Detective Story - The Kiss Of Death.
Richard Tandy October 2002
Buile Hill High School
Centre Number 33321
English Coursework
Original Writing
Short Story
Detective Story - The Kiss Of Death
A soft breeze roamed the gentle streets of London, wandering nonchalantly around every corner of every silent street. The moon was high, emitting rays, lighting the harsh night that filled the land. It is inconceivable to imagine a scene more picturesque than this, as the two lovers strolling amorously along the Thames, hand in hand. The chain of lights illuminated the area in close proximity, and they could just make out the goings about of the city. The gentleman abruptly turned and faced the women, passion burning in his eyes. This was the moment he had been planning for what seemed like an eternity. Everything had gone to plan, and as they would stroll along the river, if everything else went accordingly, he would kiss her. He gazed at her, her face vivid in the reflection of the current. It was then that he realised...he needn't have concocted his little 'master plan' - she was going to kiss him. She gently clasped her soft hands lovingly around his tender neck, and they encountered a fervent embrace. For the gentleman, the world seemed to stop. He had never been in love with anyone as he had with this lady. During the embrace, the most random thoughts entered his head. Had he locked the front door? What time would he return home? He felt delirious from the kiss...that was probably the reason for his madness. Slowly, their lips pulled apart, and they stared fondly into each other's eyes. However, she broke eye contact and stared down at the ground. He tried to work out what she was doing. From first impressions, it looked like she was blindly fumbling for something in her pocket. Then, completely unsuspectingly, she pulled something out of her pocket. The moonlight glinted off the metallic surface, and it was then that he realised. She grasped the tiny blade in her small hands, and brought it across the throat of the man. Slowly, deep, red blood trickled down his pale neck. There was a delayed reaction, his eyes taken aback with surprise. The pain choked him. But he wasn't focusing on the pain...for in his dying seconds he managed to utter one word. 'Why...?' and with that he took his final breath. The woman, with a smug expression on her hidden face, slipped something into the fallen man's back pocket, pushed him into the river, and as quickly as she had come, disappeared into the night.
The block of flats was an unwelcoming place...a grey mist smothered it, warning people of its supremacy. There was an atmosphere of danger around the estate. Passers by would rush across the street in order to avoid it. Thugs ruled the estate, not much older than school children, yet their power in the estate was absolute. They inflicted a fear-policy via random muggings and assaults. But it's when you start to look closer that you start to see the real genre of people on the estate. They weren't all thugs, most middle-aged men, drinking away their life, drowning their sorrows and misfortunes. Continuing along the murky estate, up the graffiti-spoilt stairs, and entering the red-door of 65a, sitting in a broken chair was Frankili Motabwa. His parents had moved to London from Nigeria, having heard renowned tales of the streets being paved in gold...where all were rich. However, this turned out not to be the case as they entered this particularly run-down suburb of London. They had left a place of safety, in search of wealth, and had arrived into vast poverty. Both un-employed, they had settled to a life in a one-roomed bed sit. Soon, they were expecting the birth of little Frankie, but when he finally arrived, he was snatched from his family. The powers-that-be deemed them unfit to be parents, and he was placed into foster care. He never shone as the brightest child, teachers considered his future as futile. However, it was his innate ability to piece together hundreds of tiny factors to form conclusions and his consistency in doing so that gained him recognition. Upon leaving school, he chose to walk down the 'private-eye' path, forming a business with the money given to him by his foster parents. However, following a chain of dismal failures, he lived the life of unemployment. He used to love work...remaining in the office well after hours, meticulously piecing together the pieces of a puzzle. Now...all that focus had disappeared, and had been replaced with futility. He had not been blessed with the gift of beauty nor intelligence, being a very short, un-attractive man. He had a great yearn for love but his only solace was a deprived cat named Whiskers, a mangy alley cat he had found on the streets. Having been classified a good for nothing, he spent his days spending his meagre dole money on the drink, temporary relief taking him away from the harshness of reality, even if those moments were fleeting. As a new day arrived, Frankie slowly opened his eyes to the sound of a harsh ringing. He realised he had nothing to get up for, nothing to do. But he felt strangely compelled to answer the phone. So, lethargically, he rolled away the moth-eaten matt that he slept on from the floor, and tossed it onto the seemingly never-ending pile of junk, and litter. As he slowly paced towards the phone, the ringing ceased. He switched the black and white television on, and sombrely sat down on the floor. He idly flicked through the channels, settling on the news. Something caught his ear, causing him to forget the piece of bread half-eaten in his hands.
