Flash Fiction – prompt is intuition

With his prompt I could very easily have whisked out an ancient story – Nero at the Delphi Oracle, anything to do with omens or auspices. But the whole point of flash fiction is to test yourself. So a modern day set one this week.

And not that I want to brag about my gloriously victory (not half) I totted up the most votes and was declared the victor. I would have thrown a triumph ala a roman emperor, instead I did a fist punch in the air. Equally as satisfying.

The Gift

I can read people, it’s my gift. From a glance I know everything I need to know. And so it was with Inspector Danielson. As he led me into the interview room I knew he was all wrong. The name for a start: Danielson. What sort of name is that for a detective?

You need something one syllabled like Morse or Banks or Frost. Something catchy, something a BBC announcer can drag out and emphasise for maximum impact.

Or something exotic like Bergerac or Wallander. I can’t even imagine the font they’d use for the opening credits of Detective Danielson.

And he’s far too young to be an inspector, thirty four maybe thirty five with slightly waving hair like what you see on those Greek statues. His is black and only slightly tempered by white. He does not possess the necessary gravitas for an inspector. He would be far better cast as the cocky DS, his suit veers towards shiny and the width of his shoulders suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym – no running, he’s a runner.

“Do sit Alicia,” he says indicating the chair. Morse would never have called an interviewee by their Christian name, never. He’d have said ‘Do sit Miss Dio,” Then made some classical reference to my surname.

That’s his quirk. Like Sergeant Cuff’s love of roses and Resnick’s love of jazz. Danielson has no quirk. I’ve eaten quirkier sandwiches. Danielson lives in a new build house with his blonde pilates loving girlfriend who will be called Kirsty or Imogen. They’ll go for Sunday brunch in the local gastro pub and read the Saturday papers in bed together.

“The desk sergeant said you have information regarding Glenda Burrows,” he says.

“I have seen her.”

He flips open his notebook, “And when was this?”

“Friday evening.”

“So the day she went missing?”

“She’s dead you know.”

That had him looking up.

“She’s been dead from the beginning.”

“And you know this how?” he asks.

“Because I’ve seen her. She’s floating, her dress billowing around her white legs, her eyes open, dead. She drowned.”

He’s frowning now. “You saw her body on Friday evening and you are only telling us this now on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Oh no, that’s not it at all. I never go out after dark, not with the streets being like they are.”

“So how do_?”

“I had a vision.”

His brow unfurrows and I see him assess me. My long purple summer dress covered in cat hairs, the gold chain round my neck a clear crystal hanging on it, the henna tattoos on my hands.

“You are a psychic I suppose?”

“I prefer to call it intuition. But you can call me psychic if it makes it easier for you.”

He stands. “Well thank you for your Alicia. That was very, very helpful.” His tone is patronising dismissive. I ignore it.

“Check out the river and any quarries. I feel it is more likely to be the latter in which you will find her, I have a great feeling of weight of stone, glassy stone.”

“We’ll bear it in mind,” he hurries me out.

As I leave I smile. I’ve read him well Inspector Danielson, he thinks Alicia Dio to be a nutter, a mad cat lady who thinks she’s sees visions. Just what I need if my name should appear again in this investigation. Inspector Danielson will soon rule me out, convince his colleagues I’m far too batty to be a suspect.

Men are so easy to read.

“Miss Dio?” It’s a uniformed officer.

“Yes?”

“Could you come with me, please.”

Inspector Danielson watches from the window as Alicia is led back into the station. He’d known it from the moment he’d seen her waiting by the desk. He was good at reading people, it was his gift. It was why he held an inspector rank at such a young age.

If he was right, and he was damn sure he was, it would be time for a celebration. A drink of bubbly at home in the 17th century cottage he shared with his partner, Ivan. Perhaps he’d have a quick game of squash first.