This is not the novel I inteneded to write.  The novel I intended to write has kung-fu space monkeys in, and I have written the first few chapters in my head.

But this started as a short story and sort of started running away with itself.  I have a terrible fear that if I write anything more than a couple of pages it will run out of steam.  I know the ending.  I know the culprit.  I'm pretty sure I know the motive.  But there's a hell of a lot between where I've got to and where I'm going.

What I need to know is whether I am a brilliant satirist and short story teller, but a crap novellist.

Or a great novellist but should stick to the kung-fu space monkeys

Oh, and I haven't thought of a title yet.

Inspector Phil Hunter stood in the doorway of the tiny interview room. The woman sitting opposite Sergeant Moore looked somewhere in her sixties, though he knew she couldn’t have reached fifty yet. The years hadn’t been kind to her, but then she had endured more in those years than he ever could. She was hunched into her large overcoat as though it were a fortress against the injustices of the world in general, and the Special Liaison Department in particular. She had a nervous bird-like quality about her, her eyes darting from corner to corner around the room. Her eyes caught his and she took on a defiant expression. She clutched her cup of tea closer to her and took on the air of one who was put upon, but knew her rights. Inwardly Hunter sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

Sergeant Moore rose from her chair. "Inspector, this is Mrs Atkinson."

"Hello, Molly. Long time no see." He took the chair vacated by the sergeant. "Now, what’s so important that you couldn’t tell my sergeant?"

Molly Atkinson looked suspiciously at the Inspector, and then glanced meaningfully at Susan Moore. "It’s delicate, is all. Private, I mean."

"Is it something the regular police can handle, or is it to do with our department?"

"You think I’m stupid? Old biddy gone ga-ga? You think I haven’t seen sights that would send you crying for your old mum? Of course it’s to do with …you know… ‘Them’. I just don’t know her, is all. I just want a private word with someone in authority."

Hunter had the distinct impression that she felt that, in the absence of someone in authority, he would have to do.

"Sergeant Moore is an experienced member of my team. If you have a legitimate complaint it will be dealt with by my team. Sergeant Moore stays, Molly. We are overworked at the moment, and I can do without you picking and choosing who you’ll deal with." Then, a little more gently, he added, "Come on, Molly. We go way back, and you’ve been a great help in the past. Cut me some slack and just tell me what the problem is. If I can help, I will."

Molly Atkinson glared at Hunter for a moment, shared the glare with Sergeant Moore, and then appeared to make the best of a bad job.

"It’s witches. I’ve got trouble with witches." She said quietly, staring ferociously at her tea cup.

Hunter heard Moore stir by the doorway. She had better be keeping a poker face.

"What sort of trouble, Molly?"

She turned a fierce gaze onto the Inspector. "They cast a spell on me last night. A sleeping spell. They must have got hold of some of my hair, or something. That’s how they do it, you know. One of them girls at the hairdressers, I bet. She wears black nail varnish. She offers me a cup of coffee, but I know better. I bet she was trying to poison me first. Anyway, I woke this morning on the kitchen floor. And she’s left the cupboard door open. Bold as brass. Come into my house, stepped over my body, and stolen a bottle of… stolen a bottle. Emptied it all, and left it lying on the floor. And then cursed me. I felt like death when I woke up. I thought I was going to die, I’ve only now felt well enough to come and report it. And she messed up the place before she left. It was probably a coven of them.

"Witches! We should still burn them, you ask me." She stabbed her finger towards him. "You’ve got to do something. They can’t do magic like that against people. It’s the law. You’ve got to lock them up."

She looked back at her tea and muttered "You’ve got to lock them up"

"Molly, how many times have been in here in the last year?"

"If you didn’t keep hiding behind your ‘team’ you’d know."

Hunter tapped the print-out he had put on the table. "Eight times, or at least, that’s the number of times someone has taken a report. You’ve made a complaint against just about every race we deal with. Elves, gnomes, fairies. You even complained about a cyclops, and they don’t exist."

"As far as you know", she muttered. Hunter ignored her.

"I have reviewed your cases, Molly, because I’m grateful for your work in the past. There’s not a shred of evidence that any Other has targeted you. Not a shred."

"What about last night then?"

"I can have you scanned by one of our… people, if you like, to see if anyone has cast a spell."