'And with a recent update, a man's body has been found traveling by the Thames. The man's body was found lacerated, as it was swept up into the docks in Woolwich, eastern London. Police officers believe that this death may be related to the deaths of two previous men in the area,' the news reporter rattled off at a phenomenal speed. This was close to Frankie's home in his local area, practically on his own doorstep. Thoughts and ideas raced through the mind of Frankie as he processed his newfound information about this murderer running wild in his ...
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'And with a recent update, a man's body has been found traveling by the Thames. The man's body was found lacerated, as it was swept up into the docks in Woolwich, eastern London. Police officers believe that this death may be related to the deaths of two previous men in the area,' the news reporter rattled off at a phenomenal speed. This was close to Frankie's home in his local area, practically on his own doorstep. Thoughts and ideas raced through the mind of Frankie as he processed his newfound information about this murderer running wild in his local area. However, there was one prevailing thought. He was no longer going to be considered as a waste of space, a lost cause. He was going to show that world and himself that he was capable and worthy of living among them. He was going to solve that case. Frankie stood outside the morgue, shoulders hunched, fighting off the strong wind that harassed him. His sharp mind may not have been useful when applied to mathematics, but when it came to formulating plans, he was as sharp as a tack. He had conjured up a supreme plan to sneak past the nurses; by wearing a cheap but convincing doctor's jacket in which he had earlier purchased from a medical supplier! He readied himself and neatened his jacket, pulling it down tight to straighten it out. Step after step, he climbed the moss covered steps of the morgue, until he reached the doorway. He eyed the large old door, with its weathered paintwork, before opening it. He looked around his surroundings; it was difficult to differentiate one monotonous grey wall to another. It was a bleak place, with a strong sense of decaying within it, but one could not expect much from a haven to death. It appeared that his only company in this makeshift graveyard was a small woman, a secretary of sorts. An ability that Frankie strived upon was his inherent ability to psychoanalyse people at first glances. Just by looking at her slouched position, he gathered the conclusion that she could be dominated easily. He immediately switched persona from Frankie the dominated to Dr. Motabwa the dominant. He strutted past the secretary, holding his head up high without giving the secretary a glance.
'Excuse me sir, where do you think you're going?' said the young woman in a nasal voice, slightly reminiscent of the news reporter. Frankie took a deep breath, and quickly retorted.
'I am Doctor Smith, young lady, and I will tell you this, dare you test my authority again and I shall report to your official immediately!' Frankie bellowed in the accent of his adoptive father. He chuckled inside, for he knew how ludicrous he sounded. Yet his analysis of the woman had been right. It had obviously affected her, for the look of intimidation on the young lady was immense, and she eventually succumbed to Frankie, or 'Dr. Smith', and opened the doors. Though Frankie had to keep a stern face, internally, he was jumping for joy. 'I've still got it!' he whispered under his breath. He could imagine himself in five years or so, a rich and famous detective, with a giant house, shadowing all the upper-class men who once looked down on him. He quickly snapped back to reality, and kept his focus. He entered the hub of the morgue alone, for the woman had remained in the opening. It was a cold place, a prison to wandering souls. He could sense the presences in this room, angry with those who had taken them so quickly from this Earth, seeking vengeance. Frankie tried not to let the ominous presences get to him, and he walked forward to search for the body. Then it hit him...what was he searching for? He knew he was looking for a man, but who? He had absolutely no idea...but ingenuity kicked in and he thought of a way to find out. He strolled back through the doors into the reception. The secretary looked up quickly, acknowledged Frankie, and then returned to her computer.
'So...did you hear the news today? Awful isn't it? That poor man,' Frankie questioned, acting as casual as he possibly could.
'Oh yes, they brought the corpse into here earlier. There was quite a hubbub surrounding it...all these police officers came in...the main inquiry starts tomorrow,' she replied speedily. This, Frankie had not anticipated. It turns out that the secretary was a bit of a gossip...always ready to divulge information. Frankie picked up on this and used it to his advantage.
'So...did you manage to catch the man's name? I missed it,' he questioned again, sounding even more nonchalant than before.
