The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1)

by Clarissa Draper

  Theo nodded.

  Eric said, “I thought she was making faces at me, and I laughed to myself. I laughed. Then, I saw…her hands, they went to her throat. I thought she was choking or something. I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there watching…” His voice trailed off. His mother went and sat next to him on the bed.

  “You saw the killer, didn’t you?” Theo asked.

  “His face, it was so… sick. Sick. I only realized she was being strangled when I saw him. I only saw his face for a second, but it was messed up, warped. Something was wrong with it, but I don’t know how. I stood up then and quickly shut off my lights. I stood in the middle of my room, in the dark. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I was dreaming or it was—”

  “Or it was the drugs?” Theo suggested.

  “I wasn’t on drugs. I’d had a couple of cans of Relentless and some pain killers to get rid of the headaches. I wasn’t sure. When I finally went back to the window, I couldn’t see her. It was quiet. I thought I had hallucinated, so I played games until I fell asleep.”

  “How was it then that you rang the police?” Theo asked the boy.

  “I woke up the next morning—those drinks really screw you up—looked at my window and remembered. It scared the shit out of me. Going over to my window…” He shivered. “Somehow, I got enough courage to look out. The kitchen light was still on, but I couldn’t see her. The dog lay by the back door, but he sometimes did that. All day at school, I was…” He shivered again. “Creepy. As soon as I returned home, I looked out the window again. The dog was still outside but barking, and she never came. I watched for fifteen minutes, she never came—and she always came.”

  “So you told your father to check on her?” Theo looked toward his father for confirmation. The father nodded.

  Eric didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at his feet. “She used to make me cookies,” he finally said. “And I was such a coward. I didn’t help her. I let her die. I watched her die.” He picked up a CD and threw it across the room. He started crying.

  Theo went over and stood in front of him. Eric’s eyes met his. “Listen to me,” Theo said. “You couldn’t have saved her. He would have killed you, too. But, maybe you can help us catch him by describing, as best as you can, what he was wearing. What were his mannerisms? Why did his face look strange? Can you remember? I know it’ll be difficult, but it would be a great help.”

  “God, I need a drink.” Eric replied.

  “Would you like water?” his mother asked.

  “No, Mum, a proper drink to calm my nerves.”

  “What about a small amount of brandy,” his father suggested, looking at the police officers.

  “No, I prefer rum and cola,” Eric said. “I hate brandy and vodka.”

  Eric’s father ran down to the kitchen and when he returned with the mixture, Eric gulped it down without pausing. He handed the glass to his mother. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his mouth with his tee-shirt.

  “Start at the bottom. Describe what he wore,” Theo suggested.

  Closing his eyes, Eric took a few deep breaths. “I couldn’t really see him. He stood behind her, but I did see his arms. Well, his elbows…” He moved his arms in the same position the killer had his. “He wore some sort of black, it was all black. He must have been wearing gloves. She tried to…claw him, but she couldn’t.”

  “Don’t focus on her, don’t look at her face. When did you see his face?” Theo asked.

  “It was quick. She moved her head back, in some sort of jerky fashion, and his face came into view.” He opened his eyes and covered his mouth with his fist.

  “I know it’s difficult. Just take your time.”

  “No, I understand, I want to finish this. It’s making me sick. I just want to finish this.” Closing his eyes again, he concentrated. Moving his head left, as if to see the killer’s face more clearly, suddenly he opened his eyes wide. “He wore stockings. That’s why I couldn’t see his face. That’s why it was all warped. God, sick bastard. You catch the bastard. He was white, even though the tights were brown, he was white. He was about my height and had dark hair.”

  “By the time you came back to the window, he was gone?” Dorland asked.

  “Yeah,” Eric replied. “Why did he kill her? She was a writer and hardly ever left the house. Why did she get it? What did she do? Why didn’t he kill Evil Edwards across the street instead?”

  “That’s exactly what we hope to find out,” replied Theo. He turned to the parents. “Please do me a favor. Just for the next few days, don’t let your son out of your sight.”

  “You think he’s in danger?” his mother asked, holding tight to Eric’s arm.

  “Probably not, but the man Eric saw has murdered before and would not hesitate to do so again. So far, your son is our only witness. If the killer realizes he saw him…”

  Chapter 24

  “Mr. Smithwick, I am sorry for your loss. My name is Theophilus Blackwell. I’m the Detective Inspector working on your wife’s case.” Theo held out his hand. Helena’s husband had arrived at Heathrow earlier that afternoon. Two officers brought him straight to the mortuary to identify the body. He took Theo’s hand and held it for a few moments.

  “You’re very young,” Mr. Smithwick said quietly. He had a white stringy beard and a balding shiny head. Layers of wrinkles hung from his ashen forehead. He undid his top shirt buttons and did up his tweed suit coat.

  Taken aback by his remark, Theo replied, “I assure you, my team is working very hard to find the person responsible for your wife’s death. Please, have a seat. I would like to ask you some questions; perhaps we may identify the killer.”

  “This is one thing you never imagine doing.” He sat down. “I stared at her, expecting her to open her eyes. Telling myself it’s a dream. It’s not a dream, is it? More like a nightmare, and I don’t know what to do next. What do I do next?”

