by Kim Knight
“Chelsea this has nothing to do with me. I told you months ago we—”
“Shut up, Lance,” a man’s voice boomed over the line. “I’m not one of your little side pieces.”
Lance shot up to his full height, ran to the office door, and then peeked out. “John, where are you?”
“That don’t matter. Now, where’s my money? How ya gettin’ on with that?”
“I, John, please, I need more time to—”
“Times ticking, Lance. Tick-tock.”
“John, come on, man . . .”
The line went dead.
Lance stared at the phone in his hand as if it were a foreign, unknown object.
The phone rang again. This time, he answered it and waited for the caller to identify themself.
“Lance, stop playin’ around. The police are sniffing around again. What don’t you get? Huh? We need to get our story together and quick.”
Lance breathed a sigh of relief, almost, at Chelsea’s voice. At least he could handle this situation better than he could John. The only language the loan shark understood was cash and money, bashin’ in faces, and breakin’ bones.
“Look, Chelsea, just don’t worry. How much do they really know? And what video tape of us?”
“Somehow they got hold of a tape of us in the car, messing around, ya know.” Chelsea giggled.
“Oh, they know about the affair then?”
“Seems like it. But that doesn’t matter. We just need to get our stories straight. I told them we just had a fling and that’s it.”
“Right, they don’t know anything about your little plan then?”
“My little plan?” Chelsea scoffed. “Lance, you couldn’t wait for him to die, either. You wanted that money as much as I did. And by the sounds of it now, you’re desperate.”
“You gonna give me the money or not Chelsea?”
“If you play ball, we’ll see.”
8
The Loving Wife
Manisha
Manisha rolled her car to a stop in the parking area of the cemetery. She climbed out and loaded her arms with the flowers and fresh potted plants she’d bought and stored in the boot of the car. As she slammed the boot shut, she glanced around her.
The overcast day brought a shadow over the cemetery.
Her eyes moved over the fresh graves that had appeared since she last visited. She tried to come as often as she could, but it had been several weeks. In the time that had passed, she noticed five new graves.
After locking the car, she slowly made her way up the gravel walkway, taking the time to read the fresh head stones.
“Wow, not even forty.”
The corners of her lips turned down sadly, and she read the headstone of the man who had recently passed away
“Life’s too short.”
She shook her head and moved forward up the walkway. Briefly, she stopped and struggled with her handbag that was balanced on her shoulder. Once situated, she continued her walk over to Tony’s grave.
The leaves needed clearing, and some weeds removed. She sat the bags down on the grass, then pulled out her gardening gloves and set to work.
Manisha knelt down on the grass, looked over the headstone, then ran a hand over her late husband’s picture smiling back at her.
“You mean old bastard.” She laughed, then glanced around to make sure no one had heard her. “Sorry, where are my manners?”
Manisha pulled up the dead weeds around the headstone.
“So, how have you been, my beloved? Laughing at me from beyond the grave, no doubt?” Manisha glanced over at his picture.
“I’ve not heard a word from Chelsea in a while, and as you probably know, they never found your murderer.”
“Anyway, I guess it doesn’t really matter does it. I fought as hard as I could for what’s mine and the kids.”
Manisha reached in her canvas bag, and fished out a plastic bag to put the weeds in. She stuffed them in with force, then turned her attention back to the headstone. She cocked an eyebrow at Tony’s picture.
“Let’s just hope the kids are okay after all this is over. This is your fault, ya know that, don’t you?”
She patted out the pot plants from the plastic containers, then dug some shallow fresh holes around the side of the grave. Here she pushed the new baby daffodils and geraniums into the soil.
“There, that’s better.”
A smile blew across her lips, then it faded away. She sat on her knees for a moment, staring off into space—into a daydream.
“This is too difficult, Tony. I came here to try and do what’s right and expected of me. Tend to your grave, be the grieving widow everyone imagines I am.” She laughed again, then glanced up at the grey clouds.
“Truth is, no one understands how hard it is to forgive you. Or even what it was like to be your wife.”
Looking up into the sky, the heavens started to open.
Light drops of rain landed on her face.
“I guess that’s a sign from him upstairs. I’m forgiven?” She waved her arms around, then looked back at Tony’s picture.
“Whatever.” She pulled off her gardening gloves, then stuffed them in the canvas bag.
She tied a knot in the bag of weeds and gathered her gardening tools together.
Once on her feet, she loaded her arms up with the tools and bag of weeds, then glanced around to check who was there. No one was around.
The rain started to pour harder.
Manisha looked down at Tony’s grave. She hacked up a mouth full of phlegm and spat right on the gravestone image of Tony, then watched it ooze down a bit.
“Serves you right, you bastard.”
She lifted her nose to the sky, and in the rain, she stomped her way back to her car, never looking back.
9
Doubt Sets In
Detective Dunne
Later that afternoon, Dunne and McDonald left the interview room after Chelsea was released, then headed straight to his office. As Dunne entered, he noticed the red voicemail light on his phone flashed. He ignored it and slumped into his chair behind his desk.
McDonald sat opposite him.
He crossed one leg over the other at the knee and ran his palms over his thighs.