"One of your witches, you mean. I don’t care for them. They smell funny, and you can see the evil eye they give you. I’ve seen them, and I don’t care to see any more."

Hunter leaned back. "Molly," he said softly, "did you have a visitor yesterday?"

She clenched her teeth, and stared at her tea.

"Molly?"

"There was a crash on the motorway, kiddy in the back" she said through gritted teeth, and started to rock forward and back gently. "People should strap them in. Shouldn’t be allowed to have kids if you can’t care for them. He didn’t understand, poor mite. Crying for his mum. I couldn’t help him."

And her rheumy eyes started to gush tears. "He kept asking for his mummy, and I couldn’t help him. I used to be able to comfort them, used to be able to help them on their way. This time I just couldn’t. I tried to send him away, but he was too upset. Bastard parents. Shouldn’t have them if they can’t care for them. They don’t know what it’s like for them afterwards. And he wouldn’t stop crying. He wouldn’t stop. And I couldn’t help him, I just…"

Susan leant past the Inspector and pushed a packet of tissues across the table. Why is it women carry so much stuff around with them, he wondered. He suspected that if he needed a 7/16^th socket spanner one would be found in the recesses of her small handbag.

Molly blew her nose noisily, and grudgingly nodded an acknowledgement.

"So you took a drink, just a small one, to try and ignore him?" Hunter asked.

Molly shrugged, suddenly defensive. "Maybe. You would too."

"Molly, I respect you, what you’ve done, what you’ve been through, so I’m going to be straight with you. What happened was this: You took a drink, and it didn’t help, so you took another. And another. And he only went away when you had finished the bottle. God knows I’d do the same if I had your gift. I’m busy. I haven’t got time to hear stories about pixies peering at you through the curtains. But if the visitors get too much, come and talk.

"And for pity’s sake, cut back on the booze. Who is going to help them on if you’re six feet under, eh?"

Molly’s gaze had fixed back on her tea. "It was witches, you know. But maybe it wasn’t a whole bottle they took."

"I’ll take you to the canteen; you can have another cup of tea. And I’ll ask the regulars to drive past your place tonight. But enough of these stories, love. And I mean what I say about the drink. What sort of example is that to set to the kids, eh? I’ll get one of the regulars to drop off a leaflet."

And for the first time Molly smiled. "Alcoholics Anonymous? I tell them what happens to me when I’m sober, and I’ll drive them all to drink."

Hunter smiled back. "Maybe so, but think about it. I don’t want you to end up drinking yourself to an early grave and haunting this place".

When Hunter returned to the office Moore was standing by his desk. She deliberately lifted her arm and smelled her armpit.

"I smell?"

"That’s enough", he growled. "You’ve only been down here a couple of months. You never knew her before."

"Before?"

"She’s a medium. Used to be a bloody good one too. A very special talent. Kids would just flock to her. No-one ever could work out why. It’s not like she ever had kids of her own. But a kid that… passed on would just gravitate to her. From miles away, sometimes. And she would help them. I was with her once, when one of their spirits visited. Damnedest thing. The way she spoke to her. She really had a gift. And it was a gift, too, most of the time. Like being a doctor, almost. They’d come all upset and confused, and leave all peaceful. And if there was anything iffy, she’d come to us, and we’d pass what we could onto the regulars.

"But it wasn’t all good. There was this paedophile. Nothing to do with us, of course. But he killed a small lad. Didn’t have the courage to do it straight up, so he tied him up in a plastic bag, one of those reinforced jobs for rubble and stuff, and then put him out with the rubbish the next morning. Poor beggar suffocated in the dark and cold, all alone after what that bastard did to him.

"So he visited Molly – Mrs Atkinson. Asked her why he did those things. Kept asking her to save him. Wouldn’t go into the light. Wouldn’t leave her. Took her a couple of days to help him move on. She didn’t sober up for a week. I think that was the turning point. She started to drink after that, whenever she had a bad visitor. You would too, if you had had to go through that. So cut her some slack, she’s earned it.

"What’s that?" he asked, pointing to the sheet of paper she was holding.

"Oh, an email from control. There’s a dwarf death in Kent", she said, handing him the printout.

"A dwarf? In Kent? But that’s all chalk, isn’t it? There are no dwarves in Kent."

She shrugged. "There aren’t any more, apparently. They’ve intercepted a coroner’s report. Shot with an arrow."

