Lost Kisses

MORNING

In the early morning, a middle-aged woman paces through the park, the cool breeze ruffling her hair, with two girls giggling and skipping beside her. The leaves create a natural filter for the sun's rays, casting a soft, golden glow on the woman’s face. Her hazel eyes squint, stung by the harsh glare of the sun as if by nettles. While they probe the ground, they find a Yorkshire terrier dragging its heels behind them. She can hear the faint shuffle as the dog moves. The pond nearby resonates with the loud squabbles of ducks, as if they are settling long-standing feuds.

Petrichor, the earthy scent that accompanies rain, pervades the air, evoking a sense of anticipation. Uncertainty brews over the path ahead as the horizon suggests approaching rain. The air's coolness adds a crispness, making the golden autumn haze vanish.

With a heavy heart, the woman bids farewell to her girls at the nursery and embarks on her journey back home. She retraces her steps along the familiar path, the soft crunch of gravel under her feet resonating with each step. The dog, now securely tethered to a leash, no longer lunges eagerly towards the fluttering birds by the heaving pond.

Comforted in her newfound serenity, she delves into her thoughts, weighed down by the responsibilities that rest on her shoulders. The sheer enormity of her workload looms ominously, leaving her with a constant sense of time slipping away. Her impending major presentation at work requires her full attention. That can wait until tonight. She sighs.

She stands in the broiling kitchen, surrounded by the familiar clatter of pots and pans. The aroma of sizzling onions fills the air as she slices through the vibrant vegetables. Her face flushes from the stove's warmth. The instant notion of baking a cake fills her with a sense of joy and contentment. Mark likes to savour the warm blend of cinnamon and juicy ripe plums.

The woman gingerly turns the doorknob of the back door, the cool metal chilling the skin between her knuckles. With a creak, the door swings open and the dog, a bundle of energy, dashes out into the fresh air. Its tail wags furiously, creating a blur of frenzy. The faint scent of wet earth wafts through the open doorway as the animal disappears behind the towering pine tree in the garden.

Inside, she re-enters the kitchen, her footsteps echoing tenderly on the tiled floor. She reaches down, her hand brushing against the smooth wooden surface of the lower kitchen cupboard. With a gentle pull, she opens it, revealing a myriad of ingredients. Her fingers grasp the bag of flour, feeling its weight and texture before she carefully pours it onto the pastry board.

As the fine white powder cascades down, it creates a cloud that hangs in the air, filling the room with a mysterious mist. Outside, the tranquil melody of raindrops hitting the ground plays softly, a soothing symphony that accompanies the promise of a wonderful day ahead, despite the dreary weather.

Lost in her task, woman's focus intensifies. She disregards the drizzle outside, oblivious to the cold droplets that lightly tap against the windows. Her hands move with purpose, the smooth surface of the pastry board providing the perfect canvas for her artistry.

*

A few minutes earlier, in the bustling park, the middle-aged man meanders leisurely, his slender silhouette seamlessly merges with the throng of people surrounding him like a sea of grey. After glimpsing a woman pass him while he reads a newspaper on the weathered bench, he hastens his steps.

The familiar pang of romance stirs within him, sending a shiver down his spine. The crisp autumn air freezes worry-laden hearts in time.

HUDDLER

The stillness of the late afternoon shattered when we found the woman's lifeless body at 4 p.m.

‘Roger, fill me in,’ I said from the open door.

‘A woman in her early thirties, brunette, no discernible physical traits,’ Roger’s voice mixed with concern and professionalism. ‘She stands,’ he cleared his throat, ‘stood in this case, at five foot six, weighs in at about nine and a half stone. We believe that sharp wounds to the neck caused the death, but haven’t definitively determined it.’

‘Autopsy?’ I asked, death sneaking up on me.

‘Yeah,’ he said with a nod. ‘Currently, we have limited options, as we found her unclothed and devoid of any nearby objects. The SOCO are waist-deep in the mud, searching for clues but finding no clear leads. Should you desire to absorb the ambiance or seek inspiration, I am more than willing to join you, Huddler.’

‘No way, not before dinner. Did you eat?’

‘I will wait for your permission, sir. Let's hit up the Old Siege House. The place should be empty and cops get a special discount today.’

'Ha, ha. Let’s go!’

*

When we showed up after a hearty meal, the place was crawling with white SOCOs working their socks off. Something puzzled me, though. We found the woman near the river Stour, but the author didn't bother to dump her into the water.

