The Note (Unsolved Mysteries Book 1)

by Kim Knight

  He smiled, at the thought. As a red-blooded man, he wasn’t about to say no to a no-strings-attached, friends with benefits relationship. When the money potential came up, that’s when he changed his tune.

  The conversation he and Chelsea had, when she asked him if he would place a hit on Tony, caused him to sit up straight in bed.

  “Shit, I should never have told ‘em that.”

  He glanced over at the door and imagined Dunne going to town with the story—

  placing him in the spotlight as Tony’s murderer.

  Damn. He has all the ammunition he needs now. Maybe, he’ll focus on her, he thought and hoped. Yeah, course they will, after all, she wanted him dead, not me. I didn’t want no part of it. Well not the dirty work, anyway.

  He just hoped that Dunne and his sidekick would see the logic.

  15

  Back Tracking

  Detective Dunne

  Once Lance was placed in a holding cell, Dunne sat at his desk with McDonald casually slumped in the chair opposite him. He and his partner were both in a foul mood over the forensic report that came back on the mystery notes—nothing substantial to report.

  In silence he reviewed the cold case file of the murder of Tony Patel.

  McDonald looked up from the transcripts of the interviews they had carried out with Chelsea three months ago. “I can’t believe there’s not a single print or DNA, the sender covered his or her tracks well.”

  Dunne closed the file and opened another. “Yeap, hardly surprising though.”

  “Chelsea really played the part well too. She had everyone fooled. Love, she said.” Dunne held up his hands in quotation marks. “She had no reason to pressure him to change his will, yeah, right.”

  McDonald pulled out the transcripts of the interview they had with Manisha, Tony Patel’s wife, and then looked over the notes. “Hmmm, madness, considering he was still married.”

  Dunne glanced at his watch. “Shit, we better head over to Mrs Patel’s, we’re late all ready. I said we’d be over again tonight.”

  “Yeah, speaking of which”—McDonald got to his feet—“I was looking over her file. She had no idea he was having an affair.” It was a statement rather than a question. He raised an eyebrow in Dunne’s direction. “Not sure I’m buying this, not this time around, anyway.”

  Dunne narrowed his eyes, pulled on his jacket, then he turned to his partner. “Why is that?”

  “Well, I’m not a woman.” McDonald pulled himself up to his full six-foot-two height.

  His blue eyes danced with humour as Dunne caught the gentle giant’s eye contact, then let out belly-rolling laughter that bounced off the walls. “Well, thanks for the reassurance, Josh.”

  Dunne caught his breath then eyed his partner. McDonald ran a hand over his low-cut dark hair, and a boyish grin spread across his face. By this time, Dunne was all ears.

  “Like I was saying, I’d suspect that when a man tells his wife he wants a separation, the first thing she does is suspect another woman.” McDonald crossed his arms over his muscular chest and stood tall with his feet wide.

  “Think about it,” he continued, “they were married thirty years. He was sixty, and she’s in her late fifties. Why separate so late in life?” Dunne crossed the room and grabbed his notepad off the desk.

  “Yeah, point taken.” McDonald took his turn and slipped on his suit jacket.

  “In her interviews, she was adamant she had no idea or suspected an affair, add to that, she’s hardly Chelsea’s best fan.”

  “Where are you going with this, Josh?” Dunne met his partner at the door. A frown covered his face.

  He stood face to face with his partner, who was of similar height and build.

  McDonald’s ice blue eyes met Dunne’s. He studied his partner’s rugged, Justin Timberlake features—a shadow of a beard covered the man’s chin.

  His partner’s sky-blue eyes turn stone cold. “‘Sup Josh? Where are you going with this?”

  McDonald leaned against to door frame and crossed one leg over the other. “Well, my theory . . . Manisha Patel is the note sender. She has every reason to want to pin this on Chelsea even if she’s not Tony’s murderer. There was no evidence in the last investigation to suggest she was,” McDonald said then paused for a beat.

