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, rose 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
