The Dead Lady in the Kitchen

Harry Norman placed the note back on the table and grimaced from the pain in his knees as he crouched beside the body. The faint smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. She was wearing a pale blue summer dress, decorated with yellow daffodils. There was a hole the size of a two-penny coin in her left temple. The exit wound was far messier.

Harry made a subdued clicking sound with his tongue as he concentrated. A naked light bulb hung from the damp ceiling. It was weak enough to stare at without discomfort. Harry looked down at the body and shook his head.

‘What I have to say is going to disappoint you.’ Harry admitted, allowing a short pause whilst he averted his stare from the body and fixed it on the detectives. ‘I’m certain that she didn’t do this to herself.’

Christian Barber, one of the two other detectives present in the small kitchen, smirked, revealing a set of crooked, yellow teeth. Barber’s immense gut threatened to burst through the buttons of his shirt as he leant back against a steel fridge-freezer. The little finger of his right hand, a crude and stumpy instrument, was wedged deep in his left nostril. He dug away unashamedly, his blood-shot eyes fixed on the body. Barber found what he was searching for, rolled it between his fingers, and flicked it away. Harry watched with undisguised disgust.

Barber used the same finger to point at the note on the table. ‘That there is a suicide note, Harry. So whatever wild theory you’re about to share, forget it. We’re not interested.’

Barber looked at his partner, Larry Hole, for support. Larry was stood as far from the body as the kitchen would allow, next to a chipped and rusty sink, stacked with dirty dishes. ‘Lanky Larry’ was in his early thirties, but a severe case of male baldness and an impressive set of wrinkles that spanned the width of his dome-forehead made him look closer to fifty. Confused, Larry scratched the patchy red hair on his chin and made a noise that could have meant anything.

Harry stood and crossed the kitchen, pulled out a chair from the table with the note on it, and sat down. He stretched out his long legs and tried to massage the ache from his knees. Barber had taken to pacing the kitchen, grinding his teeth and muttering under his breath. His fold of neck fat shone bright red. Harry ignored him and leafed through a mess of papers on the table. He found mostly outstanding bills and reminders of upcoming payments. Harry brushed these aside. He paused when he spotted an envelope that had been scribbled over in blue pen. Harry studied the writing thoughtfully.

Barber’s patience cracked. He stamped over, snatched the supposed suicide note from the table, and held it inches from Harry’s face. Cheap aftershave and the stale beer on Barber’s breath washed over Harry.

‘This is wrapped up, Harry. Done.’ Barber hissed. ‘If the damn note won’t convince you, take a look at the anti-depressants we found, or the stacks of money she owed.

‘Take my advice and run along. Leave. We don’t need you here. This is a suicide, there’s nothing more to it. Go and find a real murder to investigate, if you’re that desperate.’

Barber smirked again and swung his head in the direction of the exit. His collection of chins wobbled in the process.

Harry had no intention of leaving. He asked: ‘Who’s collecting her?’

Barber scratched his round nose. ‘What does that matter to you?’

Harry just stared at Barber.

‘Lindy is sending some of his people over, ok?’

Harry thought about that for a second. ‘Is Lindy coming?’

Barber shrugged indifferently.

‘I need you to call him.’ Harry told Barber. ‘I want Lindy to examine this.’

‘Examine what, Harry?’ Barber cried. He rubbed his eyes elaborately and yawned loudly.

‘Larry. Help me out here will you?’

Larry coughed to clear his throat. It was a weak and pathetic sound that reminded Harry of a poodle barking.

‘Christian’s right.’ Larry stammered. ‘We… uh, don’t need you here. The woman did it herself. Shot herself.’ Larry red-rimmed eyes went wide and watery and he looked genuinely scared.

‘How closely did you inspect the body?’ Harry asked quietly.

A worried expression crept over Barber’s face but he forced it away.

‘Close enough to know how this played out.’ Barber persisted. ‘It’s not difficult. Like I said, she shot herself.’ Barber raised his thumb and forefingers to his head and mimed the action. Larry winced.

Harry ignored the bravado. He could sense Barber beginning to doubt himself.

‘Just get out of here. Go on. Clear off.’ Barber tried to shoo Harry away as if he were a cat messing on the lawn.

‘The dress is ripped at the neck. There are faint red fingerprints around the neck and wrist.’

‘What?’ Barber snarled. He looked down at the body and swallowed hard. Harry caught a rare sighting of his Adam’s apple beneath a sea of flesh.

‘You heard what I said.’ Harry said firmly. ‘She was murdered.’

There was a clatter of plates and Larry had turned as white as the corpse and might have nearly fainted. Sweat ran down Barber’s face and Harry feared for his blood pressure.

‘But what about the note?’ Barber asked in a weak voice.

Harry lifted up the envelope with the scribbled shopping list on it and held it next to the forged suicide note. The handwriting differed quite clearly.

‘It’s an obvious fake.’ Harry said, producing another envelope that had been scribbled on in the same hand as the shopping list.

Barber nodded. He turned and wondered to the sink, stepping around the body and shouldering Larry out of his way. Barber found a smeared, filthy looking glass. He filled it with water and drank it down in three gulps and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Harry looked closely at the second note he’d found. It read: Call Trevail School. Harry’s remembered the photograph he’d seen on the fridge. Harry stepped around the body and held the photograph up in the dim light. The picture showed the dead woman with her arm around a young girl. In the background Harry saw turquoise sea and golden sand. The women and the girl shared the same dark hair and piercing blue eyes. The resemblance was unmistakable.

Harry flashed Barber and Larry the photograph. ‘Where is the girl?’

‘What girl?’ Barber squinted at the photograph and shook his head. ‘Well, she’s obviously not here.’

Harry struggled to control his temper. He said: ‘Have you searched the house?’

Barber gestured toward Larry. ‘Yeah. Larry did it the moment we arrived. You didn’t find a girl did you, Larry?’

Harry was reminded that talking to Larry was very much like talking to a young child.

Larry shook his head. ‘There’s no girl here.’ He mumbled. ‘But there is a young girls room down the hall.’

Harry left the kitchen and entered into a dark, narrow corridor. Harry saw three doors along the hallway and a door at the end. They were all slightly ajar so Harry checked them as he passed. The first was a small derelict bathroom. The second was the dead woman’s bedroom and the third was a box-shaped room containing a boiler that groaned pitifully. The third was the daughter’s room. It was a typical teenagers room. Clothes were scattered in heaps on the floor. The curtains were drawn and the windows shut, holding in a stale, unclean smell. Harry noted the threadbare carpet and moth eaten curtains. There was a poster on the wall of a band Harry didn’t recognize.

Back in the kitchen, Barber and Larry were muttering to each other.

‘Did you ever consider that the girl might have been here when this happened?’

‘We thought it was suicide.’ Barber stammered nervously. ‘What sort of woman tops herself when her daughters in the house?’

‘The woman was murdered.’ Harry reminded Barber.

‘I know that now.’ Barber snapped.

Harry turned away and looked at the photograph again. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly through his mouth.

Still facing away from the detectives, he asked:

‘The woman next door called this in, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did she hear the gunshot? Or come in and find the body?’

There was no answer. Harry turned to find Barber and Larry consulting each other in whispers.

‘You have been over to take a statement?’

Barber looked as though he’d just scolded his hand in boiling water. He opened his mouth to respond but Harry cut him off.

‘Christ. I’m going next door. Get Lindy here, can you manage that?’

Harry left the room to the sound of Barber’s protests and complaints.