by Kim Knight
“Arms up,” the officer with keys said.
Lance offered his wrists, and the officer uncuffed him. He rubbed the sore flesh, then took a seat under the harsh lights opposite Dunne and McDonald.
“Lance, good to see you again,” Dunne said with sarcasm, then he clicked on the tape recorder. “We have a few more questions for you.”
“I don’t know anything about Tony’s murder, okay. I already told you.” Lance looked down at his wrists, taking in the red marks the restraints left.
“This is bullshit,” he said under his breath, then rubbed his sore wrists.
“You spoke to Chelsea a few hours before we first interviewed you. What did you talk about?” Dunne asked.
Lance’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, then closed. “Nothing.” He stared at the table, avoiding Dunne’s gaze.
“Nothing? You must’ve spoken about something. You were on the phone for more than five minutes with her.”
Lance rolled his eyes, then met Dunne’s. “She told me you guys had got in contact with her, that she’d been questioned about Tony, that’s all.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, that was all. Then you two showed up at my garage.”
“Tell us again about what Chelsea wanted and Tony’s death?” McDonald cut in.
“I told you, he was sick with cancer. She looked after him. Once he cut his family out of his will, she knew she was onto a good thing.”
“You said she approached you to get rid of him?”
“Yes, she did.”
“She’s dead.” Dunne paused a moment, taking in his reaction. “Who do you think would want her gone?”
Laughter erupted from between his lips—filled with both disbelief and confusion, “You’re joking, right? Dead! I don’t know. I’m clueless.” He leaned forward across the table. “Look, if you’ve got nothing on me, ya need to let me go. We both know this. You’ve kept me here and not charged me with anything linked to Tony’s or Chelsea’s deaths.”
He paused and looked from one detective to the other.
“Obviously, you can’t link me to anything. I’ve told you what I know,” he yelled out of frustration.
“Wrong, the murder weapon has showed up.”
Lance moved his gaze back to McDonald.
“You’ve confirmed Chelsea wanted him gone.” McDonald smirked. “You too, by the sounds of the recorded conversation we all heard. You both had a motive, it’s a shame Chelsea’s not here to tell us her side of the story. But you are, and you can tell it to a jury.”
McDonald leaned back in his chair as if satisfied, he glanced over at Dunne, who nodded in response.
“Lance Duncan, we have reason to believe you were involved in Tony Patel’s death, and possibly Chelsea Jackson’s. You had an affair, and openly spoke with her about what you’d do with his money once Tony was gone. Whether you actually did the deed yourself, or had someone else do it, both you and Chelsea were involved because of your own greed. She’s gone,” Dunne said. “We can’t question her, but you, we can charge you with conspiracy to murder. We’ll let the jury decide what’s what.”
“You can’t do this. I never had anything to do with it. Oi, oi, are you listening to me?” Lance yelled. He pounded on the table between him and the detectives. Neither of them responded, or even flinched. Lance couldn’t believe it, he glanced from one to the other.
The detectives rose to their feet. McDonald cut the recording and headed out of the interview room.
Heat rose within Lance, fueling his anger.
“Like I said, Lance. Conspiracy to murder.” Dunne leaned across the table. “We have enough evidence to support that. But I’ll look into Chelsea’s death, and if I find you’re linked to that as well, you’ll be facing an even longer sentence if found guilty.”
Dunne nodded in the direction of the guard by the door.
“Take him back to the cell,” Dunne said. “Make him comfortable.”
29
Break Through
Detective Dunne
Three weeks later, Dunne kicked his feet up on his desk, and read the headlines of the newspaper. He smiled from ear to ear, then took a sip of his coffee.
The phone rang, but he ignored it and decided the press coverage of his department’s work was more important, as well as well-deserved lunch break. It was late afternoon, and he had just finished up some paperwork and needed to eat something before he fainted. The door knocked and in walked McDonald. Dunne peeked over the top of his newspaper.
“’Sup, Josh?”
“Nothin’. Just thought I’d come and eat my lunch here, that’s all.” McDonald closed the door, strode over, and then sat opposite Dunne.
Dunne threw his head back with laughter, which was a rare thing. To catch him crack a smile was a miracle, especially over the last few weeks.
“Aww, miss me, did you, Joshie?” Dunne teased him, then flipped his feet off his desk, so McDonald could eat his lunch.
“Idris, shut it!” McDonald chuckled, then slumped himself down into the worn chair. He opened his sandwich and took a bite. With a mouthful, he asked Dunne, “How ya feeling?”
Dunne placed the day’s paper down on the desk and tapped the headline. “I feel good, very good,” he said. “We did it, Josh.”
He loved his job, but at times, the need to close cases to keep the streets of London safe, and do the best he could to uphold his reputation as one of London Metropolitan’s top detectives required personal sacrifice.
McDonald glanced down at the paper.
Dunne watched his partner chew on his food—his mouth open and smiling widely at him. “Yeah, we did,”
McDonald took another huge bit of his sandwich.
“Can you believe it.” McDonald chewed, swallowed, then took another bite. “I can’t believe that family,” he said with his mouth full.
