The Note (Unsolved Mysteries Book 1)

by Kim Knight

  The day had turned overcast and grey. Rain pattered at the windows as she looked out.

  “Typical London, I should have left weeks ago.”

  She traced the heavy raindrops beating down on the glass. Something didn’t seem right to her—the police taking a sudden interest in her again.

  How the hell did they get hold of that video? She wondered. It panicked her.

  For three months, ever since Tony’s murder and his family unsuccessfully contested his will, she had played the innocent role of a heart-broken woman. One who was deeply sorry for having an affair with a married but separated man—a man she had fallen in love, and him with her.

  She had maintained the lie that she had no idea that he was still legally married.

  Bullshit, she thought back to her confession of being none the wiser about his marital status. Of course, I knew.

  Chelsea gazed out across London’s drab skyline, and chuckled. She could see the tops of the skyscraper buildings in the centre of town. It had never mattered to her then, and didn’t matter to her on his death either. She pondered on her thoughts and drew in a deep breath.

  The last two months she had spent with Tony, he was just a fun man with money—money she had no problems spending.

  She glanced over a shoulder at the expensive bags and shoes scattered across the floor, all courtesy of Tony’s wealth. The fact that he had signed over his entire estate to her was a shock, but a welcome one.

  Tony had made it clear how he wanted to live out the last days of his life, and she was part of it. Of course, she had played along and comforted him. She let him know that she would care for him on his death bed. That, she did do during the two months he was away from his wife, getting sicker and sicker.

  On reflection, when he told her she was the main beneficiary, she imagined it had been the care she gave him that pushed him to do such a thing. She didn’t argue against it or discourage him. He was a wealthy man.

  And do I love wealthy men, she reasoned with herself to justify her actions. And I did work hard for the money unlike everyone else.

  “Lance, what a dick,” she spat out, annoyed.

  The sex was good, and she liked him, but she wondered if her brief fling with him was really worth it, especially now that the police had got wind of their association.

  She left the window and wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. Glancing at the clock, she took in the time. It was only five in the afternoon.

  Fuck it, she thought, I’ve got enough on my plate, I deserve it.

  Her whole day off from work had been ruined when Dunne and McDonald turned up. She had planned to sleep in, have a late lunch, and do some shopping. She hadn’t stopped working because she didn’t want anyone to look at her suspiciously, as if she were waiting for Tony’s wealth to come her way. So, she had carried on. Plus, she liked the idea of more money in her account, ready for when she did finally quit, to head off into the sunset for a new life.

  Opening the fridge, she fixed herself a glass of white wine.

  On top of the microwave, an envelope caught her eye. Chelsea moved over, picked it up, then opened it.

  Out fell Tony’s will.

  She read through again for the hundredth time. Being the only heir to properties in Spain, London, and the owner of two Indian restaurants in plush Kensington—that were turning over a healthy profit each day—thrilled her. Plus, there was all the cash Tony hadn’t tied up in his businesses or properties still in the bank.

  Chelsea drained her wine, sat the glass on the counter, then moved over to the mirror in the bathroom.

  She tied her chestnut-coloured hair into a top knot and gazed at her reflection—green eyes peered at her.

  He loved my eyes, my features, she thought, admiring the youthful beauty of her face. So different from his own culture and his wife’s, who were both of Asian-Indian descent.

  Chelsea had changed her name years ago from Lada Ivanov. She hated her Russian roots with a passion. The surname reminded her of the poverty she had endured back in Moscow as a child. Growing up, the only thing she really had was her looks, a love of art, and her natural talent for painting.

  Her family had found it hard to encourage her or support her financially with afterschool clubs, or art supplies.

  They were so damn poor. She pictured her mother in her cheap clothing and hand-me-down clothes.

  As she grew into her teens, she swapped her paintbrush for paper and a pencil, it was cheap. And she could tear pages out of her schoolbooks and not have to bother her mother or father for any money for brushes or paints.

  It broke her heart that she couldn’t go on to art school and purse her dreams to do something artistic with her life. The fact that she could only paint at school, when she was a child, and not outside because her father refused to spend money on what she needed, infuriated her.

  She escaped her homeland at eighteen to travelled to London. Once there, she perfected her English and became legally known as Chelsea Jackson, and she’s remained here ever since.

  Now, at thirty, she loved her job as an accountant for the large firm she worked for. That’s how she crossed paths with Tony—he had contracted a bookkeeper. It wasn’t until balancing his books, all of his accounts, she realised Tony Patel’s true worth.

  The affair started shortly after he took her out for dinner, one thing led to another. The status he had given her in his will was the meal ticket she needed to purse her dreams of painting.

  “I really don’t need this shit, not again.”

  Chelsea reached for her make-up bag to touch up her face. Once done, she left the bathroom and walked down the short hallway to her bedroom for her bag and keys. She stopped midway to admire the abstract art on the walls Tony had purchased. It touched her how he desired to please her, and bought them just for her because of her love of art.

