*SQUAWK*

Detective Inspectors Carol McKay and James Donovan looked at each other in disbelief. It wasn't the first time they'd been stumped by a case, but this was certainly the most bizarre they'd ever encountered.

The victim, an eighty-year-old pensioner named Agnes, lay motionless on the kitchen floor, her wrinkled face peaceful in death. But the blunt force trauma to her head indicated a violent struggle had taken place.

“So…nae leads, nae fingerprints…and our only witness tae the murder is that bloody wee parrot who willnae shut up!” Carol’s dulcet tones rose in volume, attempting to be heard over the high-pitched shrieks.

Though she'd long since left Glasgow behind, the lilt of her accent remained a constant reminder of where she came from, and the fierce spirit that had driven her to become a detective.

As forensic scientists combed the room for evidence, Carol and James tried to make sense of the scene before them. They knew Agnes lived alone and was rarely visited, which made the lack of suspects all the more puzzling.

Detective Donovan scratched the back of his head, slowly turning towards the large gilded cage in the corner of the living room.

*SQUAWK* HELP *SQUAWK*

Both investigators froze.

“Did you—? Did that—-?”

It wasn’t often that Donovan was left speechless. He turned back to face his partner, bewilderment etched upon his face.

Gingerly, the 6”2 Officer edged towards the cage. He had never been fond of birds - noisy, smelly, jittery things - but he felt a certain sense of duty, being the only male in the room.

As he drew closer, the parrot grew visibly more distressed. It’s colourful wings battered against the bars of the cage.

*SQUAWK*

“HELP. BAD MAN BAD GET OUT GET OUT!

“SHUT UP. STUPID BIRD! STUPID HELP HELP”

Donovan jumped back with such force, he stumbled over the crouched body of the lead forensic scientist. A loud crash sounded as his large frame clattered against the floor.

Officer McKay dramatically rolled her eyes, stifling a smile. The irony was not lost on her. Despite Donovan’s patriarchal sense of duty, Carol often found herself possessing more courage.

“Ach, get aff the floor Donovan. Pull yerself together. It seems like our feathered friend has somethin’ tae tell us.”

Without any hesitation, Carol strode forwards and examined the gilded cage. To everyone’s surprise, the parrot did not make a sound. It simply glared at her with its beady black eyes.

“So it seems our murderer was a man. Possibly resembling yourself…” she murmured, glancing up at her partner.

By this point, Donovan had regained his composure. Leaning against the faded flowery wallpaper all pensioners seem to posses, he regarded Carol with a frown.

Oblivious to his scepticism, the tiny Scottish woman, grabbed the top handle of the cage and marched towards the front door.

“Keep up Donovan, we’ve got neighbours tae interrogate. And our friend here is going tae help us find our murderer! Wit is it called anyways?”

Despite towering over his partner by almost a foot, James had to jog a little to keep up. He frantically flicked through his notebook.

“Biscuit. And she’s a girl…”

But Detective Carol McKay was not listening. Instead, with cage in hand, her stout frame marched onto the front porch of the house directly to the left. Donovan wondered if Carol even knew what time it was - 2:35am, to be exact - or perhaps she simply did not care. There was no stopping her when she had a hunch.

He glanced towards the horizon, but immediately wished he hadn’t. There were at least 30 houses on this street, and more than 10 streets in this estate.

*SQUAWK* “BAD MAN. BAD MAN” Biscuit screeched, as the door opened to reveal a little old man donned in a night cap and button-down pyjamas.

Carol let out a cry of triumph and walked straight past the elderly figure, without any explanation.

Donovan released a deep sigh.

It was going to be a long night.