'If I recall correctly...which I probably won't...his name was Spencer something, possibly Sonners or something like that. No summers... Spenser summers, that was it.' Frankie noticed she was quite quirky, but he liked her. But, not allowing the façade to collapse, he strutted off back into the main room. Each body was encapsulated within a form of cabinet, and their name was printed on the front door. He pawed speedily through the names, until he found the metallic draw entitled, Spencer Summers. With a sense of dread embedded deep within his stomach, he heaved the cabinet open, and a figure covered in a white cloth lay before him. Even though he had dreamed of pursuing a detective career, he had always had a bit of a phobia of death, and dead people, but having lived on that estate for what seemed like forever, he had become familiarised with death and acquainted with dead bodies. Biting his tongue, he slowly drew away the cloth to chest level. The man had the pale complexion synonymous with death. He had a pained expression on his face, but what's more, deep in his eyes was the look of betrayal. Truth be told, Frankie didn't have a clue what to investigate for, but he continued searching. On the man's thin neck was a sole slash, what presumably had been the slash that had taken his life. Frankie looked at his dry, chapped lips, and noticed something off. They weren't all the same colour. The bottom lip was the natural pinkish colour, whilst on the upper lip, there was a peachy pigment. Confused, Frankie looked closer, and noticed that this pigment was somewhat artificial, for it was not even, and breached out past his upper lip, onto the roof of his mouth. Frankie had no doubt there was some significance to this substance, made a quick note about it onto his small jotter pad, and then continued his inspection. Slowly, he stepped backwards to glance at the corpse from a distance. There was something disconcerting about the positions of the corpse's hands. Whilst one hand naturally curved over, the other seemed to be tightly clutching something. Frankie returned to the side of the body and clasped the arm. The coldness of the arm made the hairs on Frankie's neck stand on end. The rigor mortis had begun to set in, Frankie sensed, as he felt the resistance when moving the arm. He gazed at the hand, it's pallor and strikingly visible veins mesmerised him. Slowly unclenching the fist, something fell from Summer's hand onto the floor. This intrigued Frankie, as items were supposed to be completely removed from corpses before the autopsy. How had this rogue object survived the removal? He could see it was a crumpled up piece of paper. On further inspection he could see the writing, blue and in a very neat writing. As Frankie read the letter, it unfolded a web of revelations from Summers...revelations about being fired from his job, about how his love had left him, and finally how he decided that life was too long for his liking. Frankie read, re-read, and then read again the note. So...suicide?
'That would be an obvious conclusion...but there's something that doesn't work,' Frankie thought to himself. There were just a few things that didn't tie up to the suicide hypothesis. Frankie would have wanted to inspect the mysterious substance on his lips further, but suddenly, a clatter came from the door.
'What do you mean you just let him in? Insolence!' yelled a disgruntled male voice from the reception. Frankie knew his ruse had been foiled. He quickly crumpled the note into his pocket, and fled out through the fire escape. However, Frankie was not put off by his detection, and continued his search. From the case file he found with the body, Frankie found there were two more bodies linked to the case, scattered in morgues; one in Westminster, and one in Baron's Court. Pulling his jacket over his head to stop the wind from striking his ears...he walked off through the alleyways and continued his search.
