The Serial Killers Club is a bit of an unusual name for a social circle within the Police, I’ll grant you. But all the same, I was part of this club during my time in uniform and I am reliably informed that it is still going strong.
We never actually killed anyone, of course. It was, at best, an intellectual review and appreciation of heinous crimes of past, present and future, from fiction, real life and our own surprisingly graphic imaginations. At worst it was a bitter and twisted debate of what ingenious and increasingly dramatic ways we would dispatch with those unfortunates who had crossed our paths that particular day.
Now, don’t look so shocked. You know as well as I do that there are times when each and every one of us thinks (however fleetingly) how much they would really like to do away with an annoying colleague, customer or casual acquaintance. We just took it to a whole new creative level. Honestly, the variety and ingenuity of some of our convoluted plots were so complex and bizarre that they would baffle the likes of even Poirot, Sherlock and Colombo. Even if all three of them were working together. And we gave them clues. My good friend Wonderland (as she was so known) was particularly adept and inventive at this peculiar pastime. I was more concerned about how to get away with the crime, whilst she was mainly focused on the execution. So to speak.
Anyway, these past discussions have proved to be very fertile feeding ground for my own dastardly plots. Literary plots, of course. So inspiring have I found these macabre memories that I am even considering shoe-horning one into this blog, somehow. I think it may be the excessive exposure to Agatha Christie recently but I feel I’m rather in the mood for a who-dunnit.