Doctor Knapman: “Better!”
Me: “If one was aggrieved and wanted to kill one with cyanide, how does one acquire it without going to the labs or factories?”
Doctor Knapman: “SMS me your email and I’d email you an article."
Me: “Alright. Be waiting."
We hung up and I did what was necessary
I waited. Patience ran out. My eyes were fixed on my phone screen the whole time.
Thirty minutes. I checked my mobile Y Mail application and there was no new message, not even a spam. I rang him up. No answer.
I continued.
He had missed five of my dials.
I gave up.
I tucked the keys of my Cambridge home in my pocket.
I locked my apartment.
I entered my car.
I ignited the car engine.
I backed my Toyota Echo out of my residential driveway.
****
I drove into the residential driveway, halted the Toyota Echo and alighted.
As I opened the door I thought “Having access to a crime scene is the advantage of having your wife being one of the victims and her bedroom the very murder scene."
Our matrimonial home. A parlour. Large bright windows. Three spacious bedrooms. 3.5 bathroom. A kitchen. A corridor.
An indescribable aromatic smell attacked my sense of smell in our parlour. A blood-red rug under two couches, a matching love seat, a queen sleeper sofa with solid lodgepole and frames. Matching lamps, on either sides of the sofa, having wrought iron bases and gold shades with moose and bear silhouettes which were visible when me or Katherine lit them. A chenille throw and coordinated pillows. A pine coffee table with a raise-able surface for dining or working.
On the walls were collections of photographs showcasing our exploits. Our wedding portrait. Katherine awarded her PhD in English Language at the University of Westminster. Katherine singing on Christmas Day. Katherine in the front row of the singing ‘All Souls’ Choir. Katherine and Reverend Henry Bean. Katherine and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Katherine and my mother. Katherine and the Prime Minister, David Cameron. Katherine and the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. Katherine and the Lord Mayor of the City of London, Roger Gifford. Katherine and Reverend Henry Bean and me. Katherine and the University of Westminster’s Vice Chancellor and Court of Governors. Katherine and I with the old people in a convalescent home. Katherine and I eating with the orphans. She had been raised in an orphanage. The portrait photographs kept counting. Our living room was a mini gallery. No doubt she had achieved in life. If she was in the silver screen, she’d be Vanessa Redgrave or Dame Judith Olivia Dench.
Nostalgia. I went round our parlour to feel and touch the new things which Katherine had put in my absence: Vases, pine cones and a potpourri bowl.
The fireplace was cold. This is what death does to the dead and property of the deceased. I’m cold! A part of my body is dead!
I missed our LCD TV which was mounted to the wall about one feet below ceiling. Two wall–mounted shelves directly below the TV. Katherine and I had sat and watched the TV together. We saw a Kama Sutra, and that was when we were newly weds. After that ‘viewing’, she jettisoned the DVD into the trash bag and said it was sinful and that she only allowed it to indulge me; and suggested that we watched a play at St. James. She also loved plays and her favourite ever was William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
I proceeded to her bedroom. The smell wasn’t aromatic and I began seeing things that weren’t there on her death day. Yes, grief blinded my eyes and mind that I didn’t even notice anything in this house.
I opened dresser drawers and was greeted by the layers of neatly folded clothing. Katherine was a nearly impeccable woman.
On the top of the dressers were perfume cans, moisturizer bottles, a hairbrush and electric curler set. Against the wall to the right of it was a desk, and a PC on top of it had been covered by invisible dust. The desk was also littered with uncount papers and dictionaries. Katherine was a lexicographer.
On the walls were decorations of still life paintings. They never appealed to me.
As I took some steps back I missed a foot and was almost tumbling down until I wedged my left hand on the desk. Most of the papers and books came crashing like a pack of cards. As I picked them to put them in place, a diary became visible.
Diary!
A small thick-back red diary. But there was something unusual. Considerate number of the pages which had been written on had been ripped off. The dairy’s shoulder confirmed it.
I opened it. Only eight leaflets which had been written on remained. Leaf one:
Wednesday February 13
I was developing feelings for somebody not my husband. Today he comes to my office. He’s handsome. But Wole is more handsome. Chemistry is temptation.
Leaf two:
Thursday February 14
Today I kissed him and we nearly had sex.
He apologized. I apologized too. Though I enjoyed it, I will never do it again.
Leaf three:
Friday February 15
My conscience is tearing me apart. I’ll go see Trev. People here vouch for his effective therapy.
Evidence of ripped off pages and then leaf four:
Monday February 18
Today’s meeting with Trev was like a slap up.
I enjoyed the session. I’ve never had any man
talk with me like that. Not even Wole. He’s fun to be with.
Leaf five:
Tuesday February 19
Cursed be Trev. Cursed be his penis. May it wither a thousand times. How could I have known that he had stained the drink?
Evidence of ripped off pages and then leaf six:
Saturday February 23
Wole had come down with the clap and I discovered it’s from me. Test results proves I’m positive.
