Quirlton nestled comfortably in its charming little valley, hidden from the bustle of the world. Something, indeed anything, extraordinary never happened here. People made cheese, the local variety being called, inexplicably, Lancle. You could buy Mature Lancle, Cottage Lancle and Lancle Blue of various strengths and vintages. There was even a cave-aged Lancle, although the cave in question was actually an old shed at the back of Quirlton dairy. Quirlton was the perfect place to retire to, if you were looking for a quiet life.

Sergeant Fred Colon, retired from the Ankl-Morswine City Watch for the quiet life and was immediately bored witless. In desparatin he had opened, in competition with the dairy, a cheese shop in Quirlton. Fred was polishing a round of Lancle Blue when the bell above the door tinkled. In walked a man. ‘Shifty,’ Fred thought immediately, his City Watch instincts suddenly awakened. The man probably had the shiftiest eyes Fred had ever seen. ‘Here we go,’ thought Fred.

"Good morning," the man said, his voice as oily as Ankl-Morswine river water. "I believe you can help me."

Fred squinted at him. "Depends. Are you here for cheese or trouble? Because I only sell one of those."

The man’s smile was a thin, waxy line. It slipped a little at Fred’s somewhat unshop-keeperly response. “Well, cheese, of course,” said the man, “but perhaps a particular kind. You see, I have a rather... delicate situation that requires an expert touch."

Fred had spent years dealing with ‘delicate’ situations in Ankl-Morswine, most of which, he recalled, involved being either hit over the head, rolling in the gutter fighting drunk people or hitting other people over the head. He leaned on the counter, eyeing the man warily. "What sort of situation might that be then?”

The man leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I need a cheese that can commit the perfect murder."

Fred blinked. "Come again?"

"A cheese so perfect, so cunningly deadly, that it leaves no trace," the man said. "A murder that smells like an accident.”

Fred was stern. “That’s not something I can help you with,” he said, “and I would advise you to be very careful about what you say next.”

Fred rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He’d heard of poisoned cheeses, of course. There was that batch of Quirlton Brie that had gone bad in the Year of the Lemming and caused a riot in Ankl-Morswine, but this was something new.

Fred straightened up. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but we don’t stock homicidal dairy products. We have a lovely Wensleydale with cranberries, though."

The man’s face fell, and he suddenly looked very tired. "I was told you could help me. I... I need this."

Fred sighed. "Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?"

The man hesitated, then slumped onto a stool. "My name is Ambrose. My wife, you see, is an atrocious cook. We usually eat bought in. Now she’s determined to make a special anniversary dinner tonight, and the last time she cooked, I sneaked it into the dog’s bowl. The dog hung itself. So now we don’t have a dog. I need a way to avoid eating it. I love her dearly but I can’t be hurting her feelings. A quick and painless death seems the only answer.”

Fred let out a low whistle. "Why didn’t you say so? You’ve got yourself in a right mess mate. You don’t need to do a perfect murder, Don’t be so bloody daft. You just need a perfect excuse."

Ambrose looked up hopefully. “Well, that’s just it, I can’t come up with one. After forty years of marriage I’ve run out. This was all I could come up with.”

Fred nodded. "Here’s what you do. Take this," he handed over a round of particularly pungent Lancle Blue, "and tell her it’s a rare cheese that must be consumed immediately, as it’s at its peak flavour today and any delay would ruin the experience. Say it’s a special anniversary gift. Insist that you both must try it first before anything else so as not to contaminate its delicate bouquet. After a mouthful of this, I can pretty much guarantee that neither of you will be hungry for a week. It has a very particular fungus in the blue veins that infected it by mistake when that damn wizard came in here messing about last month. I was going to get rid of it, but it’s considered hazardous waste, haven’t managed it yet and the bloody wizard denies all knowledge. You’d be doing me a favour too.”

Ambrose’s eyes lit up. "Brilliant! She’ll never guess!"

Fred smiled. "And if it goes wrong, well, tell her you’ve developed a sudden and severe lactose intolerance and you need to go to bed.”

Ambrose took the cheese with trembling hands. "Thank you, Sergeant. You’ve saved my life."

Fred watched him leave, the bell tinkling cheerfully in his wake. He shook his head and returned to his polishing. Another day, another crisis averted. Life in Quirlton was dull but policing is all about creative solutions to society’s failings.

But somewhere, in the dark recesses of his shop, a wheel of homicidal Lancle Blue chuckled softly to itself. The perfect murder, indeed. It’s day would come.