He returned from his inspections later that afternoon. He moved inconspicuously through the estate, so as not to draw attention from the vicious teens that circulated around the estate. Fatigued, he slammed the door behind him, and assumed his favourite position in his chair. He pondered the day's events. Both bodies he had previously inspected were similar to that of Summer's. A single laceration along the jugular, and no signs of a struggle, or any resistance from the victims. There was something odd that plagued Frankie's mind. Why were the two bodies he had just looked at been in the morgue for up to six months? Apart from the point that the cases were unsolved, why hadn't they been removed? None of the bodies had been claimed by family members or anyone for that matter. This meant all of these men had been lonely, and would not be missed. There would be no pursuit of an inquiry by anyone...so the case, if remained unresolved...would stay unresolved. This spoke volumes to Frankie. If the murderer knew that these men would not be missed, then they were not spontaneous attacks, but rather preconceived by the murderer. And thus the murderer must have known all of the victims on a personal level, and vice versa. But Frankie knew he couldn't use this fact to his advantage. To find any contacts or acquaintances of the victims, he would have to have resources or contacts in the Metropolitan Police...things he just didn't have. There was also no suicide note with the other two bodies. Frankie had known it sub-consciously all along...the suicide note was a red herring. There had been no suicide, the facts just don't add up. How had the note survived removal of clothing and items...unless someone had wanted the note to be found? From the moment the letter fell out of Summer's grasp, Frankie could sense there was something misleading about it. Obviously, the murderer went to this length to avoid detection. They must have wanted the police to assume that after all of Summer's misfortunes, in a rage he slashed his throat and fell into the river. He had to admit, it nearly had him convinced. So now that that factor had been dismissed, there left one clue. There was a recurring feature however, that had Frankie quite baffled. All three cadavers had different coloured lips. The substance still remained ambiguous to him. Whiskers, apparently hungry, leapt up onto his lap and curled up into a ball. Frankie slowly ran his hand up and down Whiskers' back, the soft fur comforting his sore hands. Whiskers emitted a gentle purring, lush with content. Frankie continued his thoughts. What could it possibly be? Blood, possibly? But immediately he dismissed that idea, for blood was a deep penetrating red, whilst this was more of a peachy shade. Something he did know was that before each man met his death something came into contact with their lips causing them to change colours. Frankie knew he was looking too deep into the equation, a tendency of his. He lacked the ability to see solutions that sat staring back at him. But, then again, everyone needs a push in the right direction once in a while. On the verge of personal defeat, Frankie turned on the television to take his mind off things.
'Buy new shade Lipstick from Maybelline. Maybe she's born with it, Maybe it's Maybelline...' Elle McPherson spoke in her usual seductive tone. Finally, reality hit Frankie. He leapt up from his chair, sending Whiskers flying across the room. How could he not have spotted it? All he needed now was confirmation that it was what he suspected it was. Proud with his new discovery, he ran out of his apartment. As he was about to exit the building, he was greeted by a familiar face.
'Hello stranger, long time no see,' the giant man heartily bellowed. He was no foe, Frankie reiterated to his paranoid mind. The man's name was Dirga, a Kenyan friend of Frankie's. Dirga had been Frankie's only true friend on the estate, a solace in hard times. However, he was not alone...for wrapped around his arm in a tight embrace was his newfound love, a woman named Anna. The two had met very recently, and since then, Dirga had been distant towards Frankie, no longer popping round for spontaneous visits. He was always mesmerised by her, it was obvious. But Frankie found it ridiculous that Dirga could be oblivious so not to see the pig-headedness and arrogance of the Polish enigma. Dirga had told Frankie of how she was strangely reluctant to reveal her past but how it did not concern him anyway. Frankie however, was more cynical of her and towards him she came across as a cold, disconcerting person of which he was suspicious of. She was blessed with many sub-human characteristics. Visually, her face was structured in such a fashion that her cheekbones were sharply defined, and pinkish tan blended in with her lips. Maybe this was just random prejudice...even Frankie found it hard to believe his resent for this woman that he had known for so little time. Sending Anna a cold piercing glare, Frankie gave Dirga a quick wave and proceeded through the thick iron doors.
Having learnt from his previous encounter, Frankie was reluctant to go in via the front door of the morgue, in fear of being recognised by the secretary. Thus he snuck in through the fire escape, and was comforted by the fact that the room was empty, excluding the one hundred odd corpses. He made a quick witty retort to himself...'They should lock that door, someone could sneak in.' Having been familiarised with the cold monotonous room, he ran straight to the body of Spencer, and removed the cloth from his face. His face had turned a greyish pallor since their last encounter, evidently a victim of rapid decomposing. Frankie reached into his back pocket and pulled out a scrunched-up tissue. Slowly, he brought the tissue to Summer's lips and wiped the substance. With one swipe, it had come off. It wasn't blood after all...it was lipstick. After an instantaneous deduction, he deduced that Spencer must have experienced an encounter with a woman before, as did the other two victims. They must have all been murdered by the same woman, Frankie uttered under his breath. Then, the reality of the situation hit him. Anna...his nemesis. But, she couldn't have done it, could she? Frankie knew he didn't like her and that she has was reluctant to reveal her past, but she would never do anything like that. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn't rule her out of the equation just yet.