Ripped off pages and then leaf seven:
Tuesday February 26
Wole’s accusing me of cheating. I’d have to tell him I was cheating even though Trev knew me without my consent, against my will. Trev threatens to make me a corpse if I dare sing that he had taken advantage of me.
Leaf eight:
Wednesday February 27
Wole finds the cefuroxime in my drawer; and moves out of our home to a new place in Park Lane.
This was the last leaf with writings. The rest ripped off and the ones not written on, left.
Why would anyone do this?
I wasn’t ready for conjectures. I tucked the diary in my hip pocket.
Her photo album was on the shelf of books standing and leaning against the wall to the left side of the desk. I browsed through the album and one of her picture ‘enchanted’ me. I removed it from the page–rack and ran to the kitchen.
In the kitchen was a smooth surface electric range with over-size oven window. A dishwasher. A double bowl ceramic sink with disposal and single-handle double-spout faucet. A microwave oven and a side-by-side refrigerator with ice-maker. My eyes were scanning the kitchen for a bottle of washing-up liquid.
Katherine, even from the great beyond, could still screw with my head.
I placed her picture on the floor of the kitchen and knelt before it. She was robed all over and yet there was something about this picture. Her face spoke of nothing but sex.
I unbelted and pushed down my trousers to my knee level. My man-pike had already shot out like an angry thorn waiting to prick any flesh or soft tissue that came close. I lubricated my right hand with some viscous washing-up liquid, and formed a small 'o'. My man-pike was toing and froing the small 'o'. I could feel my nipples were firm. I could literally hear my breathing and pulse rates quicken. I was out of earth until translucent gray fluid formed five droplets on Katherine’s face.
I breathed deeply.
I scooped out the handkerchief from my pocket and cleaned the last globule that had accumulated on my urethra’s openings. With the handkerchief, also, I cleaned the droplets of semen on Katherine’s face.
I dressed up.
“I promise you I’d catch your killer and move back here.” I said to Katherine’s picture before I fixed it back in the album.
Orgasm does unexplainable things to us, humans. I began thinking in the right direction.
Trev. Who’s Trev? He does forensic analysis and profiling for the MPS.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Whoever ripped off those diary pages deliberately left those other pages to implicate Doctor Trevor Bradford. Either the ‘page ripper’ made a mistake or he’s playing games. I think the latter would be more plausible.
‘Trev’ has some explaining to do.
I had to get to him immediately DS Danielle sent me an SMS conveying his address.
His residence stayed in Craven Hill Gardens which edged the Bayswater, Paddington and Lancaster Gate areas within Westminster. Craven Hill consists of hotels, residences and gardens. Nearby attractions include the Heathrow Express, Queensway, Bayswater Road – my cradle – Conaught Village, Westbourne Grove and Hyde Park. I parked behind his black Renault on his spacious driveway and alighted. His residence was silent and gave evidence of boredom.
I pushed the bell switch and an athletic ectomorph with a square face opened the milk-colour door. Doctor Trevor.
“Good day." He smiled.
“May I come in?”
“The police is our friend." He chuckled “Always welcome!"
“Thanks."
He had a very small rub of the French accent on his tongue even though he was a Brummie. Either one of his parents is French or it’s a kind of mutation.
“You came for the Paque or other business?”
I became convinced that he had a French ancestry. “Other business."
“How did you get to know my residence?”
“I’m a detective” I forced a Mona Lisa smile.
“So what other business brought you here?”
“The serial killer. What do you think of the killer? Is he insane or sick or walking his way into the -"
“Serial murderers’ hall of fame?”
I nodded, “Yes!”
“Well,” he fastened his short-sleeved yellow shirt’s buttons, adjusted his short blue pants and sat, and gestured at me to sit. “The killer is a complicated creature."
“Almost all criminals are complicated."
“But one thing is sure; he’s doing it to avenge something. Something very tragic must have cut him to the marrows and the wounds are refusing to heal."
“So it’s obvious it’s a Black?”
“Definitely! Dogs don’t eat dogs."
“Is it possible he or she… the Black is avenging history? Perhaps colonialism? Racism? Or even marginalization?”
“We can continue to speculate the whole time and never pin it down. This criminal has to be caught first."
“And why would he ritualize Wednesdays?”
“It’s like a coin. Either the evil was done to him on a Wednesday. . .or he’s just doing it to create his MO.”
“Is it possible that he or she could be the pillar of a body, say church or a social foundation?”
“These days I doubt that, even though crime movies and literature try their best to sell that idea to us, I’m yet to even give it a thought."
“Is it possible that a cop is the killer?”
He sighed and paused.
I reiterated, “What if the killer is a cop?”
“Hugh thinks you’re the killer by historical reference of your high school passion."
“Do you think I’m the killer?”
“You being a tattooist in the past gives you an alibi, remember?”
“Pardon me!”
