“Whatcha got?” Frank Kerman asked.

“Snuff flick ... possibly,” Bob Yorke replied.

He held up a jiffy envelope that was a bilious beige colour. ‘Snuff/Skin Flick’ was written on the side in black marker pen.

“Fake ... almost certainly,” Frank said.

“I know, I know,” Bob said. “You know what the young uns are like. I keep telling them over and over--snuff films, real snuff films, are an urban myth, but will they listen...”

“Twonks,” Frank said. “You got the kebabs?”

Bob lifted up a plastic bag containing two parcels wrapped in white paper. “Efe’s finest.”

They entered the small viewing room. Bob passed the bag of food to Frank. He opened the beige envelope and pulled out a small disk in a blank jewel case. He opened the bag wider and looked inside. His leathery face--like someone had knocked all the stuffing out of a punchbag, as an unkindly soul had once described it--creased up in a frown.

“I don’t believe it. Stupid twats have gone and left off the paperwork. Again.”

“Twonks,” Frank said. He popped open the drawer of the disk player.

“I’ll give them a clip around the ear, so help me.”

Frank took the disk and placed it in the player while the other man leant back and switched off the lights. He started the tape recorder sitting on the desk and spoke into a mounted mic.

“This is DI Frank Kerman and DI Bob Yorke. Time is,” he checked his watch, “8:36 PM. About to view footage of a suspected murder. Footage is from...”

He switched off the tape recorder and turned to Bob.

“Are you sure there’s no paperwork?”

“Nothing. Found it sitting on my desk with an email from the super saying one of the lads had found it and we should take a look.”

“The papers are probably lost on that pigsty you call a desk.”

“It’s all this stupid bureaucracy. I’m supposed to be out solving crimes, not spending eight hours a day at a desk filling in forms.”

Frank shook his head. He switched the tape recorder back on.

“ ... footage of unknown origin.”

He pressed play on the player and a large monitor flickered into life. The flickering image revealed a large tiled room. A bathroom, Frank thought, and a large one at that. A raised bath jutted out from one of the side walls and took up most of the centre of the room. Judging by the angle, Frank suspected the camera was set up in one of the top corners of the room. Between the bath and the camera was a large inflatable mattress. The camera was positioned so that both mattress and bath were fully in the shot. Frank stared intently at the screen. He paused the film to describe what he saw into the tape recorder.

“And there’s nothing to say where this came from--internet, private club, dodgy geezer down the pub?” he asked Bob.

Bob shook his head.

Frank sighed. “Could be from sodding anywhere for all we know.”

“Chuck us me kebab. I’m famished,” Bob said.

Frank passed him a white parcel before opening up his own. A hearty, meaty smell of grease, onions and chilli sauce wafted up to him. His stomach rumbled appreciatively.

“Lovely,” he said.

He restarted the film, then picked up the overstuffed pitta bread in his lap and took a large bite of crisp lettuce, onion, and strips of meat slathered in tangy chilli sauce. That hit the spot, he thought, gulping a mouthful down into a stomach that had been running on nothing but coffee for the past six hours.

“Resolution’s too good for regular CCTV,” Bob noted. “No time stamp. Looks to have been recorded in real time as well.”

“Not exactly feature film quality either.”

“Shitty quality is a filmmaker’s best friend,” Bob said. “Harder to spot the special FX.”

“True. Reckon it’s some film student playing Deodato?”

Some film students made viral videos of eagles flying off with toddlers. Others, the wannabe Argentos and Romeros, posted their fake snuff vids to the darker corners of the internet, hoping to dredge up a little media interest.

“Playing is the right word,” Bob said. “Deodato was a horror master. You know they arrested him after Cannibal Holocaust? They thought it was all real. The actors had all signed contracts to stay out of the media for a year to make it seem like it was genuine found footage. They had to track them down to get him off the murder charges.”

“Quality film that, Cannibal Holocaust. The animal stuff always made me feel a little uncomfortable though. That turtle.”

“Hey, do you remember Faye Donahue?”

“The PETA loon that wanted to ban all meat from the canteen?”

“That’s the one. Well, she really liked Shaun of the Dead and because I’m the station horror film buff--”

“You? You still haven’t watched Kill List.”

“--and because I’m the office horror film buff, she asked me to recommend anything similar.”

“What, you didn’t.”

Bob smiled.

Frank shook his head.

“Should have seen the look she gave me the next morning. Priceless.”

Frank paused the tape again. Something was bothering him.

“Look how clean those tiles are,” he said. “The film students would dirty them up. They’d want their set to look like something out of Saw, because that’s what viewers expect a snuff film to look like--grimy.”

“Or they could be not very good film students,” Bob said. “You know the type--silver spoon up the bum, no common sense. Probably don’t want to make a mess of mommy’s bathroom.”

“Room looks too functional. A knocking shop I reckon, with a possible sideline in blackmail. That would explain the camera.”

“And here’s the girl,” Bob said.

A figure walked into view.

Hoax or not, Frank still made his notes as usual.

“Suspected victim is a woman, maybe five-two or five-three. East Asian appearance. Dark hair, medium length. Slim build. Dressed in a black silk robe.”

Frank paused the tape.

“How old do you reckon?”

Bob shrugged. “Could be anywhere from her teens to her early thirties,” he said.

On screen the girl prepped the room. She started running the bath and added a liberal amount of bubble bath.

“Looks a real sweetie. Hope this is just another one of those fakes.”