Our steps led us straight to the office, passing by tanks filled with live fish, which served as a sure sign that D. Salmon was a fish company.

‘As I briefly explained to the police officer earlier,’ Mr Salmon said, ‘We securely gated our premises from all sides. She was an outsider, and I find it hard to believe that any of our employees would go to such great lengths to cause her harm.’

'Can we look at the roster of employees?’ Roger asked.

‘But of course. We have a board in the staff room where we display all the staff rota. Follow me,’ the boss said, his footsteps echoing through the narrow corridor.

The place was in a woeful state. As we ascended, the blue carpet covering the stairs bore tough stains from spilled coffee and various liquids. Multitude of marks on the chipped wooden panelling gave it a battle-scarred look, instead of the usual signs of everyday wear and tear. I got the sense that the boss was broke and couldn't fix it up. Not everyone was rolling in dough these days.

Reaching the upper parts of the building, Salmon's triumphant smile grew wider as he pointed and declared, ‘Here it is!’

We drew our eyes to the board resembling a roulette wheel in a lively casino.

'Who is that?' I asked.

‘Who?’ the boss's brows furrowed, deepening the lines on his forehead.

‘The guy on sick.’

‘Oh, that fellow,’ Salmon grunted. ‘I haven't laid eyes on him in a while. He's been delivering fit notes for the past half year. Seems like some family drama. Didn't wanna give him the boot 'cause he's a good buddy, but everything's gotta end. It's taking so much time; I can't keep bailing him out. I gotta run my business.’

"Mr Salmon, do you have his address?’ I asked.

‘Of course, I have,’ he said with a confident nod. 'Let me see,’ his eyes squinted through the glasses perched on his nose. He peered into the blue file, as if searching for the scientific evidence.

‘Ah yes,’ he said with a contented sigh. ‘Presently, our only means of contacting him is through phone calls, and the same goes for GP. I'm not sure if you'd find him at home. Can't hurt to try. He lives in Lexden at 33 De Vere Road.’

'Mr Salmon, we are grateful for your help,' Roger said with a courteous smile as we quickly left the area.

SPENCER

I didn't know how to react when they came. I tried to keep it cool and not show my emotions. I was too stunned to do anything. They knocked at the door three times, with a few seconds’ pause between each tap. I was about to pop out for a pack of Luckies, but luckily, I went inside in time and listened. They said nothing, probably trying to maintain their professional image and reveal no secrets to the public.

The money I got from pawning heavy machinery didn't last long. My dealer could only give me a few grams of coke and goof balls to take the edge off before it ran out. And it ran out in no time. That's why I planned my London escapade to make cars. The score is better in high privileged areas, especially around courts. BMW, Mercedes, Porsche, Jaguar. Those types of cars bring in good money. Or rather, its contents.

Salmon should feel ashamed. He's not able to keep up with modernising his company and neglecting parts that could still make money. It's like he's running a business, not a "Who Wants to be Informed and Motivated" game show! That's a letdown.

As the sweet trickle of coppers faded away, I retrieved the black-and-red adze from its secret spot in the basement floor and carefully stashed it in my rucksack, alongside my other essentials. The thought of the miles ahead weighed heavily on my mind as I embarked on my journey.

HUDDLER

I locked eyes with a man built like a tank. He had a thick, red beard adorned with neatly plaited braids, a moustache, and he sported a pair of stylish black-rimmed Tom Ford glasses.

‘Mr Mark Ragazzo?’ Roger asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Detective inspector Roger Waggard and detective inspector Alphonse Huddler from the Criminal Investigation Squad. Mind if we come in?’

In a swift motion, Mark man scrutinised our badges and promptly set them aside. Nodding, he reluctantly opened the white front door, complete with a letter slot below and a peephole above, granting us access.

He gently hushed the dog, a pint-sized Yorkshire terrier, whose persistent barks reverberated through the air, and led us directly to the warm, inviting kitchen. The house had a comforting vibe, but no pitter-patter of little feet. It crossed my mind that they might be out or nestled in slumber. The wall clock in the corridor struck 7 p.m. and a sense of finality descended upon the day. Or perhaps, just upon me.

‘I'm sorry, sir, but we have some bad news,’ Roger began with a sombre tone, as soon as we settled onto the awkwardly rigid red-upholstered chairs.

