It was that time of the evening again when Hitchcock's palms started to itch and his heart began to yearn for the sickening sweetness of cheap merlot. He reached into his pockets and pulled out his wallet. At times like these, it was important to remind himself: You are too poor to support an alcohol addiction! He shook the leather billfold, as its contents rained on his desk.
1. A driver's license (no car key)
2. Two ATM cards (both overdrawn)
3. Apartment key (rent overdue)
4. A Mars bar (dinner)
5. Countless flyers advertising all sorts of small businesses in and around London (handed to him by strangers on the street; him being too much of a wuss to say no)
6. Half a ten-pound note (Not a five-pound note, mind you)
Every time Hitchcock performed this little exercise, he secretly hoped a fifty-pound bill with the beautiful faces of Mathew Boulton and James Watt would fall out. But no such thing ever happened. Instead, what lay before him were the souvenirs of twenty-eight years of failure. The only other things he had to his name were a few changes of clothes, the aforementioned alcohol addiction, and the friends he'd made along the way.
The friends he'd made along the way! Surely, they'd come to his rescue!
He dedicated the next five minutes to compiling a mental list of his friends. The list had one entry: Mr. Davis. He'd spent the remainder of the five minutes wondering whether Charlotte, his first kiss from high school, considered him as a friend, because immediately after the kiss he remembered her saying, "I think we should just be friends." In the end, Hitchcock decided not to include her. He believed there was still some potential for romance there.
So, he was left with just the one friend, Mr. Davis, who also happened to be his boss.
Hitchcock stood up and peeked outside his cubicle.
Mr. Davis was blithely rocking in his swivel chair, reading the same book he'd been reading for months now, 'Death on the Nile' by Agatha Christie. Mr. Davis loved murder mysteries but almost never read them to completion. He read until the very last chapter and then tried to solve the mystery on his own. He was having a difficult time deciphering the murder-suicide climax of 'Death on the Nile'.
Like Agatha Christie's brilliant Swedish hero, Mr. Davis was a private detective, though he was not Swedish or brilliant. Hitchcock played the part of his bumbling assistant, and his main job was to be amazed by his boss's detective prowess.
Hitchcock opened his mouth to ask for help, but the words died in his throat, murdered by past embarrassments. Just last year, Hitchcock had suggested they should move to a bigger office, since their current office was so small that a harmless post-lunch fart could turn into war crime. In response, Mr. Davis had installed a cubicle in a corner the office. Now Hitchcock experienced the post lunch gas attacks in 3D, amplified by the closed structure of the cubicle.
Hitchcock's ego at the moment was too fragile to survive another such incident. So, he decided to sit back down, but the signs of withdrawal were already starting to in: sweat, shivers, existential dread, and an unmitigable compulsion to listen to the American rock band, Creed.
"Mr. Davis, May I borrow fifty pounds?" Hitchcock blurted out.
Mr. Davis looked up from his book and stared at Hitchcock. He then started looking around their little office, as though there was another 'Mr. Davis' hiding behind the potted plants.
"I am talking to you, Mr. Davis," said Hitchcock. "There is no one else in here."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Davis, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "This is unexpected. I don't know what to say..."
"You can say no, if you feel uncomfortab—"
"No," said Mr. Davis. "And no, I don't feel uncomfortable."
He returned to his book. In his mind, the matter was settled. No need to ask why Hitchcock needed the money or make up any excuse as to why he couldn't spare some.
Hitchcock stood there shooting imaginary lasers into boss's skull, before shrinking back into his cubicle. As he did so, he noticed something out the corner of his eye that made his heart bounce out of his ribcage. One of the flyers on his desk read in big, bold letters: "Free Wine Tasting."
Upon further reading, Hitchcock realised a 'free for fall' wine tasting event was scheduled for that evening, and if he started now, he had enough time to reach the venue, get hammered, and find his way back to his apartment before sun up. Hitchcock quickly stuffed his effects back into the wallet, grabbed his coat, and made a dash for the exit, but for someone the size of Hitchcock (six feet four and as wide as the Zeppelin), a quick dash was more like the solar eclipse.
"What are you doing?"
Mr. Davis's voice froze him in his tracks.
