Some oatmeal. Thank goodness for oatmeal. She could eat this soft and comforting food any day of the week and skip the supposedly good dinner. And the great thing about this grain is that it doesn’t take hours to prepare, ready to eat and hot in less than five minutes.
Out of the microwave and bubbling was her oatmeal. Too hot to handle, Cecelia held the bowl with a kitchen towel. Now she felt her hunger. Putting the dish on the kitchen table and with a spoon in hand, Cecelia engaged it to her mouth. It was at this point when the telephone rang.
Only a few people would be ringing her at this time of the day. Detective Patts was still in hospital while Detective Travis, Cecelia felt sure had better things to do. Phoebe, it could be Phoebe, but somehow, she doubted it. The only other person was Mary Ann. Staring at the ringing telephone, instinct said it was Mary Ann.
Then the ringing stopped, it was a relief. A mouthful of hot oatmeal followed by an adequate mouthful of vodka. The vodka with the grapefruit was bitter and took some swallowing, but it was doable. It didn’t take long to finish the oatmeal as well as the Vodka. Perhaps another one, yes, another would do, she had been very good just lately, and nearly on her way to becoming teetotal.
The measure from the second glass was not the same as the first. Size having command to how generous she felt, and at this point she knew she should be kind to herself.
Drowning her mouth with the alcohol, Cecelia relaxed. While her head was swimming with alcohol her thoughts were not easily converted to sensible ideas. Why do righteous people like Mr. and Mrs. Davis become the subject of bad luck? Take Rachel Blaine whose only acquisition was to sleep her way to the top, and whisper words of, ‘your family or friends won’t accept me because of my class.’ And to prove her wrong, he married her. What has Rachel ever done for society? And there were many others like her, who dressed in money that was gained from pillage and robbery, and these people are deemed, gods. Money always goes to money. Who was it that said that? Probably jealous that they couldn’t do what these rich villains did. Nor are these people afraid to use religion for protection. Cecelia grinned, she was just at that stage of intoxication, which was delightful, it amused her to put the world to rights.
Then the telephone rang again, worming itself into the house, demanding her attention. She knew who it was going to be. Striding across the floor, Cecelia snarled as she picked up the receiver.
‘Yes,’ Cecelia snapped aggressively. ‘What do you want?’
‘Cecelia, it’s me, Peter. I found where you are, and I thought I would give you a call to see if you are all right.’
She had not heard his voice for over a year.
‘Sorry, Peter, I didn’t expect you to call.’
‘Apparently not,’ he chuckled. Strange to hear good humor coming from this dark man.
But what did he want?
‘You haven’t answered my question? Are you okay because you don’t sound it?’
‘A bit grouchy, I suppose. I haven’t been sleeping well just lately.’ Pushing her ear to the phone, she listened wondering where he was and hoping he was nowhere nearby. ‘What made you call?’
‘Yes, what made me call?. I had a feeling I ought to. Did you get my postcards?’
‘Yes, I did. You mean the one showing you were in Holland on the waterfront, Keizersgracht. Are you there now?’
‘No, I’m not.’
Listening to the crackling line, a cold knife wavered up and down; was he here?
‘I’ve just completed a bit of business for myself for a change. It then came to me that I don’t know a whole lot about you. Do you have a middle name?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then perhaps you would like to share it with me.’
‘Marie,’ Cecelia bit her bottom lip.
‘Marie, what a charming name.’
‘Thank you. I like it better than Cecelia.’
‘No, I mean, Cecelia is a lovely name, very musical and it suits you well.’
Musical? Peter called her name, musical. It was the very thing that Phoebe had said. Did he know about her friendship with Phoebe because if he did, he could be jealous?
‘Where are you?’ Cecelia asked quickly.
‘You know it’s difficult for me to discuss my business.’
‘Are you in this country?’
‘Suffice to say that I am not.’
What a relief, Cecelia collapsed inwardly by three inches.
