Writings

The door to Room 21, in the Effingham Hotel, opens. Detective Inspector Jack Kirby steps inside. He stands momentarily surveying the room. The morning rays are falling on a woman’s body before him. She lies on a threadbare carpet on the floor. She is wearing silk pyjamas. She was a beautiful woman. Looking closer at her neck there is a recent scar there.

‘Her name’s Beverly Wright,’ says a female voice behind Kirby. ‘She’s dead.

He turns around. ‘Thank you, Sergeant Farr,’ he says, with a wry smile on his face. ‘What bits of information do you have for me?

She moves from behind Kirby, to his left side, hands him a pair of latex gloves. ‘She’d only come for the weekend. That’s the gist of what they said downstairs.’

‘Did they say anything else downstairs?’

‘On my arrival at Reception, the staff said it was a burglary gone wrong. The rumour went, it was an opportunist thief who was disturbed.’

‘Did they say who started the rumour?’

‘No. No-one wanted to say anything in case they made enemies of their work mates. I think it might have been the owner or his wife. Look at it like this, if they fingered them, they could lose their jobs.’

‘I’m suspicious, Rowena. Let’s look at it the way they say it happened. While the burglars were busy going about their work they hear a noise. It disturbs them. They stop, it was Beverly Wright. They struck out at her, killing her. Nice little story but not one shred of truth in it. None of this happened. Why? I would say this is pure fantasy. It doesn’t make sense.’