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Sophie Bachard was born and bred in South London, UK, where she was raised as a
feral child by stray dogs on a council housing estate. After losing the entire
manuscript of her ten million word epic autobiography at sea, she now writes
short fiction to stay sane. Mortimer's Slip by Sophie Bachard
The tape recorder whirred in the quiet interview room.
DI Hollins directed an unflinching gaze at his suspect, an intimidating stare he'd used successfully in the past on many a criminal, boring into their psyches as if by force of his presence he could mesmerize them into confessing. Except it didn't appear to be having the desired effect on Mortimer, the old man sitting opposite him, the kind of old timer his mother would have used the term Old Soldier to describe. This wizened, doddering fool trembled, but Hollins didn't believe it had anything to do with fear on his part, for his eyes were as dead callous as those of a wooden horse on a merry-go-round.
"Tell me, just for the record, how many times has your wife slipped in the shower?" DI Hollins asked. "We've no record of you calling for an ambulance in the past."
"Too many times to remember," Mortimer replied shortly. He sounded exasperated. "She was seventy, you know. At that age––"
"Yes, yes," Hollins cut him off. "But the point is you didn't go to her when she called for your help. Isn't it true you hated each other? From a neighbor's statement we know you two argued incessantly, came to blows even."
Penfold, Mortimer's weasel-faced lawyer, interrupted: "You asked that question a half-hour ago. How many times are you going to pose the same question to my client? This is beginning to border on harassment!" He began to shuffle papers. "I'm demanding his release."
Knowing when he was beaten, DI Hollins sat back, sighing. "Turn off the tape recorder," he instructed his partner.
With Penfold's help, Mortimer rose shakily on his cane. Penfold shook his head at Hollins in disgust as a duty officer let them out.
Hollin's partner, Burnley, turned to him as the odd couple left the interview room. "His lawyer has a point," said Burnley. "I mean that poor sod's got palsy or something and he ain't capable of wiping his own ass, let alone killing anybody."
"Okay Columbo, then who did?"
"She slipped in the shower, just like Mortimer says. According to the autopsy report––"
"Bullshit," Hollins interrupted bluntly. "After thirty years on the job, you get a sense for these things. That wily old git did for her, I can feel it."
"Ah, but there's that little matter of a thing called proof, sir."
"He has to make a slip," Hollins said, lacing his thick stubby hands together on his paunch. "They always slip up sooner or later. Sometimes it's simply a matter of waiting it out. Let me tell you––" He paused mid-speech, frowning, as something caught his attention. He rose and crossed the room, bent down and picked something small, about the size of a postage stamp, off the floor, and studied it between thumb and finger.
"What's that, sir?" Burnley asked.
"It came off Mortimer's sole," said Hollins, the corners of his mouth curling up into a smug, knowing grin. "It looks distinctly like a piece of rubber suction cup."
"I don't see the significance, sir."
"I said suction cup, Burnley. You know, the kind you find on bathmats."
A smirk began to surface on Burnley's face now too.
THE END Sophie Bachard © 2007 |