The Crime Studio by Steve Aylett Page A

husband ate one of them while you stood and watched. You left, and when you came back no more than two minutes later the scene was exactly as it is now - that your story? My god, Mrs Devlin, you tell that in the perjury room you’ll be dead quicker than an airplant.’
    ‘But it’s the truth you stupid man, the truth! How else can I say it?’ And she broke down into sobs of quaking intensity.
    ‘Let’s attempt a benign reconstruction, Benny. As I see it Mrs Devlin there are three possible scenarios.’ Blince got up and went over to the plate of donuts. He picked one up and took a bite, chewing. ‘Your husband in all his fragile innocence, pausing only to offer up a prayer to our Lord, entered the blistering vortex of this immoral chamber in search of nourishment. You yourself, clutching at straws in a desperate attempt to salvage something - anything - from the twisted wreckage of your relationship, had deepfried him a doughy repast. Eating one, your husband stated his first-rate opinion that the donut he had sampled would never become what it ought to be, and cast shadowy doubts upon your skill as a cook, wife and lover.’
    ‘I beg your pardon.’
    ‘At this you became exquisitely violent, and gave your husband the cod-eye by means of a Walther 9mm automatic which you subsequently disposed of in whatever manner your damaged imagination could devise. Am I getting through to you Mrs Devlin?’
    ‘You’ve run stark raving mad you disgusting tyrant.’
    ‘Tyrant am I? Distorting the facts! Well, Miss Cherub in the Firmament, I’ll have you know better than I do this round-eyed and refreshing simplicity isn’t fooling anyone. Is this how you looked at your husband before he suffered the flash-flood of your arrogance and fury Mrs Devlin? My god he was dead before the donut reached his midsection.’
    ‘But it doesn’t make any sense you madman - ‘
    ‘Madman am I? I’ll fry you in sauce for that you crazy bitch.’
    Benny whispered something in Blince’s ear.
    ‘What?’ said Blince, frowning. ‘Whaddya mean I can’t fry her in sauce? Quit snafflin’ at my ear - I can do whatever I like in this kitchen. Didn’t you drag me out of the Nimble Maniac before I was good and ready?’
    ‘Please,’ said Mrs Devlin. ‘I must sleep.’
    ‘Simmer down, lady,’ said Benny. ‘We’re just tryin’ to establish the shocking facts.’
    ‘You use saccharin or aspartame in these donuts Mrs Devlin?
    ‘Certainly not.’
    ‘Sure, I bet.’
    Mrs Devlin was lost for a reply. Blinded by hunger and lacking the intellectual fibre to misconstrue the facts with the care advised by the cop academy, Blince surged on like an enraged water bison. ‘The second possible scenario,’ he rumbled, taking up the second donut and stepping over the body, ‘has you, Mrs Devlin, standing here with a formidable sawed-off Remington automatic shotgun, a bandolier of Hi-Power shells about your flabby waist. Your husband was standing - here.’ Blince raised the donut above his head - it threw a huge and infernal shadow on the wall. ‘Awash with alcohol and drugs, you and your oh-so-trusting spouse embarked upon a grim shooting match, using these donuts for target practice. Lacking the ballistic expertise required - or perhaps being all-too expert - you blew every trace of life out of your husband’s face and ears. Then perching on his chest like a harpy, you ate the donut yourself, snickering in the artificial light.’ As Blince ate the donut, Mrs Devlin hid her face in her hands.
    ‘God’s shining earth’ll go up in a ball of flame before you let fly with the truth won’t it Mrs Devlin? I sense sickness and depravity beyond the human range, babyface - the random particles vibrate differently on my nostrils.’
    ‘Better not use that on the judge, Chief,’ muttered Benny.
    ‘Whaddya mean? This whole room’s made up of random particles, you bigot. So’s every crime scene from here to San Diego .’
    ‘But I’m innocent you