Sauce slid down the side of his mouth, and McDonald used his finger to wipe it off, and then devoured it.
Dunne shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “Josh, c’mon on, man. Where’s yer table manners?”
“What?” McDonald said innocently, then sniggered.
Dunne rubbed the bridge of his nose, stemming a laugh that bubbled within him. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a Mars bar, leaned back in his chair, and tried to ignore his partner’s lack of etiquette as he munched on his sandwich aggressively.
“Yeah, it was a convincing case—the conspiracy to murder.” Dunne reflected, opening his chocolate candy. “Hard one for the crown court, and the jury, to not find it plausible.”
“Yeap, especially when they considered the recorded evidence and money motivations,” McDonald chimed in. He picked up the paper. “Looks like the headlines on the tabloids have fired up again.” He tapped the header of The Sun newspaper.
“You’re telling me, look at it,” Dunne said. “Chelsea’s gone from an angel who cared for a sick, dying man, and rewarded with his fortune, to a she-devil overnight.”
Dunne pulled his mind back again to the verdict. The jury found her guilty of conspiracy over Tony’s murder in her absence along with Lance.
No prints were recovered from the screwdriver or the mystery notes that had led Dunne and McDonald to the murder weapon, only a blood match to Tony along with his gauged-out eyeballs.
McDonald flipped open the paper, then noisily sipped his fruit juice. Dunne cringed at the sound.
“Josh, mate, this is the last time you’ll eat lunch with me if you don’t get it together.” He teased him.
McDonald laughed, slurped his juice again, and then held up the paper.
“The cheek of Lance as well,” he said. He pointed to his mug shot image on page five then read out loud, “Lance Duncan had strongly denied having any access to any of Tony Patel’s properties, connection to Chelsea’s murder, or knowledge of who would’ve planted incriminating evidence at the home Chelsea inherited.”
“Hmm, the jury were not convinced though, life imprisonment fo
r his role in the conspiracy to murder sounds good to me,” Dunne responded with glee.
With just a motive for Chelsea’s death, a recorded conversation, and phone records of Lance and Chelsea’s contact the day before she died, the jury cleared him of her murder, but he went down for Tony’s.
“The case on Chelsea’s murder is still left unsolved though,” McDonald added. “Even if there was suspicion around Lance organising it after they spoke. He admitted he had ‘connections’ to place hits on people.”
Dunne concluded, “I guess, that’s why Chelsea, according to him, had approached him to get rid of Tony.”
“Hmmm, guess so.” McDonald picked at his teeth with a tooth pick he had plucked off Dunne’s desk. He closed the paper, satisfied their job was done, for now.
Lance is behind bars. Manisha Patel now has closure on her husband’s death, Dunne thought to himself. One question lingered, the thread he couldn’t unwind. He turned to his partner.
“We’ve got one more case to solve. Who really murdered Chelsea? Even if we have a hunch Lance may have been behind it, who did the deed?”
The question hung in the air as heavy as a downpour of London’s rain.
McDonald opened a packet of peanuts and threw a few into his mouth. He crunched noisily and offered the packet to Dunne.
“No thanks.” Dunne held his hand up, then pulled out an apple from his desk.
McDonald nodded. “Hmm, that’s the question, the one we need to look into deeper.”
30
The Widow
Manisha
A month later, Manisha looked up at Sarah Donovan from the other side of the desk.
“Mrs. Patel.” Sarah held Manisha’s gaze. “How are you keeping?”
She sagged her shoulders slightly and dropped her gaze from the young, blonde woman smiling warmly at her.
“I’m baring up, I guess. A lot has happened. Accused of killing my husband. Then, there’s the financial mess Tony left me in because of his affair.”
“Well, take comfort in what I’m about to tell you.” Sarah paused and shuffled some paperwork.
Manisha watched with interest.
“With Chelsea dead and the news of her involvement in his death, the second will contest you filed, based more strongly on coercion, and diminished mental capacity of Tony, has been successful.”
Manisha looked over at the paperwork Sarah thumbed through and met her solicitor’s gaze.
“You’re serious?” She reached over and took Sandip’s hand.
“Yes. It became clear that there’s a strong possibility Chelsea coerced him into changing his will. This was the tipping point. His mental capacity could’ve been deteriorated, yes. But that’s always a hard one to prove. The coercion was more plausible, given her involvement and the case closed on his murder.”
“So, what does this mean?” Sandip sat up straight.
“Well, as his legal wife, your mother, you, and your sister, are beneficiaries.”
“Oh, m-my goodness,” Manisha said. “Sanita’s no longer in the UK. She immigrated once she got married. I’m sure she’ll be happy.”
Sarah smiled. “I’m sure she will, as you all should be.”
“This is what we needed, closure on his death, and to have what’s rightfully ours for the family. Not some gold-digger,” Sandip said.
“I agree.” Manisha nodded. “So, this means everything—the properties, restaurants, and money—it’s ours?”
“Yes, on his original will, you were named as the executor. The properties and restaurants pass to you. He was clear that if something should happen to you, they should pass down to the children. As for the cash, he also left that to you too.”
