INT. THE SAUSAGE AND CUCUMBER FREE HOUSE – EVENING
The pub is quiet for a Friday night and only a few of the regulars are in.
In the corner, PIX huddles over an empty table and pulls her coat tightly around her to conceal the some slightly dubious and embarrassing Ann Summers lingerie she’s wearing after a series of improbable and highly unlikely events left her locked out of her flat.
She is joined by the eccentric PROFESSOR WINSTON YEVGENIY-SMITH who has just kindly bought her a welcome hot toddy. He raises is own glass, a pint of Black Russian made, as the weary clientele were repeatedly informed, from a traditional nineteenth century Ukrainian recipe. Little does Pix know that he too is wearing slightly dubious Ann Summers lingerie too.
There there, Woody. It’ll be alreight in the mornin’. Jus you wait an’ see.
What? I can’t understand a word you’re saying, you northern piece of dirt.
There’s no need for that sort of language.
You don’t understand. I loved her and she loved me. And now she’s gone, run off with her half brother who turns out was actually the long lost son of the local vicar by his second marriage before he discovered he was gay and not the illegitimate son of the butcher who was died in a tragic accident involving a meat grinder and a length of sausage skin.
You’re better off without her, I reckon.
They are interrupted by MR D. who’s looking after the bar in the absence of the barman who has rushed down to the local crematorium in a fruitless search for his son’s life savings which inadvertently got mixed up with his great uncles ashes.
Leave it Alf. Have another pint of Olde Northern Muck on the house. And what’s happened to your accent? Dr Legg – aren’t you meant to be in theatre now. Didn’t you schedule that risky but pioneering operation to save that young girl you knocked over shortly after you found out your third wife had left you?
He downs his pint and makes to leave to find the door opened by SGT. KAREN UBORKA.
Right, nobody move. I’m here investigating the disappearance of one Snowgoon.co.uk. And I have reason to believe that one of you may be responsible.
You ain’t got no evidence!
We have evidence. We believe the murder took place in the forest. And we’ve got a tip off that we’ll find the guilty party is one of you. It’s someone who will have been acting very suspiciously but none of you will have noticed or had any idea of their terrible secret.
Who could do such a thing?
None other than that man there, playing darts by himself and drinking a suitably noncey but nevertheless telling Murder in the Forest cocktail.
Oooh! You sounded just like Taggart when you rolled the R in Murder. Say it again!
Shut up. You, GordonMaclean.co.uk, can you account for your whereabouts at 2300 hours last night.
I don’t have to. I was with your mother.
What? You mean….
Cue End Credits