by Kim Knight
Casually, she picked the whole thing up, checked to make sure the flames were out, pressed her foot on the pedal of the dustbin, and tossed the damn thing in without a care in the world.
The phone rang, so she picked up the cordless and looked at the caller display. It was Susan, her best friend.
“Hello, Sue,” Manisha said solemnly into the phone.
“Hi, how are you, Manisha?”
“I’m okay, I guess. Just about to take a bath and try to relax,” she lied.
“Oh, you poor thing. It will take time. Tony’s not with you anymore, and I know you miss him, but what is it they say? They are always there in spirit, looking out for us.”
Manisha cringed at Susan’s upbeat, sickly voice.
“Yeah, I guess so. It will get easier,” she said, then rolled her eyes.
“So, what have you been up to today?”
“Not much. I went to the cemetery and got soaked in the rain, then came back home.” Manisha was careful how much she told Susan. She decided to keep the news about Chelsea to herself, well, for now.
“That’s nice. I’m sure Tony was grateful for the visit.”
Manisha almost gaged at the thought, then she recalled hacking up a mouth full of phlegm and spitting it on Tony’s headstone. She stifled the laughter trying to escape.
“You still there?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, never mind me. I was just—”
“Thinking of Tony, I know,” Susan said.
Manisha rolled her eyes once more, desperate to get off the phone. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then leaned on the counter. “What are you up to tomorrow, Sue? Why don’t we meet for lunch?”
“Aww, that be lovely, okay. What time?”
“Let me give you a call in the morning, I’ve got a few things to take care of then, we can meet up. Maybe even go over to one of Tony’s restaurants,” Manisha said, then smiled at the thought of reclaiming the family businesses.
“Are you sure? Of all places, there?”
“Yeah, why not. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Manisha paused a moment. “I’m just getting into the bath,” she said lying again.
“Okay, no worries. Look forward to it, enjoy your evening.”
“You too.” Manisha hung up to phone with a satisfied smile.
18
How Did You Get Here?
Chelsea
Later that evening, across London, Chelsea parked her car. She stood at the curb, looking up at her window from outside her block of flats.
A few of her neighbour’s lights were on.
Casting her gaze around the deserted parking lot, she took in the darkness.
She had finally returned from shopping for art supplies and inspecting what Manisha had taken from the empty property. Satisfaction filled her thoughts. Manisha had done a good job organising the house, but it pissed Chelsea off that she hadn’t managed to get hold of Lance all day.
His phone was still switched off, and her calls went straight to voice mail.
She bit on her lip, pulled out her phone, then pressed redial.
“This is Lance, ya know what to do.” The recording of his voice boomed in her ear.
She cut the call and dropped the phone in her oversized Gucci bag. Reaching over the back seat, she grabbed a couple of shopping bags filled with her paints and canvas paper.
Now that it was dark, the view from her window would be fantastic. She could paint London’s skyline and relax.
“Chill out. Don’t worry,” she whispered, reassuring herself.
She then locked the car and made her way to the building, balancing her shopping bags. At the door, Chelsea fished out her card and swiped her entry pass with a heavy heart. The doors creaked open and she entered.
At the lift, as she waited for it to arrive, she resumed the nervous habit of biting the skin around the edges of her nails.
Something’s not right, she pondered the situation. Lance is missing.
The detectives’ sudden new interest in the case set her on edge. From the evidence of the video she had seen, they had a good reason. No one was meant to find out about Lance and the affair. It made her uncomfortable, vulnerable even.
Now, her ‘little miss innocent, I just wanted to care for him, and we fell in love’ act, seemed less plausible.
Gotta find out where they’re getting their information from? She straightened her back.
The lift arrived with a ding. Once the doors opened, she stepped inside.
Snap out of it, Chelsea, she scolded herself.
She gazed at her reflection, which shined with immaculate perfection in the metal doors.
I’m innocent, she told herself, yeah, I am. I may have wanted him to go and leave me the money, but I didn’t do anything.
Once upstairs, she let herself into her flat, closed the door behind her, and kicked off her Louboutin heels. She made her way into the kitchen with her bags, passed through into the living room, then set them down on the sofa.
This isn’t good. Something’s up. She opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of white wine, then slammed the door shut.
A large mass moved out from the shadows.
“Arrrgh,” Chelsea screamed. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you get in?”
As a strong pair of hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed.
Panic set in. She kicked her feet and screamed once more. The rush of blood pumping through her body thumped in her ears.
The intruder applied more pressure to her neck, strangling her cries for help. Windpipe crushed, she remained mute. The wine bottle slipped from her grasp and dropped to the wood floor, smashing at her feet.
She struggled to suck in a breath of air. Staggering, her soles lost traction, and she kicked glass across the floors, slipping on the wine. Her vision darkened, and she fought to hold on to consciousness. Swinging her arms, she tried to put up a fight and fend off her attacker, but she wasn’t quick enough.