Hitchcock turned around, as casually as he could, leaning on the water cooler by the door.
"I was wondering if I could leave early... if it's alright with you, that is, of course."
Mr. Davis was already displeased. He turned to the cuckoo clock on the wall. The arms were on seven and three. The plastic bird was still inside its coop. And the weights still looked like dicks.
"It's only seven fifteen," he said.
"So?" replied Hitchcock, almost too quickly.
"So?" Mr. Davis was surprised by the hitherto unseen nerve of his assistant. "We have a board outside promising service to clients from 10 am to 8 pm—"
"We haven't had a client in three months, Mr. Davis. I doubt our fortunes are going to change in the next forty-five minutes."
"Not with that attitude, it won't," said Mr. Davis. "Just have a little bit of faith, my enormous friend."
"You can buy my faith for fifty quid!"
"Nope."
"In that case, I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Davis."
Hitchcock took a couple of steps towards the door and wrapped his hand around the door handle, when Mr. Davis's voice stopped him once again.
"Just know that your absence will be noted in your compensation."
"My compensation?"
These words inspired unbridled rage in Hitchcock. He spun around and took a couple of menacing steps towards Mr. Davis. He even let his belly fat cross the threshold of his boss's desk, but stopped at that. He'd hit maximum capacity for confrontation.
"Just so we are clear," Hitchcock said in an intense whisper, "when you say my compensation, you are talking about my salary? That thing that you have forgotten to pay me in three months?"
"I haven't forgotten about it... its's just that business, as you are well aware, hasn't been great–"
"And whose fault is that?"
"I don't know, Hitchcock. You tell me. You clearly want to—"
"It's your fault. Of course, it is!"
"Is that so?" Mr. Davis put away his book and removed his glasses. The glasses helped him read and to communicate without words: you have my full attention now asshole!
"Business was fine until you decided to fuck Mrs. Drecker!"
"How dare you!" Mr. Davis stood up. While he would have liked to come face to face with Hitchcock, his five foot six only allowed him to reach his assistant's hairy chest area. "How dare you accuse me, a loving husband, a god-fearing catholic, and a feminist, of such a heinous act!"
Hitchcock was baffled. He would have sooner believed Mr. Davis was a woman than believe he was a feminist.
"You? A feminist? How am I hearing this for the first time?"
"Feminist don't go around advertising they are feminist."
"Oh, they most certainly do, but let's not talk about that. Let's talk about what a god-fearing catholic was doing in Mrs. Drecker's home, on a Thursday afternoon, pretending to be a Tuba salesman, with a hot dog stuffed down his pants?"
"I was not there to sleep with Mrs. Drecker," Mr. Davis insisted. "I was there to seduce her."
"Of course! God did say thou shall covet thy neighbour's wife. Oh wait, that was not god. That was Helen, that lying bitch!"
"Helen? Helen... DeGeneres?"
"Of Troy!"
"Oh. But I was never going to follow through, let alone idly stand by as two nations went to war. I was just building a solid case for my client, Mr. Drecker, to divorce his unreasonably loyal wife. As to why I dressed up as a tuba salesman, I read an article in the Cosmopolitan that women were most attracted to men who work in Sales and Music."
"So, you put the two professions together?"
"So, I put the two professions together."
"So very dense, but may I enquire why the tuba?"
"It's the most sexual musical instrument."
"It is?"
"Flip it upside down and stare at it from a certain angle."
Hitchcock took a moment to envision this and then said: "Huh! It looks like a—"
"Yup," said Mr. Davis.
Both men just stood there, picturing a woman playing the tuba, her beautiful, nail polished fingers all over the instrument.
"I quit, Mr. Davis," Hitchcock said out of the blue.
"What?" Mr. Davis was shocked.
Hitchcock shrugged. "I don't want to. I love this job. But life must go on. Seems like it might not, if I stay here."
"Is this because I refused to loan you money?"
Hitchcock smiled wistfully. "No. If this dry spell with no clients continues, the company will go down. Might just last a little bit longer, if it doesn't have my deadweight to pull."
Mr. Davis opened his mouth to disagree but didn't say anything. He knew deep down that his detective agency was not going to last long. It was only fair to allow Hitchcock seek out greener pastures.