  “But who else would want to snoop around Chelsea, film her affair, and turn it in with a motivate for wanting Tony dead and his money?”

  Dunne leaned his head to one side and considered his partner’s theory. “It would make sense. Right now, we’ve very little to go on.”

  McDonald patted Dunne on the shoulder. “Not yet, we don’t. Come on, let’s go.”

  16

  Old Tricks

  Detective Dunne

  Dunne parked the car outside Manisha’s home, he glanced over at the front yard and noted the lights where on. He turned to McDonald. His partner remained mute and nodded in the direction of the home.

  In silence, both he and his partner stepped out of the car. Dunne locked the doors, and the headed up the pathway to the front door, trailing behind McDonald.

  At the sound of the doorbell, Dunne heard Manisha’s footsteps make their way to the entrance. The door swung open.

  “Evening. It’s just us.” McDonald greeted her with a friendly but professional smile.

  Dunne glanced behind her into the house. The hallway was lit and there appeared to be no one else at home.

  “Detectives, hi. Please, come in.” Manisha ushered them into the house.

  “Straight through, gentlemen, into the kitchen,” Manisha called out, then closed the door behind them.

  As Dunne made his way through the house to the kitchen, he didn’t miss a beat. His gaze moved from left to right. He glanced in every room he passed, looking for signs of how Manisha had been living and coping since the murder of her husband, who she claimed loved her so much.

  Nothing seemed out of place or unusual from his last visit. Manisha hadn’t made any changes or even bothered to alter the decorations of the three-bedroom home.

  There was a faint smell of a homecooked meal in the oven wafting in the air, and the house was spotless, not a dust mite in place.

  He walked into the kitchen. Natural light flooded the room. The white tiled floor was spotless, and all the stainless-steel appliances shined.

  Making his way over to the dining table, something crunched under his foot. Instinctively, he raised his foot as if he were walking over hot coal. It was glass.

  “Oh, careful, Detective. I’m sorry I had an accident earlier. Let me clear up the glass,” Manisha said.

  Her voice rose an octave higher than usual and floated into the room from behind him.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

  Bending down, he picked up the piece of glass carefully, headed over to the bin, and then pressed the foot pedal to discard of it.

  Huh, what the? He took a double take at the torn picture of an elderly Asian-Indian man in the household rubbish.

  “Is everything okay, Mrs. Patel?” He called over his shoulder.

  McDonald took a seat at the table.

  “Uhm . . .” Manisha rushed over to Dunne and glanced inside the trashcan.

  He held the top open with the foot pedal. Taking in her appearance, he noted a blush of embarrassment spread across her face, enhancing the crow’s feet around her mouth and eyes.

  “Oh, yes. Don’t worry about that. I just had an accident. It . . . it fell off the wall, the picture I mean,” Manisha stammered out.

  “Who is it?” Dunne pressed her further.

  “No one important.” Manisha snapped the dustbin shut. “So, what can I do for you detectives? Would you like a drink?”

  Dunne registered her urgency to change the subject. “No thanks.”

  He walked over to a chair, hitched his trouser legs up, and then took a seat at the table with McDonald.

  “Let me grab some glasses.” Manisha moved around the kitchen, busying herself looki
ng for cups.

  “No. I’m good, but thanks,” McDonald confirmed.

  Dunne moved his gaze to his partner who was pulling out his notepad from inside his jacket pocket.

  Manisha poured herself a glass of juice. With her back turned by the fridge, Dunne kept a close eye on her body language and demeanour.

  Why would she rip up a picture? Looked like possible family member? And why throw it in the bin? He continued to watch her fidget by the fridge.

  After several minutes, Manisha joined Dunne and McDonald at the table.

  Dunne broke the ice, “Mrs. Patel,” said Dunne, breaking the icy chill in the room. “It’s come to light that Chelsea could be a suspect in your husband’s murder.”

  Leaning across the table, drawing closer to Manisha, Dunne’s gaze never left her face. He noted her reaction, looking for the slightest hint of anger, joy, or a suppressed smile, all based on his partner’s new theory over her possible involvement with the mystery note.

