DCI Allinson surveyed the crime scene. It was a living room like any other in Britain. Magnolia walls, IKEA coffee table, a ridiculously bulky widescreen plasma TV burbling in the corner. And on the sofa, Mr McCarthy, a middle-aged man in decent shape, lying sprawled with a large wooden stake through his heart.

I should get one of those TVs, thought Allinson.

His gaze fell on the man’s wife, sitting on the tastefully-upholstered armchair. She appeared distraught, hands shaking as she drew hungrily on a cigarette.

Allinson’s partner, DCI Welsh, was taking notes in his little pad.

“And you admit you stabbed your husband through the heart?” said Allinson.

“Yes. I… I had to. It was self defence. He was a vampire.” said Mrs McCarthy.

Welsh looked up from his pad.

“He was a… I’m sorry, what?” asked Allinson.

“A vampire. Nosferatu.”

“Um…” He glanced over at Welsh. Welsh looked confused.

“How many eff’s in Nosferatu?” asked Welsh.

Allinson looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Nice cornicing.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, eyes returning to the suspect, “what led you to believe that your husband was a… a vampire?”

“Well… he wore a lot of black”

“Go on.”

“And he… he didn’t like garlic,” she added.

“What? Oh for… you’re telling me you killed your husband because… Jesus Christ. Look, I’m wearing black and I don’t like garlic. Are you going to..?”

With a scream DCI Welsh leapt to the sofa, wrenched the stake from Mr McCarthy’s body, turned and thrust it into DCI Allinson’s chest.

As Allinson sank to the carpet, gurgling, Welsh knelt by Mrs McCarthy and laid a calming hand on her shoulder.

“There there, it’s OK. I am so sorry,” said DCI Welsh. “I had no idea. Dirty vampires, they get everywhere.”

******
Vampyros Stupidos by Harris
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