Her vision blurred. The grip tightened, and darkness swallowed her whole.
19
He Said. She Said.
Detective Dunne
The next day, at nine in the morning, Dunne sat in his office. He double checked the alibi Chelsea had given him on the 9th and 10th of August, three months ago.
On the ninth, she was at work—the day before his body was found on the tenth—and she spent the evening alone, or so she had said. So, the last time she had spoken to Tony was the morning of the 9th, which both her phone records and the victim’s confirmed.
Dunne frowned at the paperwork.
Lance, suspect number two, still had to account for his whereabouts during this time.
Yesterday, after he and McDonald had returned to the station after their visit to Manisha’s home, they had applied further pressure during a second interview. Lance had stuck to what he had said earlier in the day, stating he was at work too. But he couldn’t recall if he was with Chelsea the night in question, three months ago.
They could have been together, Dunne thought, especially considering Chelsea’s alibi was the same.
He picked up the call log records he’d picked up from the mobile phone service yesterday, and scanned the pages, coming to August 9th and 10th.
“Bingo”
Chelsea’s number was on Lance’s call log.
He shook his head. “So, you did call her, huh?” He traced his finger over the paper, farther down the call list. “Not only that night, but also during the day too,” he said satisfied.
Dunne’s gaze moved back and forth over the sheets of paper, careful to not miss anything. He had the evidence needed, proof he didn’t have three months ago, as no one was aware of Chelsea’s involvement with Lance, until two days ago when the mystery package had appeared.
Slowly, he came to a theory. Even though Lance couldn’t firmly account for his whereabouts, due to the time that had passed, his phone records—black and white evidence—placed him in direct contact with Chelsea
around the time period in question.
For a moment, he sat back in his chair.
Damn. Three months ago, when Tony’s body turned up, and the investigation started, he hadn’t been aware of the affair. This gives Lance and Chelsea motive.
“Better late than never,” he said, then continued to study Lance’s call records, comparing them to Chelsea’s.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Yeah,” Dunne called out.
Shelly, the receptionist, walked in with another letter in hand.
“What now?”
“You’ve got another one. This just came in with the rest of the mail.” She approached, placed an envelope on his desk, then turned on her heels to leave.
At the door, she stole a nervous glance at Dunne.
“Thanks,” he said, holding her gaze. “It’s all under control, Shelly, promise.”
“Okay.” Shelly nodded and left him in silence.
Once she closed the door, Dunne stared at the envelope. He retrieved a pair a
of gloves from his inside pocket, opened up the package, and slid out another note.
“What is this?” Dunne looked at the address. “Some random location in south west London. “He threw the paper on his desk and shook his head. “You’ve gotta be shitin’ me.”
Dunne knew better than to show up at an unknown address, not knowing what or who he was looking for. But one thing was certain, someone was directing him on this unsolved case. Someone who didn’t want to be known. Someone, he needed answers from.
He tapped the address into the Metropolitan Police’s data base. His eyes widened at the result.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Tony Patel was the owner.” He scrolled through the details and picked up the phone.
“Yeah, what’s up?” McDonald answered.
“We need to check out one of Tony’s properties,” Dunne said.
“Why, what’s up?”
“Our little friend sent another note. Seems like there’s something there. What, I don’t know.”
“Are you bull shitin’ me?” McDonald asked.
“Nope.”
McDonald whistled into the phone. “All right, you wanna interview Chelsea again first?”
“Hold up. That’s not all.” Dunne ignored his partner’s question and pushed on. “It turns out Chelsea and Lance had contact in the time leading up to the murder.”
“This does gets better,” McDonald chimed in.
“He contacted her. Could have been to confirm the job was done.” Dunne took a sip of his coffee, then spat the cold fluid out into his cup. “Let’s get over to the house first and follow up on this note. Then we’ll check in on Chelsea.”
“Send me the address.”
“Will do,” Dunne said, then placed the phone on the receiver.
Within a few hours, Dunne had secured a search warrant for the property Tony owned, which now, Chelsea Jackson was the owner of. He and McDonald rounded up a team of officers and headed over.
Let the fun begin, a smile of satisfaction tugged at his mouth.
20
The Eyes Don’t Lie
Detective Dunne
Three hours later, outside the mystery address, the team of officers parked their cars.
Dunne and McDonald jumped out of their cars, followed by four other men. As a group, they approached the door.
The house was well-maintained, but the front garden looked as though it hadn’t been tended to for some time.
Dunne pressed the bell—there was no response.
“Hello, anyone home? This is Detective Dunne. Could you come to the door please?” He called through the letter box.
His gaze moved around the inside of the house.
“Looks like no one’s living here.” McDonald pressed his face to the front window. He looked through the thin curtains into the living room.
Dunne pounded on the door with a fist, then rang the bell again.
“Hello,” Dunne said. “Is anyone home?” There was no answer once again. “All right, let’s kick it down.”
