Please don't sue me, I'm just being silly.

She laughed, a demented cackle from her ageing lips. They never worked it out. Just how stupid could the police be? Over and over again she had murdered. Clubbing victims over the head with trophies, shooting them, complex binary poisons, you name it, she'd killed with it. And got away with it. She even wrote it down in books, pointed the police toward clues in an attempt to relieve the ennui. But, every time she had successfully pinned it on some sap, confusing many of them to the point that they confessed. You think that some statistician might have pointed out that it was impossible for one kindly old lady to have been at so many deaths without there being some kind of causal factor or link. But no. Now it was just getting boring.

Well, she had to do something to amuse herself. Sex at her age was unlikely, and Frank had been the only man deviant enough to satisfy her physically. Lately she'd taken to tormenting her dying victims by telling exactly which of their loved ones she was going to stitch up for their death. And the cash she'd made from writing about her little hobby... Maybe just a few more times.

That left her with more writing of course, she couldn't leave her genius undocumented. She patted the latest ream of typed paper beside her. Just a few more chapters to add, to what would be,after her death, a huge bestseller.

Murder, She Committed. By J.B. Fletcher.