Cops and Cannibalism
(A Retelling of Little Red Riding Hood)
“I
have eyes on Wolf. I repeat, I have eyes on Wolf,” DCI Huntsman said into his
radio. He kept his voice low and his gaze steady from his position behind the
large oak tree in the garden of Scarlet Cotes’ Grandmother’s house.
Wolf
was standing at the oven in the kitchen, there was something frying in a pan.
Why is he cooking? Kidnappers don’t cook. But then, Wolf wasn’t like any other
kidnapper he’d come across.
A
voice crackled through the small speaker. “We’re in position, when you’re ready
sir.”
“Hold
it,” barked Huntsman.
This
Wolf had his curiosity. For a moment longer, he just wanted to watch him. Plus,
he couldn’t see Scarlet or her Grandmother. He steadily moved his binoculars to
the right to the further window which revealed the living room. As expected it
was full of kitsch knick knacks, garish patterns and old fashioned wallpaper,
but neither girl nor Grandmother.
He
trained his gaze on the upper window and felt relief sweep through him as he
spotted ten year old Scarlet in her red hoodie. Tears streamed down her face,
raw from crying, but she appeared strong, healthy.
“Eyes
on Scarlet,” Huntsman said.
The
first time Huntsman had laid eyes on Scarlet Cotes was barely forty eight hours
ago. Her parents had been sitting in his office, gripping her photo so tightly.
It was as if they feared she would disappear forever if they let go.
“She
didn’t come home and she’s not at my mother’s!” cried Mrs Cotes. “That’s where
she’s supposed to be!”
Huntsman
had done his best to calm the mother down, but in this situation the words ‘calm’
and ‘mother’ are unachievable. Reluctantly she had passed over the photograph.
She was a pretty girl, with dark blonde hair and wide brown eyes.
“I’ll
do everything in my power to get her back to you,” he’d said.
And
now he stood outside the Grandmother’s house, the kidnapper calmly cooking in
the kitchen. No Grandmother in sight.
A
familiar voice crept over the radio. “I’m at the back door.”
He
should have known. DS Prince, always the maverick.
“Wait,”
ordered Huntsman. “This guy is dangerous. We have to proceed with caution.”
From
where he stood, he didn’t appear dangerous. Wolf was currently seasoning
whatever was in the pan.
“I’m
going in,” said Prince.
Huntsman
swore under his breath, made sure Wolf was focused on his culinary abilities
and then made a dash for the front door, dishing out orders to wait, to leave
him and Prince alone with the suspect and the girl.
He
let himself in using the key Scarlet’s mother had given him and crept into the
hallway. The girl’s school bag had been upturned alongside a bag of shopping
she had obviously picked up for her elderly relative. The smell of meat filled
his nostrils. The smell of meat and decay.
There
was a faint buzzing sound too, like a refrigerator in a quiet kitchen, but this
sound was coming from the living room. He peered inside, and amongst all the
fake roses and the ‘antique’ furniture was the body of the Grandmother. Insects
swarmed over her body. He fought back the bile rising in his throat.
Through
the beetles and the bugs he could make out great wounds in her body. She had
clearly been slashed and cut up, the flesh ripped from her bones.
The
stairs, the gateway to young Scarlet Cotes, were in front of him, but his main
priority was arresting Alex Wolf, so he made his way towards the kitchen. He
could step inside the room without being seen by Wolf, but being observed by
Prince through the window of the back door.
The
kitchen was a large room, the old fashioned arga taking up pride of place in
the middle of the room. Clunky and mismatched cabinets and sideboards lined the
room in that charming way that made the house seem warm and inviting. It would
have been warm and inviting, if it wasn’t for that smell.
Huntsman
crept in and would have gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for his radio. It bleeped.
A small almost insignificant sound but in the silent kitchen it echoed at the
volume of a jet engine.
Wolf
whirled towards him, a gleaming knife in his hand, already covered in the blood
of the dead Grandmother. The detective was momentarily distracted by the man’s
eyes. They were large, deep, like black holes. With one glance he could tell
there was no soul behind those enormous eyes. Wolf’s ears were also larger than
average and with a lip quivering growl he revealed a substantial overbite.
He
threw himself at Huntsman, who fell easily, his feet slipping on the blood
splattered tiles. Wolf’s knife pressed tightly against his throat while his
arms pushed and thrashed. But the man was strong, inconceivably so. In the
struggle Huntsman’s hand curled around a handle. With a sneak to his right and
a surging rise of hope he saw a pile of logs and the axe blade at the end of
the smooth wood. He brought it down with a roar onto Wolf’s back and the large
man collapsed on top of him.
“Chief!”
cried Prince, rushing through the door, missing the moment.
“I
thought you were ‘going in’,” grumbled Huntsman, as he and Prince heaved the
dead weight off of the inspector.
Before
Prince could answer a little voice in the doorway drew their attention. “Is he
dead?”
“Yes
sweetheart,” said Huntsman, his outward brusqueness softening. “He won’t hurt
you anymore.”
Epilogue
“The
victim is a thirty eight year old male by the name of Alexander James Wolf,”
read the pathologist, from her file. “Outward injuries include a sharp force
trauma to the back…” She frowned at the intrusion in her laboratory before
adding, “DCI Huntsman, always a pleasure.”
The
police officer smiled at the sarcasm in her voice.
“Well,
when you’re always so welcoming,” he said, keeping himself a good two feet from
the body lying on the table. “All I want to know is what he was cooking. I
gather he’d already eaten some of it.”
She
flipped through the pages. “Stomach contents include several pieces of human
flesh. Awaiting DNA results but preliminary tests point towards Scarlet Cotes’
Grandmother, Muriel Adams.” She gave Huntsman a smile. “You don’t have to be a
police officer to work that one out. Goodbye DCI Huntsman.”
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