New Directions (32) Updated

 Sleep was the last thing on my mind despite it being past 11pm after a tiring day. I already knew my suspicions about Duke Reginald were blown out the water. Guido would not have said that unless he was 90% sure. There was no doubt in my mind he already had what I wanted and then some.

Although I’m not a big fan of strong booze it has its place. Sometimes a good whisky lubricates my thinking, plus it knocks me out when I hit the sack. After a couple of half-inches it was time to start writing. An hour later I’d crashed out under my favourite duvet. 

On the bedside table beside me, a slice of A4 with a list of all the people that had entered my life since that day at the auction in Cambridge. Next to each name I’d drawn a box with a note on how they could gain from Celia’s robbery and/or death. From each box a series of lines connected to other boxes with a note about how each inter-connection would benefit them. By the time I finished it I was seeing double and it made absolutely no sense to me. 

Next morning the light making it through my curtains seemed extraordinarily white. It didn’t take long to fathom they’d been a snow fall. A quick gander confirmed my part of the planet was coated with about three inches of the shit — enough to get everybody in the UK excited about a white Christmas (again) and create havoc on the unsuspecting transport system. The perfect day for hanging at home for figuring out where to go from here and make phone calls.

A cup of coffee and a warmed up croissant from the freezer kick started my brain, fortunately unaffected by last night’s whisky — the reason I always buy high quality malt. Settling down at the kitchen table next to the radiator I picked up the mess of names, notes and lines I’d scribbled between sips of highland heaven.

Like the view through an SLR camera, the thoughts lying in front of me gradually came into focus. Unlike a photo, my observations seemed to sharpen into layers. One by one I ran my finger over the lines tracing ideas and connections. Squeezed in at the bottom of the sheet were précised comments in my tipsy hand. Just to be sure I understood my thoughts I re-drew a neater version of the list of names and lines on more A4 and expanded on them. 

When I excluded Duke Reggie I came up with six possible guilty groups for the robbery, but when I applied the question: who benefits from Celia’s death? the name of the next person most likely to be killed jumped right out at me. I’d screwed up. Realisation swept through my mind like a tropical storm. 

The question I should have asked was: who can finger the boss? It was so obvious it was embarrassing. I’d been dragging my feet. The police were investigating a robbery, not attempted murder. Eventually they’d twig someone had been casing the cottage. If Celia knew any of the people organising the robbery, that someone was the link to them. 

 I had an afternoon of urgent research ahead of me. Already one of the robbers had been murdered, no doubt because he needed urgent medical attention. Dumping the poor fuck outside a hospital was too risky. They would’t think twice about topping Andrew Mercer: AKA “nice young David.” 

Image by me