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.

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 Efan “No More Mr Nice Lap” 
Peter’s long-time rival in the Lightening Lap Model Motorsport Society.

Efan 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 night. You loosened the rail,  either deliberately or accidentally! Which is it?!”

Efan 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 the road. This?” He pointed at the crash. “This is the work of an amateur.”

Crouching down, DC Cara inspected the crime scene, her knees popping with the echoes of a woman who was too old for “micro forensics”.  

Peter thrrust a magnifying glass into DC Cara’s hand.  She honed in on the miniature driver like he was a sacred relic. One of the victim’s hand still clutched the tiny controller and the smell of burnt plastic lingered faintly in the air. 

“My grandad builds model boats” she said.  “I learned 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 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. 

Efan smirked triumphantly “Case closed. Three cheers and a round of applause for DC Cara.  Peter and Efan 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…after which she would ‘file’ her Report.

She sighed “Murder is a lot less stressful when the crime scene fits comfortably on a coffee table…and where the bodies are 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.