Commissar Stoppard

London. Rain, traffic, the smell of stale tea and cigarette smoke. Somewhere across the city, a new play is opening, someone is loudly debating a crime drama in a pub, and Inspector Stoppard is sitting in his office, staring at a half-finished cup of tea.

Case closed, killer caught, but the paperwork won’t write itself. He sighs, reaches for a pencil, and starts scribbling: “Inspector Stoppard. Case report…” — and then the usual dull formalities.

The words blur together as his tired eyes struggle to focus. Too much work, not enough sleep. Another night spent in a cheap diner, another pint, another “I won’t keep you, but have a drink with me.”

He’d love to take a holiday, but who else is going to solve all these absurd murders? London seems to produce a fresh theatrical homicide every other day.

From the hallway, a familiar voice echoes. Of course. Stalker. Young, full of energy, undoubtedly onto something. The door swings open.

“Inspector!” she announces, dropping a new folder onto his desk. “We need to talk.”

Stoppard rubs his face tiredly.

“Another murder?”

“Not yet. But… there might be one soon.”

He looks at her, then at his empty cup, then back at her. Sighs.

“Alright. Where’s the body that doesn’t exist yet?”

.