Inspector Sunday

Waking from a deep sleep, Sunday looked up from the leather settee. It was dark; the day had gone. He stood and stretched, glancing across at the Art Deco light he didn’t remember switching on… something on the cabinet was wrong: the tennis racket he didn’t own was too small and labelled ‘Executioner’.

Maybe the redhead had been telling the truth, after all?

©Stephen Tanham.

7 Replies to “Inspector Sunday”

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