It was eight in the evening as I got ready to leave. Another redundant day was behind me, another packfull of cigarettes had been exhausted off their nicotine laced leaves. I was about to leave when the phone rang. A sound that titillated me now bored me to death. What the fuck was it now?
“Hello” a lady’s voice.
“Detective Sharman speaking. How may I be of assistance to you?” my voice sounded a little worse than a growl. Frustration has its way of creeping its way into and making itself feel right at home in your larynx.
She had barely uttered the words “My husband” when I slammed the phone down (Also makes its presence felt somewhere in your clavicle). I picked up my jacket and headed towards the door again when the phone rang one more time. I didn’t know why I traced my steps back to the phone that evening. The anger had probably dazed my brain, I really have that little recollection of my reason to have gone back. But go back I did. And I did pick up the phone. And this time the anger was worse, it sought a far stronger vitriolic release, at the end of what I had presumed the lady’s cringe worthy request to be. Except the opportunity never came. Her request was… well let me just get on with it.
“Detective Sharman speaking. How may I be of assistance to you?”
“Sir, I think the line got disconnected.”
Silence. Like fuck I was going to speculate with her the probable cause of the mysteriously disconnecting phoneline.
“Anyways, I called because I saw your number on the classifieds. You see, my husband, well sir, you see he is dead.”
Silence still. This was getting interesting, but there had been several precedents of premature enthusiasm being aborted quite ruthlessly over phone calls in the past. I would need to know more.
“Are you still there sir?”
“Well… you see sir…. I… I… I … I killed him.”