The heavy hail battered the steamed-up windows of Madge’s Mini Café. Inside, it was hot and jam-packed. Behind the counter, Madge, a midget with a withered arm, was serving tea in half pint glasses to a couple of diminutive bridesmaids. A sound system that was twice as big as Madge blasted out an Alice Cooper song from a pair of raspy speakers. Wilting and fading Christmas decorations adorned the place: tinsel, balloons, party streamers,
Detective Sergeant Steve Toshack was watching the streamers of steam rise from his muddy coffee.
‘What’s the SP on that writer geezer that got killed, Tosh?’ said Madge, as she refilled his mug.
‘The one over Embankment way?’ said Tosh.
‘Yeah,’ said Madge. ‘Unless there’s been more.’
She wiped down a Formica table.
‘He was shot in the head,’ said Tos
