Troll Ch. 3

Look who’s finally shown up. Yes, I know – Chapter 3’s been dragging its feet like a zombie after a night on the lash. Life’s been a bit of a whirlwind (and not the fun kind where you end up in Majorca with a sunburn and questionable life choices). But we’re here now – and trust me, Troll is about to kick up a gear.

While you’re here, lurking at the edges with that curious glint in your eye, why not take the plunge and subscribe? If you’re already subscribed – bloody lovely. If not, becoming a paid subscriber gets you more than just warm fuzzy feelings. You’ll get early access to chapters, bonus content that doesn't make it out to the masses, and a front-row seat to the madness as it unfolds.

No hard sell. No ‘but wait, there’s more’ nonsense. Just a nudge from one ink-stained mischief-maker to another.

Right. Enough faffing. Let’s get you back to where you belong – deep inside the story.

Troll: Chapter 3 starts now.

Two months and one day later...

There was a plethora of white vehicles, patrol cars, a couple of ambulances, and the SOCOs wandering around the front like a herd of gimps.

Alex got out of her car. She pulled the belt of her favourite Barbour Polarquilted jacket tight, accentuating her tight waist as she did so. She also wore her knee-length door-kicking boots and tight jeans.

The air was cold, the winter was biting and the air tasted humeral and earthy. Mornings in the East End of London always smelt the same. It wasn’t unpleasant; in fact, Alex liked it. It was her manor, and the slags, drug dealers, sex offenders, and gangbangers knew it. She strode up the road; the constable recognised her. She flashed her warrant card anyway. A sucker for procedure, Alex worked her beat to the letter of the law, and she struggled to deviate from it.

She spied Frank, the inspector and boss of her watch. He was a big man and could command any scene, although his appearance looked like it belonged in more of an episode of The Sweeney than the 2010s.

He spotted her, nodding to a uniformed sergeant. The beige jacket that Frank was in looked like an old carpet as she approached. She noticed he even smelt like one when she got close enough.

“Alex,” he said. His voice was deep, almost hoarse.

“Dying of man-flu. I’m literally dying here,” he said.

“You look–” She looked him up and down. “––Dead boss. Is that why you dragged me out of my warm office?”

He looked at her; he loved her sarcasm. The military attitude and sense of humour always made Frank chuckle. It was respect.

Frank admired Alex as one of his subalterns, going as far as being close friends off the job too. He was even the godfather to her children. It was a job he had taken on without hesitation. He had married but never been blessed with kids, so he made the most of it with hers.

The kids were always in touch with Uncle Frank. He saw the world for what it was: a shithole filled with scumbags and perverts.

“Four dead in the house,” he said, his face wet from the persistent fine drizzle being whipped up Beers Street in the East End.

It was a typical row of Flemish dark brick terraced houses, now costing over a million pounds. These houses had once housed immigrants and working-class dockers. They filled the street with filth and decay for decades.

Now, the scrotes learned to wash or clean up the streets and sold their houses to the middle classes working at Canary Wharf. The Olympics in 2012 had done wonders for the price of these houses.

“Four? What's the COD, do we know yet?”

“Cause of death most likely carbon monoxide poisoning. The boiler’s bollocksed. Gassed the lot of ‘em,” Frank said, jutting his chin to the open door and windows of the property. “Fire brigade gave us the green light to enter just under an hour ago.”

“You been inside, boss?” she asked.

He nodded, stuck an Embassy cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and fired up his trusty Zippo one-handed.

“Thought you were on nicotine gum?” Alex said, raising an eyebrow.

“I am,” he replied. He showed her the chewed gum between his teeth while a plume of smoke poured out of both nostrils like an afterburner.

“Had brass on the blower. Got to go back to the office, you’re in charge,” he said.

She shook her head and turned; a SOCO was on the door.

“Can I go in?” Alex asked.

The SOCO nodded and gave her a clipboard to fill out.

SOCO’s were known to the police as ‘gimps.’ It was was an affectionate name the murder squad called the pathologists, although the term sometimes almost caused fights at crime scenes. They were called so because they wandered around crime scenes in all-in-one paper suits silently, like gimps.