But just then both men heard a bell chime. It was the familiar bell of the door opening. But it had been so long they'd forgotten what the sound signified: a client. At long last!
"Oliver Davy's detective agency?" said the red headed man who'd just walked in.
After a brief moment of paralysis, Mr. Davis came to and said, "Polo! Please come in!"
He then walked over, took the red headed man's hand and guided him to a seat.
Hitchcock was standing by the open door. The evening cold from the outside wrapped itself around his face and neck. Not so soon, he thought to himself and shut the door close.
Once seated, the red headed man said, "I need your help to investigate a murder."
"A murder!" Mr. Davis was rather delighted. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's start with your name Mr?"
"Ronald Bilius Weasley."
"Wonderful. Your beverage of choice, Mr. Weasley?"
"I am fine. Thank you."
"Please. I insist."
Ron took a moment to consider this request and then said, "I'll have single malt whiskey... if you have it."
"You heard the man," Mr. Davis snapped his fingers. "Get on it, Hitchcock!"
In that moment, Mr. Davis and Hitchcock shared a brief, lingering glance. In that brief glance, both men agreed it was too gay share glances and to never do it again.
"On it," said Hitchcock and walked to the small kitchen in the back.
"That's my assistant," said Mr. Davis to Ron, once Hitchcock was out of ear shot. "And emergency cover if I am being shot it."
"Is that common occurrence, detective?" asked Ron. "You being shot at?"
"Every day," said Mr. Davis. "But that's the profession I chose. Enough about me. Let's talk about you. Are you a Londoner, Mr. Weasley?"
"No, sir. I'm not from here—"
"Almost no one is," said Mr. Davis. "I, myself, hail from Grimsby. Ever been there? Beautiful place. My parents still live there, but the crime rate is too low. And the few criminals who are there—let's just say they are not the most ambitious lot. Very little to do for someone of my talents."
"London must be a goldmine then?"
"Oh, it is," said Mr. Davis. "But the criminals have started to pursue politics, so that is a cause for concern."
Mr. Davis laughed at his own joke. Ron stared at him curiously.
At that moment, Hitchcock returned with a silver tray. He placed a silver porcelain cup and saucer in front of Ron and said, "I'm sorry Mr. Weasley. We did not have... the drink that you asked for, so I've brought the next best thing."
"Tea?" said Ron, staring apprehensively at the bubbling brown liquid before him.
"It's good for your pancreas," said Mr. Davis. "Now tell us about this murder, Mr. Weasley. The when, the where, the who?"
Ron took a sip of his tea and almost spit his pancreas out. "The thing is," he then said, wiping his lips. "The murder hasn't been committed yet."
"Um? I don't follow, Mr. Weasley."
"This will explain everything."
Ron produced a polaroid picture from his pockets and slid it across the desk to Mr. Davis.
The picture was a night time shot of three people: two women and men, all between the ages of thirty-five and fifty, standing in front of a white marble horse statue in mid gallop. Oddly, no one in the picture was particularly thrilled to be in it.
"The woman in the middle is about to die," said Ron.
"The woman in red?" asked Mr. Davis.
"The woman in red," confirmed Ron.
The woman in red was the most striking of the three. Tall, blonde, distractingly bright red lipstick, and an even more distracting cleavage. Mr. Davis was sure he knew her from somewhere.
"She looks familiar. Is she famous?" He asked, passing the picture to Hitchcock, who was standing by them.
"I don't know," said Ron.
"She does look familiar. What is her name?" asked Hitchcock.
"I don't know," repeated Ron. "Look, I know nothing about her other than the fact that she is gonna' die."
Mr. Davis and Hitchcock shared a suspicious glance.
"And how do you know that, Mr. Weasley?"
"Well—" Ron went fishing into his pockets again. This time he returned with a bunch of newspaper cuttings. He laid them out neatly on the desk. He then leaned forward and said dramatically, "Because everyone else in the picture is already dead!"
Mr. Davis and Hitchcock studied the newspaper cuttings one after the other and realised Ron wasn't completely insane. Karlijn Kessler and Oscar Bennett, the two people on either side of the women in red, were both dead. Both doctors. Both shot in the head with .50 cal in their own homes. That was all they could glean from the newspaper articles.