He motioned to his team, then moved back for one of his men to tackle taking the front door off its hinges.
The officer rammed a bollard into the door. It shifted slightly on the hinges, but on the second shove, it caved in. When it did, Dunne and his team of men stood back and waited for a reaction from inside the house—there was none.
Dunne inched toward the door. He glanced left then right, clearing the pathway. There was no sign of any movement in the front of the house.
“Hello, this is Detective Dunne. I have a warrant to search the property—anyone home?” Again, there was no response.
He stepped over the threshold, followed by an armed officer, McDonald, and the rest of the team. Clearing the living room, he noticed it was unfurnished.
Turning to face the team of men behind him, he shouted. “Stanley, you guys take upstairs. We’ll handle the lower level.”
The men asked no questions. They raced up the stairs to search every inch of the upper level of the house.
Dunne and McDonald headed to the kitchen with Dunne in the lead. His detective instincts heightened under the circumstances.
What the hell are we looking for, who and what. The idea of walking into a situation like this, pulled him in different directions.
He paced through the lower half of the two-story house.
On one hand, being a seasoned detective had taught him to have formulate an idea, a direction, something to go off—and to follow his gut. The random approach of clutching straws wasn’t something he was fond of, or even existed in his detective DNA.
This unsolved murder had haunted him. It was a case he had to put to rest. He hoped he wasn’t on a wild goose chase like McDonald had joked around about.
Following the events of the last seventy-two hours, several things had come to light. And both he and his partner had changed their tune.
Chelsea might not be as innocent as she claims to be, he thought. Plus, Manisha may or may not be behind the note sending game.
As for Lance, he helped to back up the motive he theorised Chelsea had for wanting Tony dead.
“Nothing looks out of place. It’s an empty property,” McDonald’s sceptical voice called out over his shoulder.
Dunne ignored his partner and walked farther into the house. “Keep looking—eyes peeled.”
“Tony was a high-flying property investor, right? Owned a couple of restaurants too,” McDonald said. His gaze moved around the hallway behind Dunne.
“Yep, he rented his homes out to high earners from what I remember.” Dunne pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
“Nice. Earned a decent income each month I suppose.” McDonald flicked his eyes around the pristine, white kitchen, then turned to Dunne.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” replied Dunne. “All we’ve got is these damn notes that keep showing up.”
McDonald followed suit and removed gloves from a pocket.
“If we don’t follow up, there could be hell to pay if something’s missed,” Dunne responded. He headed over to the kitchen counters and started to open the drawers.
“Find anything?”
“Empty, there’s nothing here.” He turned to McDonald, slamming the drawer shut.
His partner raised an eyebrow in his direction, then headed into the living area.
Dunne remained in the kitchen and sighed.
“All clear here too,” McDonald’s voice called out to him from the living room.
All that was there was a dining table, chairs, and a sofa. None the less, he tipped over the sofa and rummaged through it. He came up with nothing.
“Fuck,” Dunne whispered, removing his gloves.
“Detective! Detective! We found something,” Officer Stanley called out from the upper level of the house.
Dunne left the kitchen. He met McDonald by the staircase, then followed behind him to the upper level of the house. Toget
her, they entered one of the bedrooms.
“Looks like this is what we were meant to find.”
Officer Stanley held out clear plastic bag. Inside was a large, rusty screwdriver with dried blood and what looked like a set of decayed human eyes.
“Jesus,” Dunne said and pulled out his phone. “Yeah, it’s Detective Dunne, can you send over a forensic team to the address we put a search warrant on this morning? ASAP.” Dunne paused, listening in on the line. “Yeah, no problems. Forensics needs to go over the property for prints and see what turns up.”
He placed his phone back in his inside pocket and faced his team. “Keep looking, search the place. Top to bottom,” he snapped, then left.
McDonald took hold of the plastic bag from officer Stanley and followed Dunne downstairs.
Ten minutes later, the house was crawling with a unit from forensics. Satisfied, McDonald and Dunne headed back to the station.
Back in the office, at his desk, cross-checking the case files from months ago, he glanced at the clock.
Okay, should be ready now, he thought, then picked up the phone. He punched in a few numbers and waited for an answer.
“Detective Dunne, how are you doing?” A familiar voice asked.
“I’m good, Casey, what’s the latest on the notes? Did you find any prints?”
“No, sorry, same result as the last set,” Casey confirmed.
Dunne swung his legs off his desk, then sat up straight. “Okay, what about the screwdriver and body parts?”
“Good news, it’s a match to Tony Patel’s blood. They’re his eyes, all right. But no prints.”
“Arrrgh, jezzz.” Dunne rested his elbows on his desk.
“Sorry, Detective.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I needed this confirmation. Thanks for the update.”
Dunne placed the phone down, happy that the murder weapon had turned up, but pissed at a lack of prints.
McDonald knocked on the door and entered.
“What’s up?” Dunne called out.