“Why is that?” McDonald asked.
Dunne glanced down at the postage stamp on the envelopes. “They’re post marked north London—Camden,” he noted, then handed the contents over.
McDonald grab gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, then retrieved the package from his partner.
“Complete opposite direction from Tony’s family, and Chelsea,” replied McDonald. “Damn. I hope we’re not gonna be sent on some wild goose chase by someone who fancies a laugh.”
Dunne chuckled. “Yeah, either way, something’s telling me to check it all out.”
“You find anything on Lance?” McDonald asked.
“He does own a garage–just as Chelsea said. Got the address too.”
“Okay, I’ll be back in five.” McDonald headed out the door.
At the office, and after McDonald had made an official file for the evidence and gotten in contact with forensics, he placed the phone on its receiver and flipped open Manisha Patel’s file.
A picture of her slipped out. He picked it up and studied it, taking in each fine line of her features. The signs of stress that appeared across her face were easy to see. All though she had never been arrested or charged for Tony’s murder, experience had shown him to always look close to home, especially when it comes to murder suspects.
In the picture, she had a sad expression. He placed it to one side and thumbed through the paperwork. He stopped at a transcript of one of the first interviews he and Dunne had done with her.
Slowly, McDonald re-read the statements she had made a few months ago: Tony had insisted on a separation but still loved her; she had no idea he had started an affair; his whereabouts were unknown to her.
McDonald placed the transcript down, leaned back in his chair, and then thought for a moment. After a beat, he picked up the phone and pressed speed dial to reach Dunne.
“Yeah,” Dunne answered the phone with an annoyed tone on the first ring.
“You think the wife sent the note?” McDonald asked, then picked up Manisha’s picture again.
“The wife? We can’t rule anything out. But what makes you point the finger at her?”
McDonald dropped the photo and exchanged it for the transcripts of the interview with Manisha. He held up the sheet of paper. “Just reading back over the interviews. She said she didn’t know about the affair, so she had no obvious motivate to kill him—they were still married. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t bitter with the way things played out.”
“What do you mean?” Dunne probed.
“Think about it. Chelsea got away once,” McDonald said. “This could be her attempt to make sure someone is found guilty, the right person. That is if it was Chelsea and the wife knows something we don’t.”
“It’s possible, but she remained silent for a long time—I mean, why now?”
“Hmm, we need to call her in again. See if she knows anything else. I’m not convinced.” McDonald tapped a finger against Chelsea’s picture.
“Agreed, let’s see what comes back from forensics.”
“Okay, give me a shout if you find anything on Lance.”
“Will do.”
McDonald placed the phone down and turned his attention back to the file on Manisha. Something wasn’t sitting right with him about her.
11
Two Sides to Every Coin
Manisha
In a fresh set of clothes and her hair towel dried, Manisha sat in the same spot since she had arrived home and changed.
Earlier, when soaked to the bone from the down pour of rain at cemetery, anger had consumed her. During that time, she had performed a frantic search of the house—for what, she wasn’t sure. And now, the kitchen table was covered in the memorabilia she had collected over the months.
Her only comfort was the clock ticking on the wall.
The house is silent, as empty as always. Manisha sighed at the thought of empty nest syndrome. Ever since the kids had grown up and moved out, it was just her and Tony. Well, when we were on good terms.
She wrapped her cold hands around the warmth of her mug, took a sip of the steaming hot tea, then looked down at the newspaper cuttings she had dug out of her scrapbook.
Her stomach turned, she felt nauseous.
Tabloid paper headlines from a few months ago glared back at her.
The Sun newspaper ran a front-page article about a sixty-year-old entrepreneur found dead on the common in south London by a local dog walker.
That man was her husband, well, estranged husband. They had been apart for a couple of months while they ‘tried to figure out’ where their marriage was headed.
She pushed the paper to one side.
“Thirty years of marriage,” she said with a scoff, “an arranged one at that.”
Manisha glanced over to her right and passed her gaze over the picture on the wall of her father, who was a proud Asian-Indian man while alive. He had insisted that she follow tradition, and he had selected a suitor for her. Back then, she had zero say in who he was. She wasn’t even allowed to meet him until a few weeks before the wedding.
Her mother had remained mute about it all. It hadn’t mattered how much she had protested to the woman and begged her to help her father come to his senses. After all, they were in London, not back in India.
Manisha would have done anything to have had the freedom to choose who she spent the rest of her life with. It never worked, her mother remained a coward and pushed her into the marriage just like her father had done to her. She remained bitter towards both her parents for this, and the relationship she had with them over the years was never the same.
Her and her father, well, that was a whole other story. The two had never been that close. She put this down to the fact that while alive, he never saw her as a priority compared to her bothers. As the only female child, she had little freedom or say about anything.
With narrowed eyes, Manisha got up from the table, walked over