"See if you could find more information on these cases," Mr. Davis said Hitchcock.
"On it." Hitchcock pulled a chair and sat next to Mr. Davis, whose computer was the only one that had access to the internet.
"I reckon, you don't know these people too?" Mr. Davis asked Ron.
"No." Ron shook his head.
"So then how did you come by this picture?" Mr. Davis gestured towards the polaroid.
Ron took a deep breath and said, "I cannot reveal that information at this time."
"Beg your pardon?"
"You will have to solve the case with the assumption that I have nothing to do with it. And I really don't."
"Ha! An unreliable narrator, love it!" cheered Mr. Davis. "But I'm afraid we might not have a mystery. In my professional opinion, these two murders aren't connected."
"They have to be!" refuted Ron. "Two people, who knew each other, murdered within six months, with the same weapon, in a very similar fashion. What other explanation is there?"
"The most obvious explanation, Mr. Weasley: KHO-INN-SEA-DENSE," said Mr. Davis. "And betting against it is a sure way to lose one's mind. Unless there is something you are not telling us?"
"How is this a coincidence?"
Mr. Davis smiled coyly. "The wonderful thing about coincidences is that they don't come with explanations. I will try nevertheless."
Mr. Davis stood up from his chair and mentally plotted a pathway for him to walk back and forth as he explained his thought process.
"Let us for a moment forget that this picture exists..."
Mr. Davis picked out the polaroid from the litter of newspaper cuttings on his desk and performed a little trick. He made it look as though the picture had vanished into thin air, when in reality he had stuffed it into one of his pant pockets.
"What similarities do we have left? Two doctors. Both shot with a .50 cal. Both shot in their home. I could go to the London Police Bureau right now and produce a thousand case files that match these criteria. Are they all connected?"
"But the photo does exist," said Ron. "And it's in your left pant pocket."
"Is it?" said Mr. Davis. "Or did it vanish into the ether!"
"No, it's definitely in your pocket," said Ron. "Trust me, I'll know a real magician when I see one."
"Fine, you got me."
Mr. Davis extracted from his pant pocket a picture and handed it to Ron, but it was not the Polaroid with the woman in red. This was a picture of Mr. Davis, a bit younger, standing next to an old man with white hair and white beard.
"What is this?" asked Ron.
"That's me," said Mr. Davis, pointing to a younger version of himself in the picture.
"I can tell that's you. Who is the old guy?"
"The old guy?" said Mr. Davis in shock. "That's Sean Connery."
"I don't know him," said Ron.
"James Bond? Double O Seven?"
"Doesn't ring a bell," dismissed Ron.
"Which part of England did you say you were from again? My point is two people who are in the same picture can have nothing to do with each other. Karlijn Kessler and Oscar Bennett were both doctors. This photo was probably taken at some doctor event they attended. It's simply not enough to conclude they knew each other or that these murders are connected."
"There is more," interjected Hitchcock, who had been searching and studying articles about the two victims on the internet.
"There is?" Ron asked, expectantly.
"Yes. As of today, both cases are closed. Interestingly, the murderer in each case was found to be the victim's own spouse. Karlijn Kessler was shot by Guus Kessler, her husband of thirteen years. Oscar Bennet was shot by Laura Bennett, his wife of three years. Both Guus Kessler and Laura Bennett plead not guilty in their respective cases."
"These are innocent people!" declared Ron.
"There is more, Mr. Weasley," continued Hitchcock. "In both crime scenes, there were no signs of forced entry. This was strange especially in the case of Karlijn Kessler, who had just installed surveillance cameras outside her house a week before she was murdered. The cameras showed no one entering or leaving the house besides Mr. and Mrs. Kessler. This refuted all claims made by Guus Kessler that an intruder had killed his wife. In the murder of Oscar Bassett, the murder weapon, a .50 cal Desert Eagle, was discovered inside the Bassett's home."
"Inside job and inside job," said Mr. Davis, but Ron was not having it.
"Here is the part that makes absolutely no sense," Hitchcock kept going. "There were traces of Pig's blood in both crime scenes."
