The Fast Food Robbery

Carlton took no notice of the delivery boy’s obvious distress as he shivered from cold and shock in his flimsy uniform. “Go over what happened again,” he ordered.

Robbie nodded. “We’d received a big order for a party, so I loaded up the van and set off. As soon as I arrived, I knocked, delivered the fast food and received the payment of £572.50 in cash. It was a lot of money, so I counted it quickly and wanted to get back to the store as soon as possible.”

“And then?” Carlton pressed, his pen hovering over the notebook.

Robbie nervously looked up at the police detective, who loomed almost a foot above him. “Well, I was opening the van door when a man jumped out from behind the bushes with a gun. He waved it in my face and demanded that I give him the money. I was so scared I just handed it straight over. Then he demanded the van keys, got in and drove off.”

Carlton had finished noting down the boy’s story. “Would you be able to describe him to a police sketch artist?”

Regretfully, he shook his head. “He was wearing a mask. I only knew he was above average height, fairly heavily built, with a couple of days of stubble and dark hair. Sorry I can’t be more accurate.”

“Hey, sir!” A uniform came running over, sweat running down his pink face. He paused in front of Carlton, breathing heavily as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Carlton sighed. “Spit it out, Brent, for god’s sake.”

“We’ve – we’ve found the van, sir. It was – dumped only a few streets away.”

Carlton’s eyes lit up. “Show me,” he commanded, and whirled round to Robbie. “Can you come with us to identify it?”

The van had been clumsily driven into a ditch and dumped there at a precarious angle, its rear wheels sticking out into the road. Carlton ducked easily under the police tape surrounding it and greeted the officers who were swabbing it for prints.

“That’s the van, alright,” said Robbie, nervously. “I know the number plate.”

Carlton nodded. “What are you guys getting?”

A blond uniform emerged from the boot. “Where’s River?” was his first question.

“On holiday in Seville,” Carlton answered curtly. “Now answer my question, Curtis.”

Good-humouredly, Curtis grinned. “Okay. We’ve only got one set of prints here, and my guess is that they match yours, Robbie.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope. Looks like your man was wearing gloves.”

Carlton shrugged. “It was a bit of a long shot. Let’s have a look inside.”

He opened the door and got in the driver’s seat, and then swore sharply as he tried to squeeze his long legs in.  After sliding back the seat, he examined the glove compartment, panniers and seat wells, all of which were empty.

“I think our bird has flown,” muttered Curtis, as Carlton emerged from the van.

Carlton gave his curious half-smile, the kind he always did when he knew something others did not.

“What?” Curtis demanded, and Carlton’s smile broadened.

“I think if we search hard enough, we’ll find our guy,” he commented.

Who is the thief, and where should they look?

Answer (highlight to read): If there really was an “above average height” villain, why did Carlton struggle to get in the car? It must have been driven by someone shorter – i.e. Robbie. He was making up the story of thief and stole the money himself.

The Three Red Heads

"Thank you, guys, thank you!" Danny struck a chord on his guitar, and the screaming crowd quietened a fraction. "You guys mean so much to us, thank you for coming tonight. I'm afraid that was our last song, we're going to have to leave you now. So, let's hear it for our band members one last time, I give you... Harry!"

Harry gave the crowd a dramatic drum roll and a twinkle of a smile as the crowd roared.

"Lucy!" cried Danny again, and Lucy waved and winked at the audience. "And me, Danny!" he finished, as the crowd screamed. "Okay, folks, thank you once again, this is the Three Red Heads saying goodnight!"

They headed offstage as quickly as they could, hoping to beat the crowd out of there. Danny slung his guitar over his shoulder - he was never parted from it, even for a second - and the other two followed him out of the club.

The streets were already lined with people, mainly teenagers, waving pieces of paper and shouting their names. Danny, his arm protectively around Lucy's waist, made his way down the row, signing as he went. Harry was less lucky - his round baby-face and russet-red hair made him a target for girls, one of whom literally threw herself at him from the crowd. Apologizing and flushing pink, he was saved by a security guard, who quickly bundled him into the taxi with the others.

Lucy laughed. "Survived, Harry?"

He gave her a sheepish grin, pulling off his gloves to reveal hands blossoming with bruises above the knuckles. "Just about."

Danny slicked back his shoulder-length bright red hair into a ponytail. "That was the maddest gig we've ever done, for sure," he nodded, as Lucy snuggled into his arm.

The taxi ride was short, and it wasn't long before they reached their hotel, and were hurried up to their room by back stairs to avoid the fans waiting for them at the door. Joking and bickering, they walked in, slightly later than their published end time.

The smiles drained from their faces.

"What the hell was all that about?" Jen was sitting in her usual chair in the middle of the room, glaring at them. She rose, and ran a hand through her hair as she always did when she was mad. "That was a shambles," she began again, her voice dangerously low. "Sit down."

Obediently, they sat.