‘Well, it’s been nice to talk to you,’ said Peter in a voice which suggested he was smiling. ‘We should do this another time. Take care of yourself, Cecelia Marie.’
‘And you take care of yourself, Peter’ even with the drink Cecelia felt herself shaking while replacing the receiver. But what a surprise for Peter to call, and why? And such a short conversation, if any. He was a man she would never understand. But now he knew where she was.
10
Last night, there was one of those freak weather storms which came under the title of climate change. The wind pushed its face against her bedroom window banging to come in. They the ghosts of previous lives. Although Cecelia liked a good storm, it had come at the wrong time. The noisy weather through the night was enough to disturb Cecelia’s good night's sleep. Just on the point when she should have risen from her slumbers, Cecelia went into a deeper yet serene sleep.
On one of those late-night discussions, after the shop had closed, and Phoebe and she were sitting across the table from each other, they would talk about numerous subjects. Their experiences in life, jobs they had done, and the things which interested them. Always Phoebe was much more versed in these subjects having traveled more and seen and read more; Cecelia’s best subject to bring to the discussion was her mental health. It was littered with unhealthy parcels, some of which were funny, but most of them embarrassing. The worst being the shame of what she had said to her father of which she could never forgive herself. This frank memory was never touched on, she had dug it deep into the dark side of herself.
Late. Late again. Always late. And now angry with herself. Running around almost in circles to make up for lost time. Cecelia turned on the radio, a habit which she had picked up from Phoebe. Running naked from the shower, she put her basin of oatmeal into the microwave while getting dressed. Now in her underwear, Cecelia tried to eat it without burning her lips. Her blood pressure should be excellent from eating this cereal if it wasn’t for the alcohol. And still buzzing through her head was the fact that Peter had not only rang her but found out where she was. She felt unsafe.
In the background, the too cheerful voice kept on repeating the same words. Murder and murderer. The murderer had been murdered; it didn’t make sense until Alandra was mentioned.
Scooping up the last of her oatmeal, John Wanton had been murdered by another criminal, Art Perry. How this could have happened was still being investigated. Had the murderer been placed in the same prison as John Wanton by design. The prison guards were changing over when he was said to have made his break. He was reported to have shouted out that he was going for one man.
‘Now all the women and people of Alandra can sleep tonight,’ he cried out shaking his arm before plunging the knife he had killed John Wanton with into himself. It was a noble gesture if not a just one.
With her hands to her mouth in a state of grace, Cecelia held her own prayers. What was happening in Alandra was madness. Evil had gone amok and no one it appeared was able to contain it. Lone vigilantes believing they had the right to judge others had carried out their own sentence.
‘I take it you heard,’ said Detective Travis when Cecelia entered her office.
‘Yes,’ she stared wide-eyed.
‘Well, John Wanton certainly wouldn’t have been standing trial even if he had owned up to the murders.’
‘What do you mean?’ frowned Cecelia.
‘We just found out that John Wanton was not our murderer, and Grace and Ava were not killed by Wanton or the Slasher. The M.O. was not the same, and there was other
evidence left at the crime scene.’ She nodded standing up from her wooden office chair made comfortable with a soft pillow. At her filing cabinet she pulled out the second drawer populated with her conspiracies; Detective Travis looked up. Her neat, manicured nails ran across the tops of her folders for the black file which once had held the suspected murderer’s details. John Wanton. Bringing it to the table Travis sat down at her desk and pointed to the chair opposite where Cecelia was to sit.
All questions were sealed in Cecelia’s lips. John Wanton was not the Slasher?
Taking a deep breath, Detective Travis looked up from the envelope, then sighed and shook her head slowly.
‘John Wanton was just a man craving to be acknowledged. This is a sick world.’
It didn’t make sense, why would he do that? If someone owned up to something, why couldn’t it be for something good?
