Murder on the flat track express

Poirot or Marple? We all know that in this double act, the good cop, bad cop game they play; Marple is the one that plays hardball.

When they finally drag you kicking and screaming down to the basement, slam you in to that chair and turn on the lights it will be Marple you have to worry about.

They may mix it up, luring you in to a false sense of security, but when push comes to shove it’ll be Marple who’ll repeatedly slam your testicles in the desk drawer. Poirot will look on, fiddling with his moustache, sipping black coffee. She’ll do anything to secure a confession.

Luckily, or unluckily I have only been questioned once about murder. When I say questioned, it wasn’t a full police station job, my lawyer advising me to say nothing. It was more of a chat with a couple of plain-clothes detectives.

One day two men knocked at my door. They introduced themselves and asked if they could come in for a chat. We went in to the kitchen and took a seat.

I was informed that they were looking for a suspect and I matched the description. They just wanted a chat and to cross me off their list, nothing heavy. After five minutes it was clear to them that I wasn’t the man they were after. Certain things didn’t match up and I had an alibi. They left satisfied, waving goodbye as they went.

They were satisfied, but was I? It dawned on me as they left that my alibi wasn’t watertight. Being thrown a curve ball when you least expect it makes you doubt yourself. Where was I on that evening? Well, that was two months ago. I was pretty sure I was probably in a pub somewhere with friends. After all it was a Saturday. But I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. And if they questioned my friends would they collaborate? Would my alibi begin to disintegrate? How accurate is my memory?

Had I done it after all, and the act being so hideous, I had blacked it out? How could I be sure? I was sure I didn’t do it but now I was having doubts. Perhaps I did. The more I thought about it the more I convinced myself I had. The mere act of not doing it proved my guilt. I was damned.  I was on the verge of going down to my local police station to confess when I thought better of it. The police after all are professionals. If I did do it I’m sure they would contact me. At least to put my mind at rest.

I’m pretty sure I’m safe… but are you? Anyway back to the packing. I must remember to pack the larger of my two axes for next weekend. Err… did I say axes? I meant lenses.

So if you if want to know the answer to that question, the only way to find out is to get yourself down to Ponds Forge International Sports Centre this weekend where Sheffield’s Inhuman League take on Tyne and Fear and Sheffield Steel Rollergirls take on Big Bucks High Rollers. All will be revealed.

I’m sure Marple will extract a confession, whilst Poirot looks on, stroking his moustache and sipping black coffee.


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