  She sighed, moved closer, and studied each fine line and brush stroke the artist had created. Her hand moved across the canvas. Absent-mindedly, she allowed her finger to trace the strokes.

  “That’s it, there must be an art supply shop somewhere around here.”

  Chelsea had the urge to paint. Her day, thus far, was ruined—cut short by Dunne and McDonald. So, she’d spend the late afternoon and evening painting London’s star-filled skyline, from the view of the floor to ceiling windows in the living area.

  With a smile, she headed into the bedroom, grabbed her keys, bag, and coat, and then headed downstairs to her car. She’d locate an art supply store, then make her way over to the empty house she had allowed Tony’s wife to collect a few things from.

  A few hours later, and with painting supplies in hand, Chelsea entered the house.

  The fresh smell of bleach and cleaning products assaulted her nose. One of the first things she noticed was the dust free furniture in the living room. She ran her hands over the tables and chairs.

  “Hmm, she went to town.” Laughter erupted from between her lips.

  Chelsea opened the blinds to allow the afternoon light to flood the area.

  Her artistic eye roamed over the room, and it was then that she saw the beauty—the potential of the home.

  She walked through to the kitchen. The counters sparkled, and the air was fresh. As she opened the back door to the garden and looked out, she noticed it was in need of some attention, but she liked it.

  This is so much nicer than the apartment, she thought, maybe I’ll move here.

  Chelsea walked around the house, and entertained the idea some more. Upstairs in the bedrooms, she opened the curtains too, then inspected the bathroom. By the looks of things, Manisha hadn’t taken much.

  What’s her game? She thought about the woman, then pondered what her next move should be. Should she sell the apartment and keep the house or better still, sell them all and get the fuck out of the UK like she had planned.

  I need to get hold of Lance.

  Heading back downstairs, she approached the kitchen table, sat in t
he far corner, then grabbed her phone, but each time she called, she was directed to voicemail. She scoffed at the electronic device and slumped in the chair.

  Tick. Tock.

  Tick. Tock.

  Tick. Tock.

  The sound of the clock on the wall filled the empty space.

  13

  Blood Money

  John

  Later that evening, John banged on the door of the garage, again.

  “Lance, Lance, open up!”

  There was no response.

  Checking his watch, he noted it was approaching six in the evening. Twenty-four hours had approached, and he was still waiting for a response from Lance, following his last threat made yesterday morning.

  He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and glanced at the mechanic’s business front.

  Graffiti covered the shutters. It was clear that he wasn’t there. Or if he was, he was hiding and refused to come out.

  John blew out a slow cloud of smoke toward the sky and shook his head. The road was quiet.

  “Lance. Lance, stop messin’ aroun’ an’ get out here.”

  He pounded the shutters again. They rattled under his force but refused to give way to allow him access into the building.

  “All right, if that’s how you want it, this is on you, Lance,” he said under his breath and pulled on his cigarette. He contemplated the deadbeat’s whereabouts this evening, then took out his phone.

  “Shit.”

  Lance’s phone went to voicemail, and he ended the call. He scrolled through his contacts and pressed dial on his way back to the car.

  The weather was so cold, he could see his breath snake into the air. “Yeah, Dan, have you seen Lance today?”

  “Nope, why? You still can’t get hold of him?”

  “Nah, I just stopped by the garage and there’s no answer. I already called around to his place, and he’s not there either.”

  “Sorry, mate, can’t help you. I’ve not seen him.”

  John grunted into the phone in response, discarded his cigarette on the pavement, then fished out his keys from the pocket of his coat. He balanced the phone on his shoulder, unlocked the car, then got in.

  “All right, give me a shout if you see him. Don’t let him know I’ve been asking around.”

  “Okay, catch you soon.”

  John ended the call and sat for a moment before starting the car’s engine. His eyes were trained on the garage shutters.

  “Okay Lance, have it your way.”

  He imagined Lance tied to a chair, and the pain he’d put him through personally, if he didn’t check with a repayment for his debts today. This brought a smirk to his lips along with laughter.

  He wouldn’t bother to get one of his men to carry out the ass whooping he wanted him to get. Nope, he’d do it himself as soon as he got hold of the little shit.

  14

  Confessions

  Lance

  Across London, at the police station that evening, Lance sat in a drab room.

  “Lance, could you please answer the question.” Dunne didn’t blink. “What was, or currently is, your connection to Chelsea Jackson?”

  Lance looked from Dunne to McDonald. He wiped his brow and squinted under the harsh overhead lights.

  “Like I said, she was just a customer at my garage. And one thing led to another.”

  “You admit the affair then?” Dunne pressed.

  “Well, of course, you’ve got us on tape.”

  “So, when her boyfriend turned up stabbed to death with his eyes gauged out, you claim to know nothing about it,” McDonald cut in.

  “That’s right.” Lance turned to McDonald. “I know nothing about that.”

  McDonald smirked, then pressed play on the remote.

  Lance listened to his and Chelsea’s private conversation, the one where she told him Tony had changed his will in her favour, and the colour drained from his face.