“They’re always fake,” Frank said.

“True, but you know one day we’re going to get the real deal. Some fucker will be degenerate--or desperate--enough to make one. Especially with the economy in the crapper.”

Frank hmphed in reply and took another bite out of his kebab. The men ate in silence as the Asian girl busied herself around the bathroom.

“And here’s the client,” Frank said as another person walked on screen.

Bob whistled. “What a monster. I wouldn’t like to bump into him down a dark alley.”

Frank spoke into the mic.

“Suspect is a male, approximately six foot four inches in height. Extremely muscular build. Short blond hair. Body heavily tattooed. Howling wolf motif on the back. Oriental dragons on torso and down arms.”

He stopped the tape.

“Big fucker,” he said.

The man was built like a wrestler--all packed slabs of muscle. A definite gym nut. Frank looked down sorrowfully at his own expansive gut. His own six pack had slumped into more of a barrel. The man’s tattoos made it look as though he belonged to a gang, but he could just as easily be imitating Hollywood’s imitation of a gangster. A lot of the youngsters did it nowadays because they thought it made them look well ‘ard. Not that this monster needed much help there. The tattoos were better quality than Frank was used to seeing on the twerps. Twin serpentine dragons crossed the man’s chest and twirled down his arms, their fanged maws open as if breathing fire into the man’s hands. Almost arty.

“Big hulking brute, teeny little girl--your typical porn fantasy for the sad and inadequate everywhere,” Bob said.

“Wouldn’t exactly work if the girl was built like Serena Williams would it,” Frank said.

“Hey, you remember that time Luke Tomaso tried to bring that prozzie in?”

“How could anyone forget it. She would have throttled the poor bastard had PCs Yates and Anders not been there. That was a big girl.”

“I reckon The Tomato got a kinky thrill out of it, having a strong woman wrap their hands around his throat. He looks the sort.”

“Don’t be daft. You’ve been watching too many dodgy Japanese films.”

“Did you know he’s dating Heather Daniels at the moment?”

“Good for him.”

“What? She’s got more muscles than Schwarzenegger.”

“And she’s really nice when you get to know her.”

Bob shook his head. “Not for me.”

“She’s lovely, trust me.”

“What, you haven’t?”

“Don’t be a twat. I’ve got Frannie. But if I hadn’t and she was single, I’d be more than happy to take her out on a date.”

“Each to their own.”

On screen the tattooed man removed the towel around his waist. Not so spectacular in the trouser department, Frank thought. No gym exercises to bulk up that little fella. We’re all stuck with what we’re born with. Alas.

“What d’you reckon this time?”

“Got to be strangling, hasn’t it. That’s the pervs’ main fantasy. Easiest way to show dominance.”

“Easiest to fake as well.”

“Boring for the wannabe horror directors though. They like to show off their splatter FX.”

The girl directed the man to the bath. He didn’t look like much of a killer, Frank thought. For all his muscles and tats the man looked skittish, almost Bambi-like in his innocence. That face was hardly going to intimidate the hard nuts. He looked more like a bookworm geek someone had attached an air hose to and blown up into a hunk.

Bob had noticed as well. “Doesn’t look like much of a killer.”

“If they did our job would be far easier.”

“Hey, it could be the girl, you know,” Bob said. “She gets him on the mattress, pulls out a knife hidden underneath it and ... eee! eee! eee! You remember that Japanese film?”

“Audition? Classic, that one.”

“Loved the ‘kiri, kiri, kiri’ bit with the needles.”

Frank paused. “This might sound weird, but I thought Eihi Shiina was really hot in that film.”

Bob nudged Frank with his elbow. “Nothing says true love like sawing a man’s foot off with piano wire.”

“Yeah, that might put a crimp in a relationship.”

“Hey, did you see the other film she was in--Tokyo Gore Police?”

“It’s okay. Bit too silly for me.”

Their attention was drawn back to the screen as the girl slipped out of her robe.

“Now that is a body,” Bob said.

Frank didn’t disagree. That was a seriously hot bod. Most of the petite little Asian women weren’t very large in the chest department. Not this girl. She was busty. Cover-girl busty. Nice ass as well. Nice everything. As he looked at her Frank felt the strong urge to put his hands on the milky swell of a breast, maybe cup the soft globe of her butt cheek. His hands itched at his sides as he imagined the weight--the softness--of her flesh in his hands.

Knock it off, he thought. He might have to be the one to go around and knock on her parents’ door to inform them of their loss.

He noticed something and paused the film.

“What’s that?”

He pointed to a black smudge on her back. It looked like a tattoo of some sort--narrow and forming a horizontal bar across her shoulder blades.

“Not sure. Wings I think,” Bob said.

“Wings?”

“Yeah. One of my nieces had angel wings tattooed on her back. Looks bloody awful but what can you say. Those look like devil wings.”

Frank spoke into the mic. “Victim has identifying tattoo on back. Cartoon devil wings.”

“Naughty girl,” Bob said. “Wouldn’t have guessed it with a face like that.”

“A woman working in a place like that is hardly going to be an angel,” Frank said.

He restarted the film. Definitely not an angel, he thought as she climbed into the bath with the tattooed hunk and began to wash him. Her hands slipped lower and lower until she was down between his legs and pumping up the man’s erection. She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. The man looked a little surprised by this and unsure how to respond. Frank suspected that when they got around to going through the man’s history they’d find a school photo of a skinny boy with spectacles.