‘Everyone thought we had our man except me,’ began Detective Travis. ‘I always had my doubts,’ she pulled in her lips to pluck at her thoughts. ‘The reason why he knew everything about the murders was because John Wanton had worked in the county mortuary. He retired last year and became bored. His ex-colleagues knew he was unhappy about his retirement, so they allowed him to come and have a quick chat. But no one knew what he was up to or why he was interested and asking certain questions. To them, he was just old John.’
‘It doesn’t sound credible,’ muttered Cecelia staring at Detective Travis’s lips.
‘It doesn’t, does it? But it gets worse. When they heard he was the murderer, his colleagues were understandably shocked. But they didn’t put one and one together to make two. Perhaps they felt they were guilty as well. They assumed that he had come to gloat over his victims that he had murdered. Sometimes, you just wonder about the intelligence level of some people. You just hope and pray that they are on your side and not against you. Sometimes, though, it might be better if they were on the other side.’
This time when Travis shook her head and raised her shoulders, it was with experience.
‘Sentimentalism is always a big mistake; it was for him. What makes a man want to confess to not just murder, but rape. You’re the writer, you should know or at least invent something which can mildly come up with the answer. Are these men just fools?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cecelia. ‘Except you passed on it just now, loneliness. Loneliness and being overlooked is accountable for a great deal of unhappiness.’
‘I guess you’re right which makes these people dangerous.’ She stood again and returned to the filing drawers. ‘And I can add something else to your list. Being impulsive by jumping the gun especially when the pressure is pushed down. The law is always under a great deal of pressure to solve cases especially when it concerns a mad murderer. This is the time when the police make mistakes by pushing the jigsaw pieces into places where they don’t fit, but they’ll always fit if you push hard enough.’
‘So, the murderer is still at large?’
‘Yes, and he has had time to rethink and set up some more victims.’
‘Yes,’ returned Cecelia reflectively. She had almost forgotten her notes made at the Davis’s household. ‘I think I might have some ideas as to who the murderer might be.’
‘I’m at the bottom of my ideas, so I’m quite open to proposals for suspects; the law hasn’t been successful until now with its investigations.’
From her brown leather briefcase, Cecelia produced the notes she had made from the Davis interview. But then she held back on her thoughts by keeping a duplicate from her original notes. A professional journalist does not disclose everything. Passing them across to Travis’s waiting hand, Cecelia watched as Detective Travis’s eyes traveled hungrily and quickly through it.
‘Interesting,’ she said placing the notes on her desk. ‘So, Mr. Davis was concealing information. I should have guessed.’
‘He was protecting his wife.’
‘Yes, I heard about his wife.’
Had she no heart? Did Detective Travis not understand that Mrs. Davis was very ill and Mr. Davis was doing all he could to protect her. Wouldn’t we all do that? Then Cecelia saw the strong reserve on Travis’s lips. To this police officer, everyone was a potential criminal.
‘This is the first time we have had a likely suspect.’
‘You mean, you think Tony Hare could be the murderer?’
‘I feel more sure of him than I did of John Wanton, stupid man. Paid with his life though.’ She picked up her black folder and poked in Cecelia’s notes.
It was just as well she had her own copy.
Picking up her office phone, Detective Travis rang through. ‘I want a man called Tony Hare brought in for questioning, he was once a basketball player in the Inter-Hoop Basketball League.’ Detective Travis stood and looked across at Cecelia, she hadn’t finished with her yet. ‘Do you have any more information on him? Where he might live or work?’ her question was aimed at Cecelia.
No, she shook her head, her eyes filling with fear of what she might have caused. That her views could cause a man to go to prison because of something she was not quite happy about. Her opinions came with responsibilities. But isn’t that what she wanted? To be taken seriously.