Filled with contrasting emotions, Frankie sat on the wall, which led to the estate. Shaking with nerves, he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a cigarette. Davidoff cigarettes...classy. Shame they weren't his...he nicked them from the local corner shop. He had been trying to quit, and had been successful up till now. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He was calmed, but he knew that it was fleeting. But then, a sudden wave of remorse and reluctance to continue. Why had he been so stupid as to undertake this investigation? But then, his renowned characteristics of dignity and pride came into play, and he realized why. Would he rather prefer to be known as the underdog who caught the anonymous femme fatale from against all odds...or the pathetic man who gave up when the going got tough. He chuckled to himself...'against all odds', 'going gets tough'...where did he pick up all these teen-flick idioms. However, the sudden rustle of two people vacating the estate interrupted his momentary euphoria. At a closer look, he realized it was Dirga...and what's more, Frankie's prime suspect, Anna. After quick consideration, he made the decision to pursue them. After taking one last dose of nicotine, he threw his cigarette onto the floor, and walked off.
After an hour, it had become apparent to Frankie that the two had just gone out for a 'lover's walk', and nothing more. 'Maybe I've got it wrong, maybe she isn't a killer,' Frankie questioned himself, with a tone of sadness. But he was still cynical of her, and thus continued watching them, as quietly and still as possible. He had been so engrossed in his reconnaissance that he hadn't realised that night had fallen, and that the time was approaching midnight. After a couple more steps, the two lovers reached an illuminated spot by the River Thames. Frankie watched intently, only pausing to either study his surroundings to see if he was being watched himself, or to gaze at the moon, high in the nights sky, casting gentle rays over the land. He resumed his watching, another stab of paranoia. He started questioning just how right he really is. Suddenly, there was activity. Dirga stopped, and turned abruptly. Had he spotted Frankie? Frankie dropped to the floor, lying inert on the cold brick. He still could see the two from his new more secreted position. Dirga looked deeply into Anna's eyes, and they both fell into a deep kiss. It was then that Frankie realised that the past week had been a complete waste. Anna wasn't a killer, but rather a woman madly in love with Dirga. To even contemplate Anna murdering was ludicrous. Frankie turned one hundred and eighty degrees and began to walk off, when suddenly a tiny glimmer of light glinted in the side of his eye, temporarily blinding him. Without hesitating, Frankie turned and faced the lovers, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Anna held a blade in her right hand, seeped with blood, and on the floor laid Dirga, betrayal and pain augmented in his sad eyes. Frankie ran over and fell to the ground and wept emotionally for his friend. He was right all the time; she was a cold-blooded murdering bitch. But then, his emotions of sorrow and mourning were replaced with his most notorious emotion, vengeance. He rose to his feet, and wiped the tears from his stinging eyes. 'It was you all the time! You found lonely men who would never be missed, befriended them and then murdered them after a kiss - a kiss of death. You snuck into the morgues, planting suicide notes in their hands, hoping they would throw the clueless police off the trail. You're a murdering bitch!' Frankie yelled viciously at the top of his voice. He had never felt rage like this...and he liked it! However, his revelation appeared to have no impact upon Anna. Her facial expression remained unchanged. And then, slowly, very slowly, she made her way towards Frankie. She moved as if she was gliding over water, with the poise of an angel, smooth and graceful. Slowly, she moved so that she stood face to face with Frankie and clasped her hands gently around his neck. Frankie felt the overwhelming surge to hit her, but another essence inside of him was strangely compelled to let it happen. He didn't hate her, he was infatuated with her; he loved her more than anything at that moment, driven by his great yearn for love. No, shut up! He yelled to himself. Frankie was deluded by his emotions, she had cast her spell upon Frankie like those before him. He hated this cold-blooded killer, yet, when she held him, he belonged to her, like there was an invisible magnetism between the two. Anna slowly brought her head forward, and placed her lips on Frankie. Her flesh soothed Frankie, causing his world to stop. All that mattered to him now was Anna...beautiful Anna. Frankie's logical mind slowly faded, and became displaced by the hex of Anna. 'No, fight it. She must be stopped!' his sub-conscious pleaded. But before he could regain control over his body and mind, the glimmer of the light had once again returned, and as subtle as before, she was gone. With no remorse at all, Anna slinked off, disappearing into the night once again. Frankie himself had tasted the kiss of death, but the second before he died, Frankie had one prevailing thought...he would not be missed.
