The Note (Unsolved Mysteries Book 1) by Kim Knight (red seas under red skies .TXT) 📗

return address, no time or location to indicate where it was sent from stamp, nothing. And if he were a gambling man, he’d bet a year’s salary, he wouldn’t find prints, either.

Dunne scoffed, dropped the note on his desk, then removed his gloves. As one of London Metropolitan Police’s top detectives, he had his fair share of hate mail. But this was different.

“Damn. We closed this case,” he protested to no one in particular, “it was a family feud, bitterness over a dead man’s last Will in Testament.”

Rising, he got up from behind his desk and made his way over to the window in his office that overlooked the financial heart of London. Outside, the grey sky was about to cave in and give way to a downpour. The morning’s hustle and bustle played out below him.

City workers moved back and forth across his vision, scurrying around on the street below.

A quick glance behind him, and his gaze locked on the note. He contemplated the firm push the note had given him to check out the case again. With his back to the view of London, he faced the filing cabinet filled with cases he thought he had closed.

“What did I miss?”

He questioned, as if in doubt over his own investigative skills, which pissed him off even more.

Nah, I don’t miss a beat, never, been doin’ this too long, he mused. But this ain’t right.

He made his way over to the cabinet and thumbed through the dusty, thick, paper files. Once he found what he was looking for, he shook his head, dug out the bulky envelope, and then approached his desk, dropping it on the surface.

His fingers latched onto the fabric covering his thighs, and he hitched the legs of his smart trousers up, then took a seat.

“The wife”—he sighed—“always suspect number one.”

He pulled out the transcripts of the interviews he and McDonald had carried out with Manisha Patel, the dead man’s estranged wife. His eyes roamed over dates, times, locations, and her alibi for the twenty-four hours before Tony Patel was found dead.

“Airtight.” He tapped the page that confirmed her alibi that night. “It checked out.”

Hands clasped in a prayer position, he inhaled deeply. After a beat, he picked up the remote control, then rewound the tape to the start.

The door creaked open, and McDonald entered, closing the door behind him.

“Where’s the fire?”

McDonald’s six-foot-two frame leaned against the door, arms folded across his muscular chest.

Without a word, Dunne nodded to the chair next to his desk.

McDonald strode over to the worn, leather chair, then sat.

Speechless, Dunne slid on his gloves, then held up the note to his partner.

Without touching it, McDonald’s eyes trailed back and forth, reading the contents of the page. The corners of his lips curled, and his ice blue eyes met Dunne’s gaze.

“What’s this?” McDonald’s cocked eyebrow protruded in Dunne’s direction.

Dunne shook his head, he hit play, and then let the video speak for itself.

On screen, were a couple sat in a car, sharing an intimate moment—fogging the windows with the increased heat of their combined bodies. To an outsider, it appeared as if they were doing no harm.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” McDonald’s voice boomed around the small office. “She was having an affair?”

He watched the video recording eagle-eyed. The girlfriend, and heir to a substantial estate, romped around in the back of a car with an unknown man.

“Yep, looks like it. Maybe the family were right after all,” Dunne dryly responded, then pulled off his gloves and paused the tape.

“What was her name?”

“Chelsea Jackson,” replied Dunne.

“That’s right.” McDonald leaned his head to one side. “Is this really enough to open up a can of worms?”

He had worked with Dunne long enough to read his mind—or damn near close. He knew where his partner was headed with this line of talk already.

“Think about it, this could’ve been after he died.”

Dunne shook his head. “Nope, look at the date stamp on the video.”

McDonald narrowed his eyes at the screen and let out a low whistle. “The same month his body turned up.”

“Bingo, exactly. I checked over the records. It was three days before to be exact.”

“Jesus.” McDonald ran a hand over his face. “We got bigger fish to fry right now.”

“Tell me about it. But it’s worth looking into.” Dunne tapped the paused screen, “Someone went out of their way to get this tape and note to me.”

McDonald met Dunne’s eyes and locked gazes with him. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that,” Dunne snorted. “I walked in this morning, and Shelly told me it was in my mailbox with the rest of the incoming mail. Someone mailed it.”

“Hmm, whoever it was doesn’t want you to know who they are.”

McDonald reached inside a desk drawer, extracted a pair of gloves, then picked up the note. He looked over it in silence, then placed it together with the envelope.

“Right. That’s what I figured too.”

Dunne sighed, then dragged a hand through his beard. He got up and went over to the coffee machine, that looked like a museum relic, in the corner of the room.

“This damn thing needs replacing.” He fiddled around with the buttons.

The machine hiccupped to life and started to warm the liquid inside.

“First thing’s first,” he called over his shoulder, “the guy, what was his name . . . Patel, Tony Patel?”

“That’s it, yeah.”

“Eyes gauged out, stab wounds to the face, neck, and chest, dumped on the common, no weapons found, no suspects nailed, nothing—a complete dead end.”

He recalled the images of the case, reassigning them to current memory.

From the middle shelf of the cabinet, he pulled out two mugs with deep coffee stains ingrained in the ceramic. No matter how much he scrubbed them, they never disappeared.

Dunne pinched his face up. Ignoring the rings, he poured the hot, dark liquid into the cups.

“Right, exactly. It’s been months, so why now? That’s what I don’t understand.” McDonald turned his attention to the paused video. “Why has this person taken so long to hand this evidence