“Ah,” hesmiled triumphantly. “But that is not all. I actually saw her goinginto her daughter’s room on the night she was killed, at about10:00pm!”
My eyesgrew wide. Now, that was news to me. Mrs. Marshall had never saidanything to anyone, including the police, about visiting herdaughter the night she was killed. The loose button came to mymind, again.
I could just imagine a violentstruggle between mother and daughter, the mother holding a knifeand wearing a sweater with white square buttons in front. Then, oneof the buttons coming off in the fierce struggle, without themother noticing, because she was intent on her mission. Andherfinallyoverpowering the daughter before striking the fatal blow, driving the kniferelentlessly and mercilessly down to the hilt.
Yet, mymind rejected this picture.
Itrefused to believe it.
“And where were you going to orcoming from, at that time?” I asked.
Heseemed thrown off balance by the question. He kept readjusting hissitting position on the chair.
“I believe I was coming from thelounge,” he said finally.
“I see,” I said, wondering whyit took him so long to answer. “But why didn’t you tell the police,this? Why are you telling me?”
“But can’t you see Mr. Simpson,that I was simply giving her an opportunity to own up? It isobvious that she won’t.”
“Own up to what?” Iasked.
“To killingher daughter, of course,” he replied.
“Even if you saw her going toher daughter’s room, it does not necessarily follow that she killedher,” I observed.
“It seems to me that you havemade up your mind to defend her,” he said, narrowing hiseyes.
“No, not at all,” I said. “Butall what you are saying is just circumstantial. You still have noevidence, that she actually committed the murder.”
“Then, why didn’t she tell thepolice of her visit?” he asked.
I had nosatisfactory answer to that question, if she had visited herdaughter that night.
“What was she wearing when yousaw her?” I asked.
“I can’t quite remember,” hereplied. “But it was something dark, I think.”
“Did you actually see her goinginto the room?” I asked.
Heseemed to think it over. “No, but she was going towards the door,”he said.
“Somebodygoing towards a door, and someone going into a room are two different things, Mr.Briggs,” I said, with some annoyance.
“She was going towards the doorand I have no doubt that her intention was to go into the room. Infact, her hand was raised to turn the door knob, when I saw her andpassed,” he said. From the look on his face, he seemed sure of whathe was saying.
“Did she see you?”
“No, she didn’t seeme.”
“Much as Ifeel that this information may be vital to solving this case, Mr.Briggs,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “Can you leave itonly in my hands … for now at least, until the laboratory results come out?But in the meantime, I will be working on my own, to get to thetruth.” And I stood up.
He hadno choice but to stand up.
“Alright,” he said andleft.
I satdown for some seconds, trying to consider the complications createdby this new information and that was when I heard the thirdknock.
“Come in.”
The doorhandle turned and Philip came in. He looked like life had lostmeaning for him. His shoulders sagged, he looked worn out and hiseyes were dull.
“What is the problem, Philip?” Iasked him.
He stared at me, then shiftedaway his eyes for some time, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. “Idon’t know if I am the one who killed Maria, Mr. Simpson,” hesaid.
“You what?” I asked, as my jawdropped and my eyebrows shot up.
“I said that I don’t know if Ikilled Maria,” he repeated.
Had thefellow gone crazy?
“You mean that you are not sureif you killed her?” I had to be certain that I had heardcorrectly.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Mr.Simpson,” he replied.
I askedhim to sit down. Then, I opened the glass cabinet and took out abottle of whisky. I poured some of it into two glasses and handedhim one, but he refused. So, I took the drink myself; I needed iteven if he said he did not. But he looked like he did, to me.Outside, the trees in the lush garden waved their branches as thedry and dust-laden harmattan wind shook them. Dead, brown leavestore free and swirled in the dust.
“Tell me all about it, Philip,”I said settling down comfortably in my chair, with the second glassin my hand. I had tossed down the first one in two swallows and hadsteeled myself to hear just about anything. A lot ofself-incrimination and serious complications were cropping up inthis murder case. The DPO may well have been on the right path,when he said that there could be more to the murder case than metthe eye.
Philipbegan his story.
CHAPTERTEN
PHILIP TELLS HIS STORY
It was a noisy afternoon at the StayfitRehabilitation Centre. I was sitting on my bed staring at the whitewalls, inhaling the strong smell of disinfectant in the air. Somevisitors who had come to see one of the other patients, were makingnoise. I was listening to Dr. Oluwatoyin Owolabi; it was the lasttime I would see him, as an in-patient. I was to be discharged that day.
“You have donegreat harm to yourself, young man,” Dr. Owolabi told me me. “Onlytime will tell the long-term damage that the Megamix drug may have done to yourbody.”
He was a tall, elderly man whopeered at me from behind a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses delicately placed on the bridgeof his nose. He had been very caring and kind to me during mytwo-year stay at the drug rehab centre. And my recovery, which hetermed a miracle, was largely due to his specialistcare.
“I’m grateful to you, Dr.Owolabi,” I said, as I put the last of my personal items in myduffel bag. “You’ve been very kind to me and I pray that I don’thave to come back