“I don’t know if I believe her,” McDonald said. “Really? An affair? C’mon.” He threw his hands up in the air and chuckled.
Dunne took a beat before he replied, he thought back to Chelsea’s body language, nervous leg shakes, nail biting, and the visible change in her persona, after she saw the video.
“Yep,” Dunne said. “Me neither.” He threw his feet up on his desk and reclined in his chair. “But we still have to take this note seriously.”
McDonald nodded toward the note that sat on Dunne’s desk. “Waste of time if you ask me.” He glanced down at the envelope on the desk. “Probably some kid messin’ around.”
“Even so, we got a job to do, Josh. You know it, and so do I.”
Dunne moved his attention over to the mugshots of suspects from other cases now pinned on the wall. His partner’s gaze followed.
“Okay.” He nodded in the direction of the mug shot again. “Maybe there’s more doubts connected to her now. She had an affair. We’ve got a wall full of people out there we need to focus on.”
“I hear ya, partner.”
Dunne sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, kicked his feet off the desk and leaned in toward his partner. He looked him square in the eye. “We can’t overlook this, Josh.”
He moved in closer. “Tony was on his death bed with cancer. She had every reason to persuade him to change that will in her favour.”
“Agreed,” McDonald nodded.
“He was a wealthy man, properties all over the place, here, in Spain, a couple of restaurants, and money in the bank.”
McDonald shifted his body, so he faced Dunne head on. “True. But would she really wanna take the risk of finishing him off—risk getting caught?”
&n
bsp; The possibility lingered in the air.
The faint sound of footsteps moved swiftly outside Dunne’s office door—the secretaries were on the move.
“That’s the million-pound question.” McDonald paused in contemplation. “See, I’m a little sceptical about this note.” He paused again, uncrossed his legs and casually slumped back in his chair. “Yeah, sure she may have had a motive to get rid of him early, with the affair, but shit, c’mon, Dunne. That whole family had a damn motive.” He cocked an eyebrow in Dunne’s direction. “Think back. The wife wasn’t pleased at all.”
The phone rang, and Dunne ignored it, placing his hands in a prayer position across the desk.
“Yeah, I remember. Let me run Lance’s name through the system and see what comes up.”
Dunne unlocked the screen of his computer, then tapped away at his keyboard.
A light knock on the door caused him to pause.
“Yeah, come in,” Dunne called out.
“Hi, Detective. This just came for you in the lunch time mail.”
One of the team secretaries, Shelly, entered the room. “I think you should take a look at this. I opened it like the last one, carefully, even used gloves this time.”
Shelly dropped the brown envelope on Dunne’s desk, and the three of them looked down at the identical package to the one that arrived this morning.
“Thanks, Shelly.”
She glanced from one detective to the other. “No problem.”
Still rooted in her spot, Dunne noticed her shuffle from one foot to the other, as if she were nervous. She had garnered his full attention, and now, he took a moment to observe her closely. His gaze dropped from her face to her nervous tapping foot. The toe of one of her stiletto heels bounced off the concrete floor in a rushed tempo.
“Is there anything else we need to know, Shelly?” He asked.
“Oh, no. I, well, no, nothing really, I . . .”
Dunne glanced at his partner. McDonald’s brows met in the middle. He leaned his head to one side slightly, then moved his gaze over her with concern.
“You sure?” McDonald asked, just as concerned.
Shelly threw her hands up to her flushed cheeks. “No, nothing. I’m sorry. I just. It’s . . . I really hate things like this.” She pointed down at the envelope on Dunne’s desk. “Random notes it freaks me out. I’ve watched enough CSI and Unsolved Mysteries to know it’s never a good sign.”
McDonald chucked. “Shelly, don’t worry, we’ve got this, okay.”
Dunne smirked with amusement. “You might wanna stay away from those television shows. It’s all make believe. This gig works nothin’ like them. Trust me.”
Shelly laughed nervously. “Of course. I’ll see myself out.” She turned on her heels and headed for the door.
Once the door closed behind her, a seriousness fell across the room.
“Is this what I think it is?” McDonald pointed to the envelope.
Dunne remained mute. He pulled out a pair of gloves from his inside pocket, put them on, then slid out another note and a CD from the envelope.
“Damn.” Dunne chewed on the inside of his lip in contemplation, then nudged the note across the desk in McDonald’s direction.
His partner glanced down at it and read it without touching the paper.
“Well, here it goes. Let the games begin,” McDonald responded.
“Hum.” Dunne carefully picked up the CD and placed it into the hard drive of his computer, then pressed play. The voice of an unknown man filled the room. He and McDonald listened in on the conversation playing.
“So, what happened then?” The unidentified man spoke.
“Last night, as I gave him a sponge bath,” said a feminine voice. “He told me that he had named me as the sole beneficiary of everything. I could hardly believe it. I’ve only known him two months.”
“How advanced is the cancer?” The man asked.
“It’s in the late stages. His pancreas, or so the doctors said. Plus, he’s a diabetic. He won’t last long at all. I feel sorry for him sometimes, the pain he’s in.” The female’s voice was familiar—Chelsea.
