Tuesday 5 – Wednesday 6 June 2012
‘Honestly, Simon, I can’t tell you how happy you’re making me. The longer it takes you to figure out who killed John Mitchell, the more the bodies are piling up around here. Normally my life is boring, uneventful, almost as if I don’t actually have a job.’ Rebecca spoke as she removed Alan Willits’ brain from his skull.
‘I’m glad that I’m good for something, Becca. Got any ideas about this one?’ he replied. She giggled to herself, and then held the brain up for her brother to see.
‘Look, it’s basically a birdbrain. Boom, boom.’
He sighed and shook his head. Rebecca had always had a warped sense of humour, finding laughs in the most inappropriate places.
‘Well, there don’t appear to be any obvious outward signs of violence. No blunt or sharp force trauma, no signs of strangulation. I’m at a loss at the moment. You’ll have to wait until I get the tox report, and panels back. Could be something as sinister as poisoning, maybe asphyxiation, or something as mundane as a heart attack.’ There was excitement in her voice.
‘Let me know as soon as your findings are ready,’ Simon replied.
‘You know I will.’
Simon limply smiled and made his way back out to his car. It seemed like a familiar journey these days – car park to autopsy room, autopsy room back to car park. His phone rang, distracting him from the dreadful epiphany that had crossed his mind. He looked at the screen, saw that it was DC Harris, and promptly answered.
‘What is it, Harris?’
Back in the incident room at the station, DC David Harris sounded as excited as Rebecca had just been.
‘Guv, you’re not going to guess whose finger prints were found at Tara Roberts’ house,’ Harris chirped. ‘Go on, guess.’
‘Harris, don’t play games with me.’
‘None other than Lady Emma Carlisle’s. Seems the good lady had visited with Tara Roberts some time before Roberts was killed. Do you want me to bring her in?’
‘Yes, Harris, of course I want you to bring her in. And before you do, Harris, get rid of that schoolboy excitement that I can hear. You’re a bloody professional, act like it,’ Simon barked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Harris replied, unable to curb his enthusiasm.
* * * * *
It had been a difficult time for Lady Emma Carlisle. She did not handle stress well without her husband. In her eyes, there was only one way to deal with the current situation.
She laid herself down on the bed, closed her eyes, and prayed that she would soon drift off into oblivion. An empty bottle of single malt whiskey sat on the bedside table, next to an empty packet of sleeping pills. She knew it was terribly stereotypical of a wealthy, titled woman to go out that way, but confirming stereotypes was the least of her worries.
In no time, Emma was convinced that Detective Chief Inspector James would discover that she had contact with the journalist. From there, he would indubitably connect her with the death of Tara Roberts. It was unavoidable. In turn, and also unavoidable, was the fact that she would be tried and found guilty of murder. A prison was no place for a Lady.
With her eyes closed, the room spun more than she anticipated, and her one coherent thought sat firmly at the feet of the idea that she did not want to throw up, thus rendering her efforts to consume so much alcohol and medication null and void. She lay still, and waited for death.
. . . To be continued . . .