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 looking 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,
