The formal police interview was over in less than thirty minutes. I had thought maybe longer. My alibi was unshakable. Dinner with colleagues, no DNA specifically relating to the crime, a long list of friends confirming we were the perfect couple and most importantly no motive. The burglary gone wrong explanation for my wife’s death was accepted and the investigation would follow that line of enquiry. I knew of course that it would.
Since moving to London, everything had worked out well between us. Recently, I had suspected all was not as it should be. Nothing concrete, just small things that congealed together. I did what any suspicious husband would do and had her followed. It was quite a surprise to find out that she was arranging to have me bumped off. Dealing with despicable characters had been a way of life for me for many years so it was easy to approach my potential murderer and offer him more money to reverse the dirty deed for me. Everyone has their price. I will be meeting my accomplice tonight which will be interesting. He asked me to call him Ryan, as if I care. Of course, what the police, mu colleagues and friends don’t know is that the woman who died in our Chelsea flat was not my legal wife Emily but a South African actress called Winifred.
Emily lived in Africa in the early 90s. Her deceased father made his fortune from mining and property leaving his daughter disgustingly rich and more satisfyingly quite vulnerable to the world in general. Winifred and I had a somewhat on off tempestuous relationship for many years. I was an expert at cajoling money from rich women for all kinds of services, if you get my drift. I met Emily at a book launch and immediately saw the striking similarity to Winifred. A plan was hatched. After several sociable dates I told her the truth about myself, convinced her of my undying love and she swallowed it hook, line and sinker. To satisfy her elderly, family solicitor, I signed a prenuptial agreement and was written out of any future will. I played my part superbly and gave a perfect performance as the doting husband. Gradually, I isolated her from the few friends she had and so one night my dear wife disappeared and Winifred became Emily. We moved to London immediately and all money and assets were transferred accordingly. A local thug called Jonas disposed of the body. On the evening of our departure her family solicitor was fatally stabbed in his office and the building burnt to the ground. No documents were saved but of course new wills are easily forged. As with my real wife’s death I had thought of everything. Later I will deal with Ryan as I did Jonas all those years ago. You see. No loose ends.
Leave a Reply