"Ten minutes it took you from the end of your last song to leaving the stage. Ten minutes of thank yous and goodbyes and I love yous. You're supposed to be wrapping up the show quickly, not getting into bed with the fans! And then there was Harry at the end - what the hell? You know you're supposed to walk with your guard to avoid exactly that sort of thing happening. If you think that fame will cut you any slack from me, you've got another think coming."

They sat in shocked silence for a moment. "It was a great gig," Danny said, slowly. "We did good."

"I don't give a damn how good you are!" Jen screamed. "No-one cares! It's your public image!"

Danny jumped up. "No, Jen! It's us! We did good tonight! And what did we get from you? Not a single thanks or congratulations - just criticism, criticism, criticism! Don't forget that it's us who hired you, so as you'd help us! We're adults and perfectly capable of looking after ourselves!"

"How dare you?" hissed Jen. "After all I've done for this band -"

"No. We made this band what it was. And don't you forget it!" Shaking with anger, he ran from the room and slammed the door.

"Danny!" cried three voices, simultaneously - Jen furiously, Lucy and Harry pleadingly.

Lucy rose to follow him, but Harry held her back. "I'd better go. He listens to me." At her nod, he followed him out.

"Damn him," cursed Jen. "This'll be all over the press tomorrow, and it'll all be his fault."

"Don't you speak about him like that!" Lucy jumped up. "I'm not saying he was right to yell at you, he wasn't. But at the same time, he's right. We are adults, Jen. I appreciate that you've done loads to help us get here -"

"Help you? I flaming pushed you!"

"- but we made the music. We gave an amazing show tonight. There's no need to berate us like that."

Jen silently turned to Harry, who had just slipped back into the room. "You turning traitor too?"

Harry flushed a deep red. He was useless at arguments. "You've done so much for us, Jen," he began, quietly. "But, um, I still think they have a point. You see -"

Jen didn't let him finish. "I've given my life for this band," she said, perilously quiet. "All my money went on you. Everything. Tours, gigs, the lot. Not just money - my time, too. I've traveled everywhere with you guys. Made this band from a school disaster to world-famous in just four years. And this is how you repay me."

"Not like that, Jen," pleaded Lucy. "We still want you around, you've done so much for us."

"We don't all get what we want!" she screamed. Heading to the table, she drank the remainder of her cocktail in one go, before stalking out of the room.

Lucy sat down, heavily. "Oh my god," she breathed.

Harry looked over at her, wanting to say something comforting. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "It'll be okay once they've both cooled down," he promised. "You know what their tempers are like."

She smiled at him. "I hope you're right, but I doubt Danny will have her back any more. He's been thinking of letting her go for ages. She's not really one of us any more."

Harry chuckled. "Redhead by name, but not by nature. Bit like Danny, really."

Lucy laughed out loud at that, and then glanced down at Harry's hand, which was still resting on her shoulder. She discovered that she did not really want it to move.

"Sorry," he muttered, and slid it away, but not before his eyes had brushed hers.

A scream broke into their silence, and Jen stumbled back against the door. "I - oh my god -" she slurred incoherently, her breath coming in panicky gasps. "It's Danny - he's -"

But Lucy had already flown out of the door and into Danny's room. "He's dead!" came her horrified sob.

Harry bolted after her. "Dead? Oh my god -" He stared down at Danny's body, slumped over the bed. A pillow, now tossed aside, was stained with his stage make-up, which had been held over his mouth and nose. A yellowish bruise on his right arm indicated a serious struggle.

"What's going on?" Jen pushed the hotel manager out of the room and locked the door, but not before he'd had a glimpse of Danny, with Harry holding the now hysterical Lucy in his arms. "What? Let me in!"

Who killed Danny? Jen, Harry, Lucy, or an enraged fan?

Answer (highlight to read): Harry killed him. The fact that the bruise on Danny's arm was yellow indicates that it was from an old fight. Harry has bruises on his arm consistent with a fight a few days ago. The two boys have been fighting over Lucy for longer than that, and Harry took advantage of the argument to kill him.

The Fight

Click! Click! Click!

Each time the swords touched, a tiny metallic noise sounded, barely audible over the panting and groans of the dozen or so other men in the room, working out with equal effort at weights, treadmills or pulleys.

But none, like Carlton, were fighting for their lives.

A grimace was frozen on both men's faces, their teeth bared in feral smiles. The foils clicked again, and Carlton stumbled on the shiny floor, nearly losing his balance.

His partner's smile widened a fraction and he struck again with his foil; Carlton only just managed to block the blow in time. The rest of the gym worked on, oblivious to the fact that two men were fighting with murderous intent in the centre of the room.

How had it managed to come to this? he wondered, as he dodged another blow. He thought his way back to when it had all started, when he and River had begun work on the smuggling ring that seemed to be behind the recent credit card thefts in south London. They had traced a set of notes back to a bank withdrawal in London, and had then placed surveillance on the man who withdrew it. Sure enough, it wasn't long until the big fish started coming in.