‘I would prefer to wait until my wife returns, if that's alright,’ Mark said, his eyes galloping towards the entrance. ‘She dashed into town to pick up her dry cleaning. I received a text a while ago saying she wouldn't be long, but it has already been a few hours.’

Roger replied with a hint of sadness, ‘I'm afraid she won't be coming back, sir.’

‘Oh? And why is that?’ Mark's eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘We must warn you that this news may be extremely distressing, but it’s our duty to inform you that an unidentified culprit killed your wife this evening.’

Like a soft evening fog, a moment of silence lingered behind us, adding an air of eloquence. With the sensation gradually fading, Roger continued.

‘We recognise the severity of this situation, and the implications it entails. Right now, our main concentration is on uncovering the individual responsible for the crime.’

Mark's fingers instinctively sought refuge in his beard, mimicking the soothing sensation of stroking the mare's mane as despair contorted his face.

‘Gina? Killed? That's why... Oh no, no, no…’ Mark’s voice bounced off the empty walls.

‘Sir, do you have someone who can be present with you right now?’ I said, oblivious to the fact that my words would intensify the drama of the situation.

‘No,’ his words broke the silence again. ‘Both Gina's parents and mine have passed away. It's only our children, no one else. They are already asleep,’ he said as if automatically. ‘Oh, what am I going to do now?’ his eyes darting around frantically for a solution.

We reluctantly left the man to his own devices a few minutes later, knowing that time was running out. My heart sank. If I were him, I'd drink whiskey till the morning, waiting for some cues on what to do next with my life. It's not your everyday tragedy, but I'm getting used to it as the new normal. Should I not?

MARK

Mark sits in an armchair in the dimply lit drawing room downstairs. He sinks into the dark green leather, burying his head in his trembling hands. The sensation akin to ants marching up and down his neck demands his instant attention.

Not right now. Right now, I gotta man up and deal with this. Girls. What should I say to them in the morning? Mum's gone and she ain't coming back, huh? They're little, but they must know. Otherwise, I'd have to lie, at least in the beginning, and that wouldn't be okay.

As he curls up his bulky body in the armchair, the light instantly spills out, revealing Mr Morpheus.

*

A few days later, as the mournful atmosphere lingers during the funeral, Mark's eyes catch sight of an unfamiliar figure slowly making their way towards the coffin, nestled deep within the open grave. The soft shuffle of dirt underfoot echoes in the sullen air. With bated breath, Mark watches as the mysterious man delicately places an object on top of the casket. The scent of freshly cut flowers mingles with the damp earth, adding a touch of fragility to the scene.

As Mark steals a quick glance, his eyes widen in disbelief. It's Richard Allan's scarf, right before his eyes. Suddenly, a flood of memories rushes over him, remembering that on a day of murder Gina wore the same scarf. He recalls how she had donned it throughout the entire week.

A sense of urgency washes over him, compelling him to take immediate action. As his mind races, a familiar presence approaches, dissolving the stillness of the air.

‘Were you close to Gina?’ Mark's voice breaks the silence, ‘I’ve never seen you before,’ and the tension in the man's face fades. Draped in a Harris Tweed herringbone coat, topped with a black hunting hat from Barbour, and shielding his eyes with black-rimmed Ray-Bans, his style is impeccable. The smell of tobacco subtly accompanies his intelligent demeanour.

‘Yes,’ the man nods. ‘She was someone I've known for a while. We used to attend the same school years ago.’

The man introduces himself as Jack, and Mark can't help but notice the hint of desolation in his voice.

Gina got her graphic design degree from UAL. When Mark spotted her at a café in the city, she didn't seem too thrilled. She wanted a fresh start. They tied the knot, got a cosy house, and then had kids. She never mentioned her past life. To her, the present life seemed full of vitality and structure, unlike the past. Why shouldn't it be?

The two men engage in conversation as they walk all the way back to Mark's house, situated a stone's throw away from the cemetery. Now it's only Mark's house, not Gina's and Mark's, and that thought, every time it comes back to Mark, keeps him in check.

The sun's rays warm the skin, but the biting cold wind cuts through like icy daggers. The sight of a few dog walkers and parents with kids in the park gives Mark a sense of safety, at least outdoors.

At the house, Mark gestures towards the kitchen, suggesting that the man join him for a cup of tea.

How convenient that the nanny watches over the girls during the funeral, flashes through Mark's head.

Mark knows what he needs to do. A few minutes later, in the drawing room, he reaches for the phone with trembling fingers and a pounding heart; he’s unwavering in his actions.