“What about us? Me and Sanita?” Sandip questioned.
Manisha noted the annoyance in her son’s voice. She glanced at him and wondered why he needed money so badly.
“Well, he hasn’t directly left anything to you.” Sarah slid a copy of Tony’s original will across the table to Sandip and Manisha. “His wish was that if something were to happen to your mother, at that point, you and Sanita would gain a fifty percent share of whatever is to be handed down.”
Sandip snatched up the copy and closely read it. “Right, okay.” He dropped the thick cream paper with his dad’s last requests onto the table.
“So, what happens now?” Manisha adjusted her reading glasses and looked from the will back to Sarah.
“Well, Chelsea’s accounts will be unfrozen, and we’ll organise for the money and assets to be transfer to you, Mrs. Patel.”
Manisha broke down in tears.
Finally, I’ve got what’s mine. Years, I spent being a housewife, and it’s my time now, she thought to herself.
“Thank you,” she muttered, then blew her nose.
“No problems, if there’s no further questions. I will contact you soon,” said Sarah.
“None, it’s all clear. Thank you.”
Manisha extended a hand across the table, and Sarah placed her hand in hers, giving her a firm handshake.
Sarah turned a stone-faced expression to Sandip. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just fine.” He rose to his feet. “Mum, I’ll meet you in the car.
“Okay, love, I won’t be long. I’ll just head to the ladies’ room, then meet you there.”
In the privacy of the toilets, Manisha looked herself in the eye, taking in her reflection in the mirror. With her crocodile tears gone, a lopsided smile spread across her face, which then moulded into a pout.
“Rich, free, and no longer your little housewife. Chelsea you did me a favour. You got there first and got rid of him,” she muttered under her breath.
Guess I should thank you.
She fixed her expression and practiced her ‘feel sorry for me’ face, for when she faced her daughter on Skype, and everyone else who would come knocking at her door once they learned the news.
Chelsea’s death and involvement in Tony’s death had made headlines, and so had she, since his unsolved murder was now resolved, and Lance imprisoned.
Ahhh, what a shame, aye? Never even got the satisfaction of killing him off slowly, Manisha mused.
The arsenic she had purchased to speed up Tony’s unfortunate death, wasn’t needed after all. Right after Dunne had called her in for questioning, she disposed of the contents of the rented mailbox—the arsenic, as well as the evidence from the private investor about her husband’s affair.
She pushed the thoughts, along with the memories of her abusive, thirty-year marriage to Tony to one-side, reapplied her lipstick, and then smiled at herself in the mirror.
31
Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Sandip
“What do you mean, we’ve got nothing?” Sanita shrieked down the line.
“Exactly that, Sis. He left it all to Mum. We don’t see a penny until she’s gone,” Sandip responded. He shook his head in disbelief. “Everything—the properties, restaurants, money—it’s all going to Mum.”
“I don’t even know what to say,” Sanita said. “At least it’s all back in the family and not with that gold-digger.”
“Hmm, suppose so.”
Sandip chewed on his lip, pondering on what was taking his mum so long. “Listen, I better go and see where Mum is, I’m still waiting for her. We’ll call you later. And remember, when Mum tells you, act surprised, okay.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, don’t worry. It’s late here. Call me tomorrow if anything.”
“Okay, see you later.”
Sandip disconnected from the long-distance call to Australia and was livid—pissed-off with the way things had turned out.
He drummed the steering wheel of his car in frustration. His mind drifted back over the last few months, back to when his dad had refused to help him with his debts.
See, Dad, I took things into my own hands, he thought, and a chuckle crossed his lips.
“All that careful planning out the window—all for nothing,” he
said out loud to the empty car. “Son of a . . .” His mind drifted back to that one fatal night.
32
The Note
Sandip, August 10th
“Get in the car.”
Sandip secured the bin liner bag over his dad’s head, then bound his hands with rope.
“Sandip, what are you doing I—”
“I said get in the fuckin’ car, and don’t mess with me, old man.”
Sandip placed a heavy hand on Tony’s head and forced him into the back seat of the car.
“Lie down, and don’t move.”
Sandip watched his father do as he was told.
The fear that floated off the old man was tangible.
He chuckled to himself and glanced at his watch. It was two in morning, and his dad had just finished cashing out and locking up his Indian restaurant on Kings Road. Like clockwork, he had left out the back entrance, then headed to his car—where Sandip was waiting.
“If this is about the money, Sandip, I told you, clean up your act, stop stuffing that shit up your nose, and your debts won’t be so high. You’ve got a family to support.” Tony struggled to breathe with the bag over his head.
“Shut up, after all I’ve done for you. Checking up on the properties, helping you keep things going. Don’t lecture me.”
Sandip started the engine of the car. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and sniffed hard. His cocaine high was in full swing. He drove as calmly as he could to an empty garage he rented, mainly to keep household things in. Once there, he opened it up, backed the car in, then dragged his sixty-year-old dad out of the back of the seat.
“Sit on the chair and don’t fuckin’ move,” he yelled.
“Sandip, if you think I’m helping you out after this, you’ve got another—”