  Theo examined his empty hands and realized he had exactly that—nothing. “I don’t know.” He guessed that people moved on if they could.

  “She always wanted to go to heaven, my Helena, to be with her Lord. Do you believe she’s in heaven?” Mr. Smithwick didn’t seem to expect an answer since he immediately continued, “I think once she told me there was love in heaven. Convinced of it, she was. Love, that’s all she wanted really.” Leaning his back against the wall, he closed his eyes. “This is all too much to take in right now. She was a good person, loved life, loved her children, and loved me. I can’t think of a single person with a motive to kill her; everyone adored Helena. Sure, sometimes she was a bit absent-minded and would forget your name or be in another world. But who kills people because they think they’ve been ignored?”

  Theo nodded. “Your wife wrote romance novels. Was she working on something else? Anything that might have been touchy or controversial, perhaps?”

  Mr. Smithwick seemed distracted by the lights embedded in the ceiling.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m sorry. What was your question, young man?”

  “Was your wife working on anything controversial?”

  “Oh no, never. A couple of years ago, she used to write historical fiction, but they were not controversial. No, never. Writing for her was a hobby as well as a career, something she enjoyed doing. She started after our son was born. She stayed at home with him, so she wrote to feel useful. Helena would never intentionally write to harm anyone’s reputation. That was not her style. I’ve read all her books. The characters don’t resemble anyone we know. My wife often told me how she made the characters up, nothing complex. Sure, she watched how people acted in the grocery aisles, but her novels are about finding love or romance. Nothing sinister. No, nothing.”

  “Had you talked to your wife in the last few days?”

  “We always talked. I phoned Tuesday morning from the hotel, around midday. Time difference made it about ten in the morning here.” He paused. “That was the day she died, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,�
�� said Theo. “Did she sound worried?”

  Looking at his hands, Mr. Smithwick started to laugh lightly. “I guess it comes with the writing life, she always had things on her mind. I had to accustom myself to the fact that if she stared at me with what seemed like unwavering focus, she was probably in another place.”

  “Did you discuss her schedule?”

  Mr. Smithwick shook his head. “Her weekly schedule? At home a lot really. She went to the shops and certain places for research but preferred to be at home writing. Never even learned to drive, didn’t feel she should. She took a cab everywhere.”

  “She never did public appearances, no book signings, lectures, writing groups, book groups, none of that sort?” asked Theo.

  “Oh those, well, she did do, yes. Less now than before, but with her new book out, she had an American tour coming up. For information about her schedule, you had best talk to her agent. Round London, she had mainly discussion groups and signings at little book shops and libraries, but nothing really happens there. They went on mainly during daytime hours so mums and tots, you know, they show up but, Helena, she does it…did it, I don’t know really why she did it. I guess she wanted to hear what others thought of her books.”

  “What did you think of her books?”

  “My wife was brilliant. The smartest woman I ever knew. One thing about writers, they know people. They couldn’t be more observant if they wanted to.”

  “And her books?”

  “Well, they’re romances. They’re written mainly for women, not men, but we had our fun with it, if you know what I mean.” He stood and straightened his trousers. “I wish I knew who did this. I wish I’d been there.” He rubbed his head. “May I go?”

  “Yes.” Theo watched him head for the doors but quickly called after him. “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Smithwick. Who had keys to your house?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The problem is, we don’t know how the killer got into the house. There’s no sign of forced entry, so either he had a key or she let him in.”

  “Other than Helena, and of course I, only the neighbor, Mr. Lyons, has a key.”

  “Did you keep one on the premises somewhere?” Theo asked.

  “No.”

  “Would your wife let in a stranger when she was home alone?”

  “Never. That’s why we got the dog. Helena never felt safe when I was gone on my lectures. She got the dog for protection, and she never opened the front door without Maxwell by her side. Where was Maxwell when they found her?”

  “Outside in the garden, why?”

  Mr. Smithwick looked down and mumbled, “She’d only let in someone she knew. And that means I know him, too.” He slammed his fist into the wall. “And whoever it is, I’m going to kill him.” He started to walk away again but stopped. He clutched Theo’s arm. “You wanted to know how the killer could have entered. I pray this is not the case, oh, I pray because it would be so terribly tragic.”

  “What way, Mr. Smithwick?”

  “A couple of times I have returned home from work and found my door open.”

  “Unlocked or actually open?”

  “Both. My wife, twice a day, took our dog for a walk and when she returned… I was always on her about it and she laughed it off, saying that she had Maxwell to protect her.” He smiled to himself. “She lived a happy life in her own little world when she wrote.”

  As Theo watched Mr. Smithwick turn the corner, he felt his mobile buzz. A text message. Have some vital information. Come see me. Dr. Nevega.

  Entering the cold, bleak room again, Theo saw the pathologist standing near the body. Dr. Nevega placed various instruments beside the victim on a small movable table, saying the names aloud as he did.

  “Dr. Nevega?” Theo asked as he neared. “You wanted to see me?