  Manisha’s hand shot up to her mouth. “What? After all these months. It was her?” Her high-pitched voice echoed around the kitchen.

  If there was any truth to McDonald’s theory, Dunne was impressed by her acting skills.

  “No, there’s still more investigation work to do, but even though we’ve never recovered the murder weapon, she’s now a suspect.” He paused for a reaction from Manisha, but she remained mute and void of any emotion. “We wanted to let you know.”

  Manisha broke down in tears. “I don’t know what to say,” she sobbed. “I just want closure on who would have done such a terrible thing? Who would have wanted him dead? I loved Tony, and he had no enemies.”

  McDonald rose from the table and headed over to the counter. He picked up the kitchen paper towels, then handed the roll to Manisha.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in Mrs. Patel.” McDonald stood by the chair he sat on moments ago. “We’ll do the best we can to bring closure.”

  While Manisha sobbed into the tissue, McDonald looked over her lowered head, and caught Dunne’s eye contact, and as if reading his partner’s mind, the word ‘actress’ popped into his mind.

  “Thank you, please do. It’s bad enough that she . . . t-that floosy of a woman pressured my husband into leaving everything to her, cutting us—his real family—out of his will,” Manisha said through sobs, then she raised her red-rimmed eyes to meet Dunne’s. “Tony would’ve never done that. He loved our kids, and me.”

  Manisha let out another sob.

  “Yes. We were separated. And yes, he surprised me by having an affair. But he never would’ve left me or the kids in this way—penniless.”

  Dunne took a deep breath and studied Manisha closely. He noted her claim to be none the wiser of her husband’s affair. McDonald’s theory pulled at his logical detective mind again.

  “About the affair, Mrs. Patel,” he said. “Why do you think he started it?”

  “Like I said . . .” Manisha blew her nose. “I have no idea. We were married thirty years. What kind of a man does that?”

  She glanced from Dunne, then back to McDonald, who now stood by kitchen sink.

  “We understand. We’ll be in contact, okay. For now, focus on your children and we’ll close the case,” Dunne said, then looked up at McDonald.

  McDonald scribbled down a few notes, then pocketed his notepad. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  17

  No Fury Like a Woman Scorned

  Manisha

  “Okay, thanks for coming,” Manisha choked out between sobs.

  Dunne and McDonald left the kitchen behind her.

  The footsteps of the detectives tapped against the wood floor, heading toward the front door. As soon as she heard it close, Manisha threw down the roll of paper towels on the floor. Her face twisted into a scowl, and her breathing became deep and heavy. After a beat, a satisfied smile spread itself across her face.

  “That’ll teach you, bitch,” she spat between gritted teeth. “My husband’s money wasn’t yours. You’re gonna pay.”

  She got up from the table and headed over to the dustbin. With force, she stepped on the pedal and retrieved the torn picture of her father.

  “Ouch.” She winced. A piece of glass nicked the tip of her finger.

  She sucked on the fresh wound to stem the bleeding. With her other hand, she dropped her father’s distorted image on the counter. From a kitchen drawer, she pulled out the first aid kit and a picture of Chelsea.

  “What have you got yourself into this time, aye?”

  She teased in a childish voice, allowing blood from her fingertip to drip onto Chelsea’s smiling face.

  Manisha, now fixed with a serious expression, wrapped a Band-Aid around her finger, never once moving her hard stare away from Chelsea’s blood-splattered face.

  She reached for the cordless phone on top of the microwave, but stopped a few inches shy of grabbing the electronic device.

  A tinge of paranoia set in. She knew she was alone but still glanced around the stillness of the kitchen to make sure she was truly alone.

  The kids had grown up and flew the nest years ago. Sanita was in Australia with her new husband, and Sandip lived over in east London with his wife and kids. He was at least an hour’s drive away from her south London home.

