I jumped out of the car and helped our prisoners out. The Peroxide Peril gazed up in amazement at the building we were outside. An elegant 1930s building, now starting to show signs of dereliction.
"Do you recognise it?" I asked her. She nodded stupidly.
"I... it's... where my husband..."
"... was murdered by you."
She started violently.
"You killed my Dad!" Scruff protested. "He loved me, he looked after me! And you killed him!"
I took a key from my belt and opened the front door of the old factory. Last year the firm had relocated to a brand-new factory elsewhere in Acton. The site had been sold to developers, but they had not yet moved in.
Making everything perfect for me.
"Come in," I said politely. The Peroxide Peril shook her head.
"Now!" I motioned with my whip and she obeyed. I don't often get nasty, but this woman had murdered my Dad and robbed my sister. Then she'd tried to kill me. There's only so much a girl can take.
So I was going to give her some poetic justice.
"What are you going to do to me?" she protested. I smiled.
"Teach you not to rob your own stepdaughter," I replied with as much humour as I could muster - which wasn't much.
We stepped into the derelict, decaying factory. Moonlight streamed in through broken skylights, bathing everything in a mysterious silvery light.
It was wonderful. My kind of place. But I wasn't in the mood to enjoy it. Neither was Scruff, she walked beside me, holding the Peroxide Peril's own gun in her left hand (Scruff is left-handed).
"Where are we going?" The Peroxide Peril asked deperately.
"Where you stepped over the line, Mrs. Hill. Where you became a murderer."
"What about me?" her partner in crime protested.
"You can go. But if I ever find you commiting one crime again, you'll know what I'm capable of."
The man bolted in terror. The Peroxide Peril made to follow, but I shook my head.
"Not you. I need you. Forward!"
Terrified, she ran forward, into the factory. I ran after her, small feet deftly avoiding all obstacles. At last, on the gantry overlooking the huge empty storage tanks, I confronted her.
"So, Mrs. Hill, you killed your husband for money. How much did they pay you?"
"Ten thousand pounds! And it was worth it! He beat me..."
"You're a liar!"
Quickly I threw back my cowl, and the Peroxide Peril stared in horror.
"Joan!"
"Joan. Scruff!"
Scruff emerged from the shadows, and together we confronted our father's killer. She looked just plain ugly now, a cornered animal. Her peroxide-treated hair looked phony.
"Give me a chance!"
"You never gave Dad a chance. You killed him for his money, and then you found he'd left it to us. So you robbed Scruff. I ought never to have let the court give you custody of her! I should have fought it all the way! How much of her fortune is left?"
"Nothing!" the Peroxide Peril snarled as she stood on the edge of the catwalk. "I stole it all! And now I'll kill you!"
She pushed back on the railings to spring at us, but instead the railings gave way, and with a terrible scream she fell into space.
The storage tank was over fifty feet deep. I shone my torch down into the darkness, and there, at the bottom, we saw the broken body of our stepmother, the man who had killed our Dad.
It was over. I felt Scruff take my arm and heard her sob.
"It's okay, Scruff. She's paid."
So we walked away, out of the factory, to my car. And then we drove home.
The official verdict was suicide, the motive attributed was the approaching discovery that she had been robbing Scruff.
As for Scruff, I'm the only family she has in the UK. So I'm stuck with her!
Next time...
A brand-new story, 'The Outsider Test'.
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