  He looked up sharply. “Oh yes, you got my message, wonderful. I have something interesting to show you. Come.”

  “Autopsy done?” Theo approached cautiously. The writer’s body lay cut open, exposed. He covered his nose. The smell grew stronger as he neared.

  “Soon. Look at this. You’ll find this interesting. Switch on that small lamp there on the steel table.” When Theo did so, Dr. Nevega went over to the wall and switched off the lights.

  “Whoa,” Theo said. “What’s going on here?”

  “You’ll like this.” He grabbed a long tube and flipped a switch on the side. “I ran an ultraviolet light over the body. It detects things such as odd fluid marks: semen or saliva. As I ran the light over the hands… look at this.” Lifting up her fingers, he shined the blue light down on the tips.

  Leaning in closer, Theo strained his eyes to see. The first pass of the lights revealed something noticeable but small. “Go back,” he said, pushing Dr. Nevega’s arm exactly where he wanted it. The letters stamped onto the tips came into view.

  “I almost missed them, didn’t see them the first go round. What do you think they mean?” Lifting the light from the fingers, Dr. Nevega shined it into Theo’s eyes.

  “Not sure.”

  “What are you two doing in the dark?” asked Dorland, pushing the swinging doors open as he entered. The outside light shone into the room.

  “Shut the door,” Theo yelled at him. He took the light from Dr. Nevega and lifted the victim’s left hand. “Dorland, do you have any paper?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Write this down for me: q… e… t… k.” Then moving the light to the four fingers on the right hand, Theo said, “W… r… y… b. Have you written down the letters?”

  “QETKWRYB? Why is he leaving us messages with letters and not numbers? Why the change?” Dorland asked.

  “I don’t know. Have you checked the toes, Dr. Nevega?”

  “Yes. After I found the letters on the fingers, I checked everywhere else including eyelids.”

  “Thorough. Do you have anything else for me?” Theo turned on the lights behind him and squinted to examine Helena’s face.

  “She was definitely strangled, most likely cause of death. Pick up her hands again, look at her fingernails,” Dr. Nevega said.

  Lifting her fingers, Theo turned them around. Her hands were soft but cold. All of her nails were broken or half torn off.

  “She clawed at her neck. Notice the scratches?” Dr. Nevega pointed to her throat. “In an attempt to loosen the scarf, she dug her nails into her skin.”

  Theo moved the folds of skin around her neck to examine the bruising more closely. “This doesn’t really fit his MO, does it? Our serial killer hits his victims over the head before he strangles them.”

  “That I don’t know, but perhaps he tried and she stopped him,” suggested Dr. Nevega. “All I know is she was strangled.”

  “Were there any blood or knife wounds found on the body?”

  “Blood? That belonged to her or her killer? No, none. There were no cuts or stab wounds either. Was there supposed to be?”

  “Just curious. Was she raped?” Theo asked.

  “No, just like the other body, she was left alone in that aspect.”

  “Body number two does have a completely different MO, except for the strangulation,” Dr. Nevega said. “By the way, both were strangled by a similar type fabric—women’s silk scarves. The one around her neck I sent off to forensics. It had no tag so I’m not sure if they can trace it.”

  "Time of death?”

  “Some time Tuesday night. Rigor mortis has come and gone already. I will know more when the autopsy is complete. You’ll receive my full report.”

  Chapter 25

  When Sophia awoke Friday morning, she walked down the hall to her other flat. No one answered when she knocked. She used her spare set of keys to open the door. In the bedroom, the bed looked slept in. The smell of shampoo still lofted in from the shower room. She wandered into the kitchen and spotted the paper immediately. “Thanks,” it said simply. She held the note in her hand longer than her heart said was wise. Why couldn’t the men in her life be
uncomplicated? Why couldn’t the answer be simple? Marc’s story ran though her head. It answered all her questions, explained his hesitation and the guilt that appeared on his face every time he told her he loved her.

  His innocence had to be the reason she couldn’t find the key. Although she didn’t want the last five months to be a waste, she took comfort knowing that the time had built the bond between them. Going undercover had introduced them, and if it worked out in the end, perhaps she would be with him for many years to come. Her father liked him, too.

  Sophia hadn’t heard from Marc all day. It worried her. The repeated messages from Liam reminding her of her cock-up made her second-guess herself. She knew it was only a matter of time until the next bomb went off. She felt all eyes on her. They expected her to prove Marc guilty. They expected her to find the key. They were not looking into other leads; they were convinced of Marc’s guilt. If they refused to explore other options, her hands were tied. What she needed was a clear mind, and all this emotion clouded her judgment.

  At five, she stood at Marc’s door, her right hand balled into a fist, ready to knock. The door opened before she could. Marc motioned her in and shut the door.

  “Did you come alone?” he said, peering out the window.

  “Who else would I be with?” she replied. “Is that why you’ve not rung me all day? What’s the matter with you? Why are you on edge?”

  “I don’t know. I think people are following me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would anyone follow you, Marc? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”

  “No reason. No, you’re right. I’m overly stressed, that’s all. Did you get my email?”

  “No.” Sophia cocked her head. What was Liam up to?