"Wonderful" he commented, skimming through the report. "Just what we want. An elf/dwarf war… Oh God! They’re sending a dwarf liaison down, too. You ever worked with a dwarf?"

"Once, back in Merseyside. There was a territory dispute with some leprechauns."

The Inspector raised his eyebrows. "Leprechauns?"

"Oh yes. There’s a fair few of them now around there. You’d think they’d get on, them being so alike, but they hate each other. I mean really hate each other. There was some big high-level talks, and I had to run shotgun on one of the dwarf negotiators. My job was to stop them killing each other. But they seem decent enough if they’re not riled."

"Well, we have one arriving tomorrow morning to ‘facilitate’ out investigations. I want to get as much done on this job as we can before he gets here. The last thing I want is a civvy sticking his oar in. You and I will pop down to Maidstone today. Get your kit. We’ve got a crime scene to sniff out."

When she had left he looked up the phone directory on his PC and dialled a number.

"Superintendent Carter? Hello, this is Inspector Hunter, from Division S5, Met Special Branch. Just a courtesy call, really. You’ve had a murder on your patch that involves one of our targets." He looked at the printout. "John Goldsmith, from… Snodland? Is that a real place? ... Yes?... Well, anyway, he’s implicated in a case we’ve got. I appreciated it’s happened on your manor, but it’s probably our case, I’m afraid. I’m going to need go down to Maidstone CID today to take it off their hands... Well, he’s Chechnyan, that’s all I can tell you, but it’s part of an ongoing investigation we’re conducting. Sorry, but you know how it is, need to know and all that…. OK, bye."

Hunter felt a pang of guilt at the easy way he lied about who he was and what he was doing, especially to a colleague. At least, he told himself, he still thought of them as colleagues. He’d come down hard on his team when he heard some of the other expressions they had for the Regulars. When push came to shove, they were all coppers. And he’d been a Regular for how many years before joining Special Liaison?

His next call was to Maidstone CID, to ensure the detective in the case was available later that day. Whilst he was still on the phone Susan Moore came back into his office, an aluminium attaché case in her hand.

"Thanks, I appreciate that. And can you make sure that all the case notes are available? … Great. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. Thanks."

He hung up. "Today we’re going to be Special Branch. Got your warrant card?"

Sergeant Moore fished out a purse, paged through a number of cards and brought one to the fore.

"Do you ever worry that one day we’ll be caught out, gov?" she asked.

"No. So long as you’re confident that you can pull it off, you will pull it off. First rule of coppers and con artists."

"There’s a difference?" she asked, with a smile.

"Yes! Con artists get caught."

When Inspector Hunter’s car pulled into Maidstone Nick’s car park, the taste of spring that the morning sun had promised had passed, and the March sun had disappeared behind a uniform sheet of grey cloud. Hunter didn’t much care for the provinces. He had been born and raised in The Smoke. How could people survive without 24 hour cafes, underground railways, busses that could take you from anywhere to anywhere? The weather compounded the feeling. Even bad weather in London was bearable. There were places to go, things to do. What would the poor plod pounding the streets here do in a sudden downpour at 4 o’clock in the morning?

"Let’s try and get this over and done with as soon as we can, Susan. The sooner we can get home, the better."

They showed their warrant cards at the desk, and a few minutes later were led into the DI’s office.

After brief introductions the DC involved was shown in, introduced as ‘Jonesy’. He was in his late thirties, loosing his hair but gaining the pounds. Hunter provisionally put him in the ‘putting in the hours before his 20 years were up’ camp. That could make it easier. He may not have stirred things up too much.

He handed over a file to the Inspector, who immediately passed it on to Susan. As she started to leaf through the papers Hunter sat on the corner of the desk and started his Special Branch act.

"Thanks for your work so far, but we’ve got this now. Tell me about what happened." He said it with a casual arrogance he hoped would brook no objection from the detective. The last thing he wanted was for some local to start poking around where he shouldn’t.

Jonesy shrugged. "It got called in night before last, about 2000 hours."

"19:52", said Susan, file in hand.

"Yeah", Jonesy continued. "999 call. Uniform got there 10 minutes later." He looked at the Sergeant and added pointedly, "approximately 10 minutes later. I got there about 5 minutes after that."

"Who made the call?"