“Don’t get soft on him now. It’s a surprise, but hey, once he’s gone, it’s just me and you, babe,” the man replied. “We’ll leave London, set up somewhere else. Sell a couple of his properties too. We’ll be loaded.”
“Hmmm,” Chelsea’s voice softened. “I could do with some sun.”
The recording cut off.
Dunne raised his eyebrows at the hard drive. “The female voice obviously belonged to Chelsea.” He rubbed his face. “But the male is an unknown suspect.”
McDonald got to his feet and headed over to the coffee maker. He pulled out two cups.
“We need to call Lance in as soon as possible,” McDonald said, then filled the cups with the lukewarm black liquid.
Dunne chuckled. “I see your tune has changed, partner. I’m on it.”
He then turned his attention back to his screen. “Let’s just hope it’s him in the recording, and not some other poor idiot Chelsea was seeing.” Dunne tapped in Lance’s full name into the police database.
McDonald made his way over to Dunne’s desk, coffee in hand. “Cool. The wife also,” he said, then placed one cup in front of Dunne. “We need to check in with her.”
Dunne stopped typing and looked up from the screen. “Yeah, agreed.”
“Where’s her file? I’ll go over it again in my office.” McDonald gulped down his coffee.
Dunne nodded to his filing cabinet. “Over there, top draw.”
McDonald strode over, pulled open the stiff drawer, heavy with the London Metropolitan’s unsolved crimes under Dunne’s watch. He shifted through until he got to Tony Patel, behind it was a file on Manisha Patel.
“Got it.”
He headed back to Dunne, who was busy typing on his computer, drained the last of the bitter coffee, and then headed toward the door.
“Let me know what you find. I’ll be in my office,” McDonald called over a shoulder.
“No problem,” Dunne responded without moving his eyes from his screen.
“Lance,” he said out loud, “is a new piece of the puzzle. Let’s see where he fits.”
Dunne’s mind moved back to the investigation, deeper into the case to when Tony Patel first turned up dead on the common. He and McDonald had left no stone unturned. With no weapon, or incriminating evidence—just growing suspicions over Tony’s wife and mistress—they had to put the case to bed. It was clear that Tony had made an informed decision to change his will, sadly to his wife and children’s determinant. Both women had played the convincing, grieving partner of Tony’s well—too well in fact.
Minimising his screen, he opened up the case file and notes he had typed up from the investigation. The forensics’ picture of Tony’s dead body popped up. It was gruesome to view—the body battered beyond recognition.
He closed out the electronic file and focused on the notes, reading one then the other, over and over again.
“If there’s a resolution to this case in all this mess, I’m damn sure gonna find it, this time.”
10
Gut Feelings
Detective McDonald
McDonald strode over to office the secretaries shared. He knocked on the door then entered.
“Ladies, the packages that were delivered to Detective Dunne today, they weren’t by special delivery, right?”
“That’s right, just normal mail,” Shelly responded.”
McDonald scanned over the office space the four ladies shared. Shelly’s co-workers were busy with their earphones on typing at what seemed like a million miles an hour to him. Thinking of his one-finger typing, his lip tugged upward, but he stemmed the smile.
“Okay, keep an eye out for anymore,” he said, watching Jennifer’s fingers glide over her keyboard.
“Will do, Detective.” Shelly returned her attention back to her typing.
“Carry on, then, Ladies.” McD
onald turned to leave.
“Detective,” Shelly called out, “I know I’m just a messenger, but in all honesty, I’ve been a secretary here for years. Nothing like this has ever happened before on a case.”
“Don’t worry, Shelly. It’s all under control, okay?”
Shelly nodded, lowered her lashes back to her keyboard, then continued with her typing.
McDonald watched her for a moment, unable to understand why she as so concerned. “Hey, Shelly, what are you so nervous about? You can’t seriously be worried over what you’ve seen on those shows?”
Shelly looked up, she remained mute. Her lips twitched as if she wanted to say something.
Ring.
Ring.
“I better get that.” She reached for the phone.
McDonald rolled his eyes. “Yeap,” he muttered under his breath, then closed the door behind him.
Annoyance chewed at him. The sender probably knew full well, there’d be no way to trace who sent the notes if they were sent by normal post and deposited in any one of London’s millions of street mailboxes.
He headed back to Dunne’s office, rapped on the door, then entered. His partner was still focused on his computer screen.
“I’ll send the envelopes and notes off to forensics.” McDonald approached his partner’s desk. “Let’s see if any prints or DNA can be lifted from them. They were sent via normal mail.”
“Hmmm, hardly a surprise, Josh.” Dunne briefly paused his computer research, then put on a pair of gloves. “Give me a sec.” He removed the CD from the drive, slid it back into the envelope with both notes, followed by the video tape.
“Why is that?” McDonald asked.
Dunne glanced down at the postage stamp on the envelopes. “They’re post marked north London—Camden,” he noted, then handed the contents over.
McDonald grab gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, then retrieved the package from his partner.
“Complete opposite direction from Tony’s family, and Chelsea,” replied McDonald. “Damn. I hope we’re not gonna be sent on some wild goose chase by someone who fancies a laugh.”