The Pits

Once in his flat he removed his coat and jacket and hung them on the coat stand by the door. Loosening his tie, and slipping off his shoes, he went over to the coach, from which he had a view of most of the town through the floor length windows. He could see the area where the Routledge’s flat was - the pits - and gazed at it as he got out his silver cigarette tin. Lighting a Marlboro gold, he leant back and rested his feet on the black coffee table.

He reached for the wooden box which sat on the table, and using the key he had in his trouser pocket, he unlocked it. It was filled with photos. His souvenirs. He flicked through them slowly. A young black man, with an older man’s arm around his neck. Two young girls hugging each other. An old man with a young scantily-clad woman on each of his arms. Lots of couples. On the back of each photo he had written the names of the people in them, and the dates each crime had taken place.

With each photo came a memory, and Detective White let them wash over him as he toked on his cigarette, the large living room slowly filling with smoke.

The detective replaced the photos and added his new one to the collection, at the front. Mr Routledge smiled out of the box at him as he closed the lid, and turned the key in the lock. He placed it back where it belonged – as the centre piece to his table.

This one had been almost too easy. Sometimes easy was good, but the detective was getting bored. He needed a challenge every now and then. Something to keep him on his toes.

He got up and walked to the window, and looked towards the pits. A few lights could be seen from here and not much else. But the detective knew what was going on there. There would be drug deals, fights, car chases, rape, stabbings. You name it, it would be happening there.

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