When he returns to the kitchen, Jack is no longer there. With hesitation, Mark climbs the stairs. There are no sounds or voices heard inside or outside the house. Suburban afternoons hold their own significance.

Upstairs, when Mark opens the bedroom door, he finds Jack already inside, clasping a piece of Lisca lingerie from Gina’s closet to his chest. He’s weeping intensely, like a baby.

'We were lovers, you know,' Jack says, his voice tinged with nostalgia. 'But that was a long time ago.'

The words hang in the air, their weight settling on Mark's shoulders. He had expected this revelation, yet it still solidifies his assumptions about Jack.

As the moment to part ways arrives, Mark swiftly taps out a message on his phone, the soft click of the keys filling the air. 'Now!' he sends the agreed-upon code word for the officers to spring into action. The anticipation builds, and when the pristine white door swings open, their execution is flawless.

Alone once more, Mark’s eyes fix on his reflection in the hallway mirror capturing the turmoil within his soul. He ascends the staircase, each step creaking beneath his weight. In the bedroom, he clutches Gina’s bandeau, tears streaming down his face like a torrent from a broken dam. The sobs wrack his body, reducing him to a lost young boy.

HUDDLER

‘We've found fingerprints on the adze,’ Roger promptly informed me. I barely had a moment to step into the room, let alone set down my Costa cup of coffee.

‘And?’

‘They belong to a couple of individuals,’ Roger said, poker-faced.

‘A couple? So it’s not just one?’

‘No,’ he said, his tone carrying a hint of puzzlement. ‘They belong to Spencer and Jack.’

The scent of coffee and death filled the air.

‘And who are they?’ I asked, my eyes narrowed.

‘Sorry, I forgot to tell you. We nabbed this guy Spencer in London for vandalising. You know, breaking into cars and stuff like that. His records show that he's a well-known addict. Reported once, but released due to lack of evidence. Not serious until now. He must've lost the step or the money, or both.’

‘Are those his records?’

‘Yup.’

'Does that ring a bell?’ I asked, a sly grin on my face.

‘Yes, he is. Salmon wasn't too keen on one of his employees using his money to support the addict, but he couldn't do anything about it, could he?’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Not likely. And what about the other individual?’

‘Aha. Jack. He's our lover and the actual killer. He says he used the wire he found by the river because the adze seemed malapropos. The signs on the woman's neck confirm it. We couldn't find the wire, though.’

'So he spilled the tea, eh?’

‘Yup. He admitted he never really hung out with her, but wanted it so badly. He knew he had no shot with her since she was married with kids, so he decided on the last solution. Unreported before. It's strange, but given his infatuation, anything is possible.’

‘I've heard of crimes of passion, but this ain't France! It won’t wash.’

‘Yeah, true. But keep in mind, he's originally Jacques. French, no?’

I nodded.

‘And how did Jack gain access to the secured grounds of D. Salmon?’

‘Spencer frequently stole from Salmon. We found pawn shop receipts at Spencer's place. He left the river gate open. Apparently, everyone, including Salmon, failed to notice. Jacques guy found an opportunity there.’

‘Is it not too simple to be true?’

'Why shouldn't it? We've got the motive and two criminals behind bars. What else do you want?’

‘Breakfast. Coming?’

MARK

Mark finds solace in visiting an inmate. On every occasion, he brings delicacies: frogs' legs and foie gras from the renowned Best Western. The aroma of the decadent meal permeates the cell, momentarily masking the sterile, oppressive scent of confinement. After each visit, Jacques takes his time savouring every bite, finding consolation in the rich flavours that whisk him away to a realm of missed chances and unfulfilled romances.

Mark remains unaffected by the man who took his wife and mother of his children. Initially, anger filled him, a fiery rage that, if left unchecked, can spiral out of control. Finally, he came to understand. Passion consumed this man, expressing it in unconventional ways. Being angry wouldn't change anything. It could ruin any semblance of a life he had left.

No one is aware of Mark's presence here; it remains a secret shared solely between the two men and the vigilant screws who guard their conversations during Mark's visits. This sense of secrecy brings him immense relief, as it grants him the opportunity, at least once a week, to discuss his wife with Jacques. Mark approaches these conversations with a mix of eagerness and gentleness, realising that it’s through these moments that he truly comes to know Jacques. It's this connection that matters most to Mark now, and he can only hope that Gina’s soul experiences the same solace.

***

Thank you for reading!