The Devil and the Detective

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Crime is law. Law is crime. That much is obvious. Interpret it however you like but it still holds.

Enough abstraction. Time for the case.

The phone call came in the late evening and the woman on the other end of the line was crying.

‘Mr. James,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I need your help,’ she said. ‘My husband. He’s been murdered.’

‘How did you get my number?’

‘Martin Bouvert. My lawyer. He gave it to me.’ She started weeping. ‘Mr. James, please. I need your help. He’s been stabbed in the chest. Gerald’s been stabbed in the chest!’

‘Calm down, ma’am. I don’t even know your name.’

‘Elaine,’ she said. ‘Elaine Andrews.’

Although it was late I was awake, or somewhat awake. I’d been reading a book on the couch and drinking whiskies. I was tired and groggy but still awake.

‘Have you called the police, Mrs. Andrews? Where’s your husband?’

‘Yes … I’ve called the police … and my husband’s in the living room, with a knife in his chest … He’s soaked in blood … ’

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