Carlton had tracked one of the leaders, a man known as Baxter, across town and into a gym, via a quick stop for petrol and a sandwich on the way. He had left a small deposit box in the changing room - Carlton had managed to snatch some photos of it before following him upstairs - and headed into the main gym. It was there that everything had gone wrong.

"Morning," he had addressed Carlton, who had nodded in reply. "You're the police officer who's been following me, aren't you?"

Addressed so bluntly, Carlton had not thought it clever to lie. "Yes," he admitted.

"So, who's your backup, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Come on, policemen never track someone without a backup. Who's yours?"

Not wanting to incriminate River, Carlton lied easily. "Eh, things went wrong, and I messed up a bit. I'm on my own here."

"Ri-ight." Baxter looked suspicious. "Nothing to do with the hot chick outside, is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You deaf or something? The cute girl loitering outside. Slim build, black hair? You know her, right?"

Baxter could see that Carlton had no difficulty recognizing River from the description, but the conversation did not continue. Both men feigned exercising, warming up and stretching out their legs. Then Baxter grinned, and glanced down at the long black bag he had been carrying.

"You ever fenced?"

"Once or twice," Carlton allowed, omitting the fact that he had been the under 21 fencing champion at university. "Not much in the last few years or so."

"Okay." He unzipped the bag and pulled out two high quality fencing foils. "Here's the deal. I win, and you call off all your little friends on me, including the girl. You win, and you get me."

Carlton's lips twitched. "I don't make deals with criminals."

Baxter gave a short, sharp laugh. "Oh, come on. You know you won't get me any other way. Besides, I don't need to ask you nicely."

He drew one of the swords from the bag, ignoring the baseball cap, receipts and tissues that spilled out as he did so. Slowly, he ran his hand along the blade. Carlton's eyes widened as it reached the tip, for unlike competition foils, the tip was not rounded, but sharp enough to tear through clothing  and flesh.

He smiled a little wider and took up a position. "En garde!"

Realising that he had no choice, Carlton pulled out the other blade and took up a stance, balancing his weight equally on either foot.

**

His half hour was more than up, but still River did not enter the gym. She knew the trouble she would be in if she blew his cover in the middle of an operation. On the other hand, if he needed help... she found it hard to imagine Carlton in a situation where he needed her help, but she supposed it was theoretically possible.

After pacing for another ten minutes, she made up her mind. She headed into the reception area and followed the signs to the men's gym, pretending to be lost when someone told her she was in the wrong place. When she reached the room, she opened the door a fraction and glanced in.

She barely noticed anyone in the room but the two men circling one another in the middle, and it was clear that she was not the only one, as they had gathered a little audience of about half a dozen men who were standing around watching them. Never having picked up a foil in her life, River had no idea that the blades were dangerous, assuming that they were blunted for training purposes.

It was not until Carlton missed Baxter's stroke, and the blade slid easily through his shirt and skin, that she suddenly realised what was going on.

**

The blood blossomed on his shirt, but the adrenalin pumping through his veins meant that he barely noticed the pain. It only maddened him, like a red flag in front of a bull.

With a terrifying face, he fought his corner, using his height advantage and longer arm reach to beat Baxter away from him and further towards the centre of the room. His attacks came faster than they ever had before, and Baxter was barely managing to block them all. He struck Baxter's arm once, though the blow was barely more than a scratch, and swung once at his neck, causing his partner to duck under it in surprise. With a final strike, he hit Baxter squarely in the ribs, who gasped, slipping down onto the floor. The foil fell from his hand with an unnoticed clatter.

For a square minute the two men stared each other out, both panting heavily. Then Carlton smiled, dropped his foil, and extended his hand to help Baxter up. "Good fight," he smiled.

Baxter ignored the hand, getting to his feet by holding onto the wall, and charged head first at Carlton. But his increased strength by the adrenalin rush gained from fighting and winning meant he brushed him aside easily.

"I won, Baxter. Now, time to keep your end of the deal."

Baxter spat in Carlton's general direction. "I remember no deal and you have nothing on me."

"Oh, for -" He was interrupted by River's entrance. "What are you doing here?"

"You were late and I was worried," she said simply, trying not to let on how attractive she thought he looked sword fighting in shirt-sleeves. "Are you hurt?"

He shrugged. "Could be worse."

River rolled her eyes at his show of bravado, but knew better than to try to help him. "So what happens now?"

"Depends if we can get this worthless excuse of a man to be a sportsman, but I doubt it. He's going to disappear into the sunset, and I'll end up with a scar and a bill for overtime."

River's eyes landed on something in the room. "Wait. I think we might have something here."

What had River spotted?

Answer (highlight to read): It was the receipt Baxter received when filling up his car with petrol, which fell out of the bag when he drew his blade. The last few digits of a credit card will be on the receipt, which, if they match a stolen card, could be used as evidence to arrest him.