"Pig's blood?" said Mr. Davis. "In both crime scenes?"
"Yup. The forensic teams that worked on the cases had no explanation for this."
"That is strange," said Ron, leaning back in his chair.
"Was there any connection established between the two cases by the official investigations?" Mr. Davis asked his assistant.
"Nope. Karlijn Kessler was murdered on November 4th 2003 in Sweden, and investigated by the Swedish Police Authority. Oscar Bassett was murdered on February 23rd 2004 in Blackpool. This was investigated by our local police. There are no public records stating the cases were linked."
Mr. Davis could not remember the last time he saw a real, live pig. Perhaps, he saw one when he was a young boy in Grimsby. Or perhaps that was just the time when he walked in on his grandparents. No matter how hard he tried, he could not explain the Pig's blood. It was too random and yet too specific. That left all but one logical conclusion.
"It's a calling card," announced Mr. Davis.
"A calling card?"
"Yes. Serial killers, the good ones at least, like to leave a mark on their kills, so when the body is eventually discovered, the media knows it's their craft. Jack the Ripper left letters, the zodiac killer left a crossed circle, the night stalker left pentagrams drawn with victim's lipstick. The pig's blood, I believe, is one such calling card. Congratulations, Mr. Weasley, we will work on your case!"
"Hold it, boss," said Hitchcock. "I know just the thought of apprehending a serial killer gives you a hard on, but we must discuss the fee first,"
"Before we discuss money, I have a few stipulations," interjected Ron.
"Stipulations?"
"Just a couple. May be a third."
"Go on then. let's hear 'em."
"Number One, I must be included in all facets of the investigation—"
"Pause. Elaborate."
"I want you to me along to crime scenes, have me sit in during interrogations, give me an opportunity to rubbish the theories that you come up with—"
"You want to be our babysitter?" asked Hitchcock.
"More like a fly on the wall," said Ron. "A fly with a few opinions, probably."
"Okay, we can circle back to this one," said Mr. Davis. "But please do continue with your stipulations."
"Number two, we cannot go to the cops until the case is solved."
"I don't like those bastards taking credit either. Next stipulation?"
"I don't have any money."
"Hm?" said Mr. Davis and Hitchcock in unison.
"I don't have any money to pay you," Ron repeated.
"What do you mean you don't have any money?"
"I live in a car and I bathe in the Thames."
Hitchcock and Mr. Davis simultaneously sunk their faces into their palms. From the moment he walked in, both men had sensed that there was something off about the red head—he was dressed weird, his eyes kept darting about, and he'd never seen a stapler before—but the promise of poundage had blinded them to the truth: Ronald Bilius Weasley was a nut case.
"Firstly, Mr. Weasley," said Mr. Davis, "saying I don't have any money is more of a declaration than a stipulation. Secondly, did you escape from somewhere? Thirdly, get the fuck out!"
"I can offer you something better than money," said Ron, not the least bit flustered.
"Excuse the cynicism, Mr. Weasley, but I don't think you can."
"And yet!" Ron produced another a newspaper cutting. This one had a bright, smiling picture of Mr. Davis under the caption: 'The Worst Detective in London'.
Mr. Davis turned red as soon as he saw the newspaper.
"Care to explain?" He said angrily to Ron.
"It's you," said Ron, tapping on Mr. Davis's balding head in the picture.
"I know it's me. I am intimately familiar with the article. I don't know why you are showing it to me."
"This is how I found your detective agency. The author was kind enough to give your address."
"So, let me get this straight," said Hitchcock. "You read 'Worst Detective in London' and thought this is the man to solve my mystery?"
"Ah. But I read more than the headline. I read the entire article and was rather impressed with Mr. Davis's commitment," said Ron.
"You were?" said Mr. Davis, a bit surprised, and pleasantly so.
"Of course!" said Ron. "It was a blatant misrepresentation of a man who would go to any depths to satisfy his client."
"That is exactly what I've been saying!" said Mr. Davis, slamming his desk with an open palm. He was happy that someone took his side on this argument, even if that someone was clinically insane.