“I’m of the opinion that another Black is doing this to sabotage you.”
“Then the murderer is dangerous?”
“Yes. He might be paying you back in your own coin."
“My own coin?”
“Perhaps you or somebody you're related to did something he’s taken personal.”
“So you mean the killer is a psychopathic angry kid who won’t stop killing until I’m disgraced out of Met." I said almost a question.
“Perhaps and it wouldn’t surprise me if you even interact with him almost everyday and unknowingly."
“What if the killer had been screwing with my wife?”
“Screwing with your wife? How?”
“I mean fucking my wife."
“I don’t suffer f-words on Holy days."
“Only hypocrites don’t!"
“Are you calling me one?”
I kept mute and fed my eyes with the photos exhibiting on the frame very close to the marble ceiling. He had been married to a Black. One of the photos exhibited his family: Him, his wife and two beautiful black daughters.
“Are you insulting me?”
I retrieved myself from feeding my eyes, "No. Just stating a fact."
“I’m a respectable man."
“A respectable man who can’t respect his family."
“If you were not a cop I’d have smashed your head."
“The beast is already creeping out, uh?”
“I understand that grief has poisoned your sense of decorum. You still miss your wife, don’t you?”
I felt anger creeping up “Better be a widower than a divorcee.”
He chuckled, “You‘re mistaken. My family portrait is my witness.”
“A false witness and a mirage."
“False witness? Mirage?”
“The ring line on your left hand’s fourth finger is still fresh."
He glanced at his left hand. “You’ve overstayed your welcome. Use the door!"
“Not yet!”
“Use the door!”
I was restraining my right hand from hitting his flushed face. “Why did you take advantage of Katherine? Why did you fuck her without her consent?”
“You’re insane!”
I brought out the diary from my hip pocket. “Katherine couldn’t have made mistakes. You’re the only shrink in Greater London with the name Trevor. You infected her with clap. No wonder she refused you being our marriage therapist when I suggested you to her. I should have known.”
“Out of my home!"
My fist dealt him a blow on his chest. He tumbled down to the floor. “Why did you fuck Katherine without her consent?”
Slurring his words and groaning in excruciating pain, “I don’t know what you’re talking about."
I threw him the diary, “Read!”
In pain, he perused through, “Katherine wrote this?”
“Yes!"
“I doubt."
“She was my wife.”
“And you could have forged it."
“Not with the knowledge of the presence of professional graphologists in London."
“Leave my house!” Pain had infected his voice.
I removed my W&S from my holster, and leveled it at him.
“You want to shoot me? You know you can’t."
I chuckled. “I’m a blue man, a DI and was a tattooist. What if I shoot you now, and then go to my car to fetch my tattoo pen and tattoo on your chest?” I tightened my hold on my W&S.
Fear was accumulating in his eyes. “Are you the killer? Is Hugh right?”
“What if he’s right?”
“Meaning you’re going to kill me like you did the others? I don’t want to be a forensic specimen. I’d prefer to drown and be lost in the depths of the pacific than-"
“If you play along, it’d be appreciated.”
“What do you want?” He was shivering and sweating.
“You played ball with Katherine? Yes or No?”
“Ball?”
“The ones in your scrotal sac.”
“Yes. I’m sorry”.
“Why?” An increase in my voice.
“I was being starved."
“Starved?”
“Yes. My wife and I have been separated till the final blow on Tuesday. It was an uncontested divorce."
>
“And why on earth would you send such a beautiful woman notice of family claim?”
“No”. He was virtually weeping. “She sent the notice of family claim."
“And why would a sane woman send a seeming responsible and respectable man notice of family claim? Or did she know about what you did to Katherine?”
He was sobbing.
“Did she know about Katherine?”
“No."
“So she didn’t know about Katherine?”
“Yes”.
“Then why’d she leave?”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you."
Vehemently, I kicked his right rib cage, “Why did she leave?”
“She found out about I and Henry."
"Henry?"
"Reverend Henry Bean."
A light electric shock surged through me. "She what. . ."
“Yes. She did."
I put on a face to portray that I wasn’t shocked by his orientation. “Katherine was seeing a man. That was why she came to you for therapy. Her conscience was making her sick. Can you tell me who the man is?”
“I can’t. I can’t discuss my patients. It’s against professional ethics."
“Good! Let‘s go the whole nine yards. Is fucking your patient a professional ethic?”
He sobbed more.
“Is fucking Katherine a professional ethic?”
“No”
“So who’s the man? I’m sure he fucked her too and ripped the pages off."
I’m sorry”.
“You should be sorry for yourself. Give me the name!”
“I’m sorry. She didn’t say either. She never told me. She was secretive about it."
I kicked his right rib cage again. “Give me the name!” I grinded my teeth.
“There is no name”. He stuttered in pain. “If there is, with this last kick, I’d have told you. Believe you me."
Wednesday: Story of a Serial Killer Page 9
