Detective Constable Cara Chase had seen some unusual cases
in her years with the Blaenau Ffestiniog Constabulary, but nothing—absolutely
nothing—prepared her for the call she received that rainy Thursday
afternoon.

“Suspicious death,” the sergeant had said.
“At the old snooker hall.”
“Oh?” Detective Constable Cara raised her eyebrows.
“Er… it’s on a Scalextric track.

“Seriously”, She [spluttered ???? nearly snorted her coffee up her nose.

“Yup!”

And just like that, her day went from mundane to one of
miniature mayhem.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————–

When she arrived, she found the warehouse lights blazing
over a sprawling, beautifully detailed miniature scalextric track—tiny Italian
villages, winding mountains, and hundreds of hand-painted spectators frozen
mid-cheer. Its creator, local model-making legend Peter “The Track
Whisperer”, paced anxiously beside it.

sharp for any threat that might still be lurking nearby.

Peter pointed dramatically.

A tiny plastic racing driver sat slumped in his miniature
Alfa Romeo, wedged against a scale stone wall.

“A slot car racing driver has been murdered?” “Perhaps we
need an Ambulance” she thought to herself. DC Cara composed herself….she
had built her career on keeping a straight face in the face of many a tall story…and
continued with the professionalism of forensics examining a triple homicide.

Peter nodded solemnly “At the hairpin – it’s the sharpest
bend….And now Alfonso’s dead and someone’s tampered with the track – look! It
was flawless last night!  It’s sabotage,  And I know ………”

Before he could finish, the warehouse door banged open. In
strode Rhodri “No More Mr Nice Lap” 
Peter’s long-time rival in the Lightening Lap Model Motorsport Society.

Rhodri listened to the story intently, arms folded “Here we
go! I guess you think I’m the villain again?”

Peter fired at him “What were you doing under the track last

Rhodri rolled his eyes. “Please, if I wanted to ruin your
track, I’d swap your premium braids for the ones from that dodgy market stall down

evidence will show itself.”

Crouching down, DC Cara inspected the crime scene, her knees
popping with the echoes of a woman who was too old for “micro forensics”.  This job really ages you, she despaired.

Peter thrrust a magnifying glass into DC Cara’s hand.  She honed in on the miniature driver like he

“My grandad builds model boats” she said.  “I learnt things”.

DC Cara continued her meticulous sweep of the area. She
inspected the transformer, the hand controllers, the pit lane and finally 
— tucked behind a cardboard hay bale near the ‘Hairpin of Doom’ — she found the
murder weapon.

“Ah hah!” she said. What do we have here? A sparkly,
neon-pink emery board, still sticky with what she presumed was fresh model
paint.

“Who uses a ‘Glitter Sunset’ nail file?” She wagged it like
a tiny sword.

Peter went pale. “That’s.. that’s not a regulation hobby
tool.”

“Someone’s been trimming the track joints,” she murmured.

The tiny guide pin was snapped clean off. A faint smear of
black paint—definitely not Peter’s usual Targa Florio shade—streaked the guardrail.

DC Cara frowned “Who else has a key to the building?  

Her ruminations were interrupted by what sounded like the
heavy thud of a wet mop swishing across the floor like a metronome.  Mrs “The Mop Boss” Moppit, the warehouse
cleaner, stopped short in the doorway.

“Oh,” she said. “You found it then.”

“Found what?” DC Cara asked.

“That’s my nail file. I clipped the track by accident while
cleaning round the plastic sheep yesterday. I thought it had vanished into the
dust…well, the dust that the flimsy feather duster you provided me, had no
chance of ever reaching. I didn’t think it would cause this much drama. Peter’s
been mumbling about murder since breakfast. 
I didn’t expect it to spark a full-scale homicide investigation.”

Peter resisted thumping his fist dramatically on the
scale-model olive grove.  “So you’re the
culprit.  You’ve ruined the entire
Sicilian coastline….and killed Alfonso”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Miss Moppit. “You rebuild this
thing more often than I make tea..” At the ‘tea’ word, Miss Moppit
automatically put her mop to one side, went over to the kettle, flicked it on
and threw a handful of teabags into the blue and white striped teapot. 

Rhodri smirked triumphantly “Case closed. Three cheers and a
round of applause for DC Cara.  Peter and
Rhodri clapped their hands, friends re-united.

“Right, let’s get back to work, run the morning checks and
fix that bend before we have any more disasters.  Doors open in one hour.”

Her duty done, DC Cara Chase stowed her notebook away in her
top pocket, waved her goodbyes and headed off to the lovely Café next door for a soothing
chai latte…and then ‘file’ her Report. 

She sighed “Murder was a lot less stressful when the crime
scene fits comfortably on a coffee table…and where the bodies were small enough
to sweep into a dustpan.” 

An hour later, the North Wales Slot Car Racing Centre’s
doors opened.

Children, teenagers and adults rushed in.  Controllers buzzed. Cars flew round the
track, safely this time.

At the notorious hairpin, a tiny sign now stood beside the
barrier:

IN MEMORY OF ALFONSO

LOST TO THE HAIRPIN OF DOOM.