Hitchcock sat idly by listening to all the drivel that Ron had spewed in the last half hour. But he was not going to tolerate this non sense about Mr. Davis's supposed benevolence.
"When you say you saw a man would go to any depth to satisfy his clients, are you talking about the time when Mr. Davis tried to sleep with a client's wife?" asked Hitchcock.
"He wasn't trying to sleep with the client's wife. He was trying to seduce her. Those are two completely different things!"
Mr. Davis shed a single tear of joy. Where had Ron Weasley been all these years!
"But there is one thing that does not make sense, detective..." continued Ron.
"I'm listening."
"How was this Mrs. Decker able to resist your charm?"
"I wonder every night, Mr. Weasley! Every night!"
"Perhaps she is a... sexual deviant," offered Ron.
"Like one of those people who are only attracted to people in wheel chairs or the cartoon show 'my little pony'?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of a lesbian."
"I would be lying if I said the thought hasn't crossed my mind," said Mr. Davis. "But as a feminist, I am not allowed to have sexist thoughts."
"That's not sexist, is it?"
Both men turned to Hitchcock for a third opinion, who had been rolling his eyes so much during that exchange, that he was dizzy.
"To think that only lesbians can resist your advances?" said Hitchcock. "I don't know if its sexist. But it sure is psychotic."
"No one asked you that, Hitchcock," said Mr. Davis.
"Yeah, shut up, Hitchcock," added Ron, to Hitchcock's surprise. "Look, Mr. Davis, what I offer you is a chance at redemption. If you solve this case, you would have not only saved two people from a life in prison, but you'd also have overturned the Judicial system of two entire nations. No one can call you a bad detective then. In fact, you'd be the best detective in London... and Zurich or whatever is the capital of Sweden."
Mr. Davis was already there in his mind. Specifically, he was in Buckingham Palace. The Queen was knighting him for solving the case and for his sheer, unprecedented genius. Charlize Theron, who was in attendance, was making love-eyes at him. And he had a head full of hair.
"Mr. Davis!" called Hitchcock, extinguishing Mr. Davis's mid-sentence fantasy.
Once Mr. Davis came to, Hitchcock said to him: "what says the queen?"
"I don't know what you are talking about." Mr. Davis turned to Ron. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, but I cannot do this for free. I have to pay rent, electricity, and water. Not to mention my bickering assistant."
"Hullo!" said Hitchcock to Ron.
"How about I give you this instead?" Ron placed a shiny, golden ring on the desk.
Mr. Davis picked up the ring.
"Is this your wedding ring?" he asked.
"Not anymore," said Ron. "My wife left me."
"Look, Mr. Weasley, I cannot in good conscience take that. I want to solve this mystery. I really do. But this is not a fair transaction. Not for you. Not for me. Not for your ex-wife."
"I understand." Ron leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He looked like he was one sick puppy encounter away from a complete breakdown.
"Mr. Weasley," called Mr. Davis.
"Yes?" Ron sat right back up.
"We have to close up. Its 8 pm."
"Oh, of course..."
Ron stood up, gathered all his newspaper cuttings and put them away in various compartments in his coat. "It was a pleasure meeting you gentleman."
"You too, Mr. Weasley. Take care," said Mr. Davis.
Ron smiled one last time and left the office. Hitchcock followed him outside.
"Is that your car?" Hitchcock asked Ron. He was referring to a banged up, cornflower Ford Anglia that was precariously parked in front of their office.
"Would you like a ride?" asked Ron.
"As a matter of fact, I do. There is this free wine tasting event. If you run a few red lights, we might make it in time."
"Free wine? Say no more."
"Mr. Weasley—"
"Call me Ron."
"Ron, if you really wanna' work this case, I know a good pawn broker."
"I don't think Mr. Davis accept will accept cash made from selling my wedding ring."
"He is not that good of a guy . Even if he is, I'll convince him."
"Fine. Let's go to the pawn broker first. And I will buy you drinks!"
"Wonderful!"
Ron picked up a piece of paper stuck between his windshield wipers of the Ford Anglia. "What are these papers that keep appearing out of nowhere?"
Hitchcock examined the paper and said, "It's a parking ticket."
"Whatever," Ron crushed the paper and tossed it aside. "Let's go!"