I've not posted Flash Fiction for quite a while so here's one from the archive, an early attempt at the genre, based on a bit of local hearsay about a derelict cottage in County Down, Northern Ireland.
The police said Old Walter’s death wasn’t suspicious: heart attack it seemed. We knew they were wrong but couldn’t prove it.
That bastard, Rutter, had bullied the old boy unmercifully, using his status as Estate Manager like a bludgeon, once even threatening to have Walter’s beloved dogs put down.
We all feared Rutter’s rages and felt sure that one such outburst had provoked Old Walter’s collapse.
The rumour that Walter’s life savings were hidden in his cottage sent Rutter there immediately, not caring that the poor man had only been dead a week.
Using his master-key, Rutter entered the cottage and, to avoid interruption, bolted the door, then, for good measure, pushed a heavy cupboard across it and began his search.
He only remembered the dogs when the first one lunged at him. The other two Dobermans, starved for a week, circled him hungrily.
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