building, scouting for clues. They would grill the suspects first before we had a chance to get stuck in. I wanted to jump in and challenge them with my year of detecting experience, but each time I did was told off by stern Conybere.
Y’see, I don’t play by the rules of the authorities. I follow my own lead; the only rules I obey are my own rules (and MOTHER JUSTICE!!!). Even so, I kept my notes in a handily-provided notebook. I put together the pieces of the puzzle, trying to untangle the threads and weave their narratives into the truth. But truth be told, I was getting nowhere.
But then it hit me. A business card here; a misplaced shopping list there; a suitcase full of money DOWN THERE. It finally dawned on me who the real culprit was: the friends we made along the way.
@noffmag / firstname.lastname@example.org