‘No, we don’t,’ Travis replied. But what we do know… hang on there,’ she went to the folder again and pulled out Cecelia’s notes. ‘He is Caucasian; height about five feet ten, give or take an inch or two. Said to be good-looking, dark brown hair—there may be a picture of him somewhere on the internet. I seem to remember a rookie officer was going on about basketball, I’ll tell him to have a look.’
A quick reply followed.
‘I’ll tell him to get on to it right away, I want a picture of Tony Hare then we’ll at least have some idea of what he looks like.’ She replaced the receiver with a smile.
‘It might not be him,’ said Cecelia rushing to protect herself.
‘Then he won’t mind being questioned,’ a smart answer which made Travis smile. ‘But I have a good feeling about him,’ she nodded tapping the file with something like good luck.
‘What about Mary Ann?’
‘What about her?’
‘She gave you a description of the man who attacked her.’
‘No, rephrase the sentence. It was you who gave the police a description of the supposed assailant who was thought to have attacked her.’
Detective Travis for some strange reason did not like Mary Ann Leigh; this knowledge was written across her face.
‘Look, Miss Clark, you are not in the police force; you have very limited knowledge of the law,’ when Travis smiled this time it was without meaning. ‘But there are similar resemblances to Miss Leigh’s attacker.’ She tapped the file again in consideration. ‘You never know, this might be the same man. She might have been attacked by the rapist.’
‘I believe she was attacked,’ said Cecelia almost sulkily.
‘Then you are a good and faithful friend,’ Travis stared at her. ‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, I don’t like the woman and I don’t trust her. And I think you should stay well clear of her.’
‘Why don’t you trust her?’
‘Instinct, and I can’t give you any good reasons other than that. Now, if you don’t mind Miss Clark, I have to get on with some work,’ she stood. ‘This case has been a mess right from the start. There are a lot of things which have to be sorted out. And John Wanton is one of them. It’s not been a good day for the police force. Our jobs are hard enough without people wasting our time. Damn. I’m going to have to talk to the media about this affair.’
Already Detective Travis was at the door eager to show Cecelia out. That drowsy smile this time said she was tired. Long days and sleepless nights were taking their toll on her.
‘I want to say thank you for what you’ve done. Interviewing Mr. Davis has proved to be successful; it’s given us another lead.’ She shook her head, ‘This case is not going well, it’s more like a kaleidoscope of disasters all crashing in
to each other.’
Walking out of the building and into brilliant sunshine, Cecelia was unhappy with the way the discussion went. True she was not a big fan of Mary Ann, but this did not mean she should be ignored. Sometimes, Cecelia's thoughts led to unfair accusations about Detective Travis and it was all to do with Mary Ann. Sentiments from both parties which Cecelia was thinking now can be unreliable.
No one mentioned anything about James Patts and how he was. The life of crime could be fast-moving while the injured fell by the wayside. Perhaps she ought to visit him.
11
It was getting expensive taking taxis, while the idea of driving herself lacked that necessary appeal. So much pleasanter to sit in the back seat while someone else drove. More time to reflect and arrange her thoughts instead of watching the road and preparing for someone else’s bad driving. Tossing a coin in the air to get the best out of two of three as to Cecelia’s answer on whether she should take a cab or go by car; it fell cryptically on the downside of her driving there.
Damn, since when did she ever take advice from luck? Never. Ordering a cab, Cecelia thought about that necessary interview with her bank manager for a larger overdraft. When she becomes rich, because one day she would be, this little bit of spending would be nothing. Cecelia flicked across her knees. Time to forget about these trifling events in her life and leave the worrying; time to enjoy life. Move on to the positive way of thinking. Yes, she nodded, she would be rich; it was only a question of time. But when?
Detective James Patts was still in the intensive care unit. His once large body, all six feet two of him was lost in the hospital bed. Drained of color, he was not the man Cecelia remembered. The trappings of position, the robes of office had been stripped away exposing his vulnerability. He looked so alien. A reminder to everyone and especially Cecelia of her own fallible pose. Last night was still raw in her mind.
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