I'd almost reached home when I saw the flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror. My stomach flipped. But then it does that even when I go through the Green Channel at customs and I genuinely have nothing to declare. It's a pretty common reaction amongst us strictly law-abiding citizens, I believe. Just a healthy respect for uniforms, I'd say, although some might call it a of a lack of self-confidence, a fear of unwittingly being in the wrong. Well, there was nothing unwitting about this particular flip. I'd been doing mental belly flops all that week, even though I'd been through the rehearsal at least ten times a day for a month. Since the very day when Alison handed in her notice in fact.

Now that might sound like 'pre-meditated' to most of you, but really, it was all just the stuff of TV fiction drama that helped pass the tedious drives to and from the office, stuck in the endless land of orange and white cones on the A2. It started with the fact that I was the one who would have to organise the leaving do, a collection, buy the card, the present, organise the food and drink. Food and drink! The very thought spoiled my dinner that first evening. At best, Alison was a large portion. She was the only one of the office staff who used her lunch hour every day to cook a full sit-down meal and eat it, knife, fork and cruet set, plonked at the Boardroom table, dripping occasional globules of the plat du jour onto the Daily Mail spread out beside her plate. And of course, she liked her drink! Every office bash we'd ever held saw Alison, bleary and belching, cadging a lift home because she wasn't capable.

Dislike Alison? I detested her. Her greasy, pasty bulk; her arrogance; her sluggishness; and most of all, her readiness to score points of unsuspecting targets ' me included. Not that anyone knew this. I'd been an Office Manager for the best part of two decades before I had to deal with the Ample Ali, and I was good at it. Bringing the best out in people, maintaining an empathic, impartial front. So, apart from the odd, mischievous jibe, everyone (and Alison!) thought that she and I were 'good mates'. This illusion, it has to be said, would have been much more difficult to sustain had it not been for Fat Ali's misguided belief in her own popularity.

I decided against the Rohypnol (see what I mean about the TV drama?) in the end, mainly on practical grounds ' like I wouldn't have had the faintest idea where to get such a thing for a start. Plus, it would mean contact with a third party and then'�'� well, these CID people have a way of putting two and two together. So I settled for plain old plonk, lots of it. And by way of digestif, well, there was a bottle of chloroform still in the shed from my late husband's dry-cleaning business.

It was a smashing party. The MD said how much Alison would be missed as everyone thought of how much of Alison there was to miss. We gave her a really ugly, leather handbag that she's still stuck with. The cheapest I could find (more money for booze!) although the collection had actually been quite respectable. I surpassed myself, and managed to squeeze out two or three tears after much hovering over the bowl of onion relish. By eight-thirty everyone had gone with the exception of the guest of honour, who was waiting for me to finish clearing away the last few glasses and give her a lift home.

''Shhreally shweet of you to offer, Bern. Gonna mish'ou.'�

'You too, Honey'� I smiled benevolently.

She was sagged forward on her freshly vacated desk, her head resting on humungus cushions (grotesque in their lycra leopardskin) formed by the awkward slump of those huge, drunken breasts against the hard wood. When it came, it was the snore of a wildebeest. 'Hey-Ho.'� If I'd had my day in court, I could have honestly said that, that is the single thought I can recall having, as I pressed the chloroform-soaked teacloth over the mouth and nose of a wildebeest. At one point she flapped a bit, but not much, considering that that was it. Epitaph time. Death of a fat cow.

The worst bit I suppose (apart from now, that is) was getting that great, blue whale the ten yards through the Fire Escape and into the boot of my car on the other side. And then there I was: a mile from the spot I'd chosen to dump this bountiful feast for fishes in the Medway, two miles from Fat Ali's house and just quarter of a mile from my own home, when I saw the flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror.

I pulled off the slip to St Mary's Island and home, not really expecting them to follow, but thinking it was probably best to wait for the rush hour traffic to clear. When they turned on the siren and swung after me towards the bridge, well, I had to make an instant decision. I mean, what did they want? In the end, I couldn't risk them opening the boot. Fifteen years with maybe a whole wing full of Fat Alis?!! I think not. So I put my foot down and veered to the right of the bridge, through the boating hut (real Starsky and Hutch stuff that was!) and into the black depths of Basin No.2.

It was hard going at first, Ali and me. But she finally convinced me that there is much pleasure to be had from winding up the good folk of Medway. Nothing nasty of course, just your standard Caspar pranks. Let's face it, there are that many spooks wandering round Kent already, two old work pals like Ali and me won't make much difference now, will we?

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