  She smirked at the bloody image. The clock on the wall chimed at the top of the hour to signal it was now seven at night. In a rage, she flew over to the other side of the kitchen and ripped it off the wall, then smashed it against the floor.

  “I hated that clock. Some wedding gift, Tony.”

  She stomped to the microwave like a toddler, then snatched up the cordless phone.

  A deep-seated sting made her fingertip throb, and she winced. Using her good hand, she tapped in a number she knew by heart. The amount of time she had spent dialling the solicitor’s number, contesting Tony’s Last Will in Testament—which had failed miserably—was etched into her mind. The numbers, just as vivid as all the beatings Tony had handed out to her over the years, burned in her thoughts.

  “Yes, it’s Mrs. Patel, Manisha Patel.” Manisha paused and waited for the secretary to recognise her name.

  “Mrs. Patel from—”

  “I was in contact with your offices a few months ago, regarding my husband’s will contest.”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Patel, sorry. How can I help you?”

  “I want to contest the will again. Put me through to the solicitor who handled my file.” Manisha examined her nails with a smile.

  “Oh, Mrs. Patel, we closed the case because—”

  “Something else has come to light. His mistress is now a prime suspect in his murder, I said put me through.” A pause of silence followed Manisha’s abrupt tone.

  “Yes ma’am, hold the line.”

  Manisha held on the line, listening to the cheesy music. A satisfied feeling pooled in the pit of her stomach and made its way through her. It was like hot lava bubbling up inside a volcano, and she relished the feeling.

  Rich, a smile danced on her lips. I’m finally about to be rich.

  “Mrs Patel, your case handler has left for the day. May I have her give you a call in the morning.”

  Manisha gritted her teeth and dropped her gaze to the smashed clock on the floor.

  “Mmm, okay.” She sighed into the phone. “Make sure it’s first thing, this is important.”

  “Of course, no problem. We’ll speak to you in the morning.”

  Without even so much as a goodbye or thank you, Manisha cut the call and placed the cordless phone back on the microwave.

  She pulled out a heat proof casserole dish from the underneath the cupboard and took a packet of matches out. Inside the dish, she dropped the picture of her father along with Chelsea’s blood-stained image.

  With the smooth swipe of her hand, she lit the match, pouted at the flat face staring at her, and then set the whole dish alight.

  The pictures shot up in flames. Gold and orange hues, as well as smoke, r
ose as if dancing and leaping.

  The corners of the photos curled, and the smooth, glossy surfaces bubbled. In seconds, the faces of the two people she despised most, disappeared.

  Why stop there, she mused and poked around in the drawer for the other picture she had in there of Tony.

  She spat on him just like she did at his headstone yesterday afternoon and dropped his smiling face into the flames.

  Turning on her heels, she left the burning pictures in the dish, stepped over the smashed clock and glass, and then made her way to her bedroom to remove the black dress she had worn on purpose as if in mourning.

  She took the stairs slowly and deliberately, humming Aretha Franklin’s Respect, and danced on her tiptoes with confidence.

  In the bedroom, she pinned her thick, dark hair up, then glanced in the mirror.

  “Fifty-five,” she said her age out loud.

  Her eyes took in the grey hairs around her temples. The fine stress lines that had appeared since she had been financially left insecure and so hurt from her husband’s actions towards her and the kids, drew her attention. Her gaze roamed over her plump, five-foot-two-inch frame, hidden behind the black dress.

  She raised a hand to her face. Her gold bangles jingled with the motion.

  At least he paid off the house.

  Tony had left her mortgage free but with no source of income coming in since all the restaurant’s profits, his bank accounts, and the properties he had owned were now tied up in Chelsea’s name. Her thoughts caused her to smile this time, rather than frown.

  If this all goes well, it will all be mine and the kids.

  She turned, unzipped her dress, stepped out of it, placed it on the bed, then reached for her casual pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Quickly, she dressed, then headed to the kitchen.

  The casserole dish sat on the kitchen counter smouldering. The grey smoke wafted up to the ceiling from the burnt ashes of the pictures.