  McDonald cut the recording, leaned across the table, then looked Lance dead in the eye. “So, how do you explain that then?” He nodded to the CD player.

  “Fuck, it wasn’t anything to do with me, all right, it was her idea.” Lance held his palms up in defence. “She tried to put me up to it.”

  “Up to what, Lance?” McDonald cross checked.

  Lance seethed, he held McDonald’s eye contact and watched him lean back in his chair, confident, cocky, and with a grin on his face. It was as if the detective was satisfied with the direction the interview was headed. It took everything he had not to lose his shit at the path McDonald had opened up for him to walk down and hang himself on.

  “She wanted him dead, she even offered me money.” Lance glanced away from McDonald’s intense gaze, his blue eyes bored into him, penetrating every nerve ending he had.

  “When was this?” McDonald pressed.

  “About a week after we had that conversation.” Lance nodded in the direction of the CD player. “I said no, of course.”

  “But you still planned to skip the country with her and use his money. What stopped you?”

  “He turned up dead, sooner than we had thought.”

  “Why did she come to you?” Dunne leaned in, keeping him in full view.

  “Who else could she ask? Without drawing suspensions to herself, I’m the only person she could trust. Plus, she knew I had connections.”

  “Connections?” Dunne questioned.

  “Yeah, but like I said, I never wanted to get involved.”

  “Where were you on the tenth of August?” McDonald asked.

  Lance slumped back in his chair.

  Shit, he thought to himself. He racked his brain for a suitable alibi.

  “I was at work, all day, then went home as usual.”

  “Did you see Chelsea?”

  “This was three months ago.” Lance threw his hands up in the air. “Maybe, yeah. I can’t remember.”

  “We’ll let you think about it a while—here in the holding cell,” Dunne said.

  “Wait, you can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Lance, you’re being held on suspicion of the murder of Tony Patel. Your admission to being approached as hitman by Chelsea Jackson needs further looking into. He’s murder was a cold case, unsolved.” Dunne rose to his feet. “Now, we have an open case and evidence to answer to.”

  Lance flinched at his words.

  Dunne rounded the table, then pulled out his cuffs.

  “Looks like were done for now.” McDonald cut the interview recording.

  Moments later, Lance was literally shoved into the cell by a uniformed officer—handcuffs and all. The heavy metal door slammed shut, and the keys turn in the lock.

  Lance banged on the door of the cell.

  “Oi, you can’t do this,” he protested. “I never done anything.”

  There was no response. It was so quiet, he could hear a pin drop.

  With clenched fists and narrowed eyes, he glared at the door, willing it to open. He knew there was no chance. Turning around slowly, he took in his surroundings—the holding cell was tiny, cold, and stunk of stale body odour.

  He wrinkled his nose and dragged himself over to the bed. The mattress was so thin when he sat, he felt the metal slats of the bedframe.

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he thought back to Chelsea, and the shit she landed him in. John was one thing, he could try to handle him if he had to, he’d leave London and start over elsewhere, if he couldn’t repay him—wouldn’t be the first he’d disappeared. But prison for murder was something he couldn’t run from.

  An officer slid back the small peep-hole window.

  The noise startled him out of his daydream.

  Two eyes stared back at him, then the window slid back.

  “Great, what is this? Suicide watch? Not even been in here an hour yet.”

  He reclined on the hard mattress. Sliding his hands behind his head, he casually crossed his legs over at his ankles and frowned at the yellow ceiling. Almost six mont
hs ago when he met Chelsea, he took their paths crossing for what it was—a chance to get to know her and regular sex.

  His feelings toward her never developed beyond physical need until he realised she was an heir in waiting. The answer to all his prayers and debt. He was aware she was seeing Tony, and it didn’t bother him. He had no idea who the man was, but soon learned after one of his Indian restaurants won a culinary award.

  Chelsea had boasted to him about it. He realised then just how wealthy she would ultimately be, if there was any truth in her news that Tony had named her as his sole beneficiary. So, he had hung around to see the fruits of his labour—playing the other man she would build a life with—would pan out.

  Hell, he even entertained her ideas about being a painter, gave her sex on demand, and tried to enjoy what little they had in common.

  Not much at all, nothing in common, he mused, then chuckled. Except in the bedroom. He laughed to himself again.

  “Yeah, she’s got a wild streak all right.”

  He cast his mind back to the day she walked in a dizzy mess. Her car wouldn’t start. She had parked not far from his garage and was on her way back to her office after a client meeting.

  Dressed in a smart suit and heels, she looked good, smelled fantastic, and was very much the strait-laced accountant she was during the day.

  He had worked on her car, replaced her dead battery, and managed to get her back on the road. It was her who had passed him a business card and offered to go grab a drink some time.

  At the time, he was too focused on his business debts, lack of customers, and climbing out of debt to place dating at the top of his list of priorities. He took the card anyway and made contact the following weekend. That’s how it all started.

  A quick fumble after a drunken night out at his place, developed into a regular meet up. When he asked her where it was going, that’s when she came clean about Tony and not wanting to commit to anyone right now. She just wanted to ‘have fun.’