Flash Fiction

Gavotte. Garrotted unto death and then the blood is let to flow. And it flows like rain in rivulets down amongst the steel gone red of Grey Street.

The detective left his examination of the bodies and followed the small torrents of blood down to their sunless sea. Where they gathered he bent down and sampled of the blood with the very tip of his index finger. He licked with a relish that gave him a perception of the end of lives.

The climb back up to the crime scene he found difficult and was out of breath when he asked his assistant, if he during any of his investigations had ever had a vision. The answer, of course, was no but delivered with Anglo Saxon panache.

He looked at the four bodies. Vile. Violent. Violins played in his head. A defence mechanism that purged him clean. A drop of blood that he had failed to swallow escaped the corner of his mouth. He wiped it clear. Four dead sheep. His work had begun.