"Some local bloke walking his dog. Saw the body in the yard. Stone dead by the time we got there. Coroner reckons he died instantly. Bloody weird way to kill someone, an arrow through the heart. Is it some Mafia warning or something?"

"Something like that. What yard?"

"He was a jeweller. His shop had a yard out back where he parked his car. I reckon someone was waiting for him to open the gates and then shot him."

Hunter raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A car?"

Jonesy smiled. "Yeah. A flash BMW. He had had it specially altered so that he could reach the pedals. He was a midget, you know."

"Dwarf." Hunter corrected, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

Jonesy didn’t seem to notice. "Whatever. Anyway, he still had his takings on him, and the shop was locked up tighter than a Nun’s…" he glanced at Susan. "Anyway, it doesn’t look like a robbery. It took us till the small hours to get into the place. The clever little bastard had built all sorts of homemade locks. The locksmith said he had never seen anything like it."

"Where did he live?"

"West Malling." Hunter raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "It’s about five miles from the shop. Old two-up, two-down on the edge of the town. None of the neighbours knew him, they kept themselves to themselves, apparently."

"They?"

"He was married. Another midget. There’s something weird going on there. It’s not right. We had to break into the place, and there’s his missus hiding in the basement. Nearly took my legs off with a bloody great axe. She can’t speak a word of English, and Social Services can’t find an interpreter. I thought she might have been one of these Russian bride jobs, but she could be his sister for all I know. You reckon she’s Chechnyan as well?"

Hunter shrugged. "Probably. We’ll get an interpreter in tomorrow. Is she in the cells?"

"No. The local nuthouse. She didn’t do it, I’m pretty sure. She’s agoraphobic. She nearly wet herself when we took her out of the house. It didn’t look like she ever came out of the basement, to tell the truth. That’s why we got the Social involved. She’s a basket case, right enough, but I don’t think she could have made it all the way to Snodland. If she wanted to top her old man, she could have just waited till he came home and whacked him with her bloody great axe."

"Anything from SOCO?"

"No, the place was clean. No-one else’s fingerprints or anything. But if he had a bow and arrow, there’s no reason to for there to be. We had a guy years back had a crossbow that fired an arrow over 500 yards. Claimed he used it for rabbits. Magistrate disagreed."

Hunter looked at Moore. She had the Scene Of Crime report open in her hand. She shook her head: Nothing. He returned to Jonesy.

"Witnesses?"

"No. The yard opens onto a dirt track around the back of the shops. Wall the other side of the track. The last person we know went down there was the butcher, about 18:30. The yard gates were closed then. There’s no reason for anyone else to go down there normally. The guy with the dog was using it to cut through from the High Street. He was probably the only person to go down there since the butcher. We’ve posted notices asking for information, but I’m not hopeful. If anyone had seen anything, they’d have told everybody by now, it’s that sort of place. To be frank, until you turned up we were a bit stuck."

"No known enemies?"

"No known anyone. No friends, acquaintances, enemies, nothing. Even the Jehovah Witnesses hadn’t spoken to him. That’s why I reckoned she was a Russian mail-order bride. He’s hardly the social type."

"OK, Jones. I appreciate all this. What we want from you now is a grand tour. Sergeant Moore here will want to examine the scene, and I want to have a word with the coroner. Can you be our liaison?" Hunter looked enquiringly at Jones’ DI, who nodded his agreement.

"Great. Well, first we need to get ourselves over to Snodland." Hunter allowed himself a smile. "I still can’t believe that there is actually a place called that."

Jonesy relaxed a little. "Yeah, well, don’t laugh at the name when you get there. The locals don’t have much of a sense of humour about it. There was some bloke last year put up a website taking the piss, and they were not happy about it at all."

"See? That’s why we need a liaison, for little tips like that. Well, we want to get this sorted as soon as possible. My car’s outside."

The trip to Snodland took about 15 minutes. Jones pointed out the various sites of local interest on the way: There was the river (a stream compared to the Thames); there was the paper mill; there was the one remaining Army barracks. Hunter let his voice drift over him, and left it to Moore to pretend to take an interest.

This case was puzzling. It could have been a robbery gone wrong, or a random thug with a crossbow. It could have been just dumb bad luck that the victim was a dwarf. But an arrow? He’d have given that theory more credence if it had been a baseball bat or bullet. But an arrow screamed ‘elf’. He’d checked on the database before they’d left. The nearest elf enclave was near Ashford. Only 20-odd miles away, true, but too far for it to make sense. If Goldsmith was as isolated as Jones had suggested, why would an elf travel that distance just to kill him? Besides, what would be the motive? Both dwarves and elves had strong motives for keeping their presence discreet.

