Constable Shoe,’ said Constable Shoe, when the door of the bootmaker’s factory was opened. ‘Homicide.’
‘You come ‘bout Mister Sonky?’ said the troll who’d opened the door. Warm damp air blew out into the street, smelling of incontinent cats and sulphur.
‘I meant I’m a zombie,’ said Reg Shoe. ‘I find that telling people right away saves embarrassing misunderstandings later on. But coincidentally, yes, we’ve come about the alleged deceased.