Jones leant forward over the passenger seat. "This is the turn-off coming up. Left is to West Malling, right to Snodland."

Hunter pulled over to the slip road. "Why would he live in West Malling if his shop was in Snodland? Is Snodland expensive for housing?"

Jones laughed. "Not exactly. Snodland is not the sort of place you move to. It’s the sort of place you come from. You’ll see."

Once off the motorway they joined a dual carriageway heading north. Within a mile houses started to appear, backing onto the road. A sewage works appeared on the right.

"This is the Snodland bypass. They didn’t think it was worth going round Snodland, so they put it through the middle. We need to turn off up here, gov."

Hunter turned off into an industrial area consisting of an ugly mix of old red-brick buildings and characterless pre-fab metal units.

"Behold the idyllic country charm that is Snodland," commentated Jones dryly. "This sleepy village has the worst drug problem on my patch, but be fair: If I lived here I’d need drugs to make it bearable."

They pulled over by a wide alleyway that Jones indicated.

"How long will you need?" Hunter asked Moore.

She shrugged. "It depends. Half an hour? An hour?"

Hunter nodded. "We’ll probably need longer than that, so when you’ve finished poke around the village, see what you can find out from the locals. Mr Jones and I are going to see a man about a body."

Police Sergeant Susan Moore, Sister of Gaia, Licensed crystal healer, BSc(Chem) watched the car turn around and pull away towards the by-pass (through-pass?). Then she hefted her bag on her shoulder, picked up the aluminium case and walked down the alleyway. The jeweller’s yard was sealed by blue police tape. A gang of half a dozen boys were hanging around the gates. Their average age would be about 13, she guessed. So much for footprints, but SOCO had not found anything there. She put her bags down 10 yards shy of the gates and made a quick scan of the alley. Nothing jumped out as being out of place.

She beckoned the boys over and showed them her warrant card. They looked at it suspiciously.

The one whose body language shouted Leader looked at the aluminium case. "Are you CSI Miami?"

"More CSI Maidstone, but yes. I’m here to examine the scene. Any of you see anything suspicious?" she asked, seriously.

They all shook their heads.

"He was a German", volunteered the smallest of the gang.

Leader laughed, and the rest of the gang followed suit. "How’d you know?" he asked.

"He was. My mum bought a ring from him, and she said he was German, ‘cos he talked like a German, an’ she said he was probably an illegal immigrant, ‘cos he talked funny, an’ he shouldn’t have been allowed in this country, but Tony Blair says anyone can come into the country now, an’ that’s why she’d vote BNP, but the ring was proper gold, not the crap you get in town, an’ that’s why she bought it from him."

Susan marvelled that such a small frame could hold such a big breath to get such a sentence out in one go.

"Yeah, well, your mum would know about gold rings, ‘cos she’s a pikey!" retorted Leader, obviously put out that such valuable intelligence had been withheld from the chain of command.

Titch clenched his fists and started to breathe in again, preparatory to another marathon speech. This one, Susan was sure, would not be the sort that a refined lady such as herself should hear.

"That’s really useful", she said, addressing Titch before he could refute Leader’s aspersions. "That’s the sort of information that could break a case. Does anyone else know anything about the victim?"

The gang looked at each other. "He was really short", volunteered the boy with the brand new white trainers, uncertainly.

"She knows that, div!" said Leader, scornfully.

"Nothing else? No? Well, you’ve been a big help. There’s one more thing you can do for me, if you don’t mind. I need to do some tests now, and I really need to make sure I can do them undisturbed. Could you stand guard at the end of the alley and make sure no-one walks down here while I’m working?" She gave Leader her most beguiling smile. "That would be just so helpful to me."

Leader blushed, drew back his shoulders and nodded. "Yeah, we can do that."

Susan watched them troop down the alley. Boys of that age were so easy to read. It was when they got into their twenties they got a little more difficult to manipulate. She thought a moment of some she had known. OK, not that more difficult.

She turned and opened up her attaché case. There in the carefully cut foam segments were the tools of her trade. She pulled out a collection of crystals on a keyring. She’d start with an aura reading.