By Tony Flood
Fall Guy – Who Really Killed His Wife?
This is the first chapter from Tony Flood’s crime thriller Fall Guy, Who Really Killled His Wife? which has been endorsed by best-selling author Peter James and is available as both an e-version and paperback on Amazon.co.uk
CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday October 6th, 2021
George Thornhill interrupted a business meeting with a client to accept a phone call from his gorgeous wife Isabella on her 32nd birthday. She simply said: “I’m wearing the black kimono you gave me this morning – and nothing else!”
“Nothing? What if someone comes round?”“You’d better get home before they do, darling,” she teased, and then rang off.
George, the owner of a construction company in Lewes, apologised to the client, and agreed a much more generous deal than he had intended so he could wrap things up early.
He rushed to his Nissan Qashqai to avoid getting drenched by the rain, and, before driving off, checked that the clock on the dashboard corresponded with his watch.
He smiled at seeing they both showed 2.07 pm – five minutes fast, as he always set them, to help him avoid his tendency of being late.
‘Blimey! I’m actually ahead of schedule for once, and I’ll miss the mid-afternoon Friday traffic in Eastbourne – Isabella will be surprised. There’ll be time for some birthday nooky before we go out to dinner this evening.’
George’s thoughts focused on his wife’s hourglass figure which had made her so successful as a fashion model.
The sharp blast of a car horn ended his daydream abruptly. He suddenly realised his Nissan was drifting dangerously towards the opposite traffic lane and quickly adjusted the steering wheel. The car skidded on the wet surface, but corrected itself when he turned into the skid.
George chastised himself for his lapse into a flight of fantasy almost causing an accident.
‘It could be due to the Sumatriptan I’ve started taking for my migraines,’ he thought. ‘They might be causing me to feel dizzy and my mind to wander. I’d better check with the doctor.’
He sped past a 30mph sign before he regained his concentration. ‘Damn, I’m doing almost 40. I should have taken the alternative route, then I wouldn’t be risking getting caught again by this bloody speed trap.’ He slowed to
25mph, determined not to incur another motoring fine to add to the one he had received a few months back.
Even so, George had time to stop off to buy a large bouquet of flowers and still park in the drive of his stylish, semi-detached bungalow in Langney at three o’clock – 3.05 pm by his watch!
He looked in the car mirror to check his mass of brown hair was as well-groomed as possible. ‘Not bad’, he thought, stroking his chin where the only blemish was a small scar caused by a fall many years ago. George picked up the flowers from the passenger seat, opened the nearside door and slid out.
After nodding to an elderly neighbour who was hurrying to avoid the rain by getting into his old Honda, George opened his front door, calling out “Hello, darling.”
Startled by a sound of groaning from the lounge, he dropped the flowers and hurried into the room to be met with the terrible sight of Isabella lying on the floor with a knife in her chest. Blood was gushing from a large wound, soaking her black satin kimono and the carpet.
“Isabella!” he yelled. “Oh, my God, what’s happened?”
George rushed to his wife’s side and heard her gasp something inaudible.
His first instinct was to pull out the knife, but was aware that it could make such injuries even worse.
He tried pressing down on either side of the wound and pushing the opening together. His efforts were in vain and blood continued to flow.
‘What else can I do?’ he thought. ‘It might help to take the damn thing out.’ He grabbed the handle, removed the kitchen knife from the wound and threw it on the floor before trying again to seal the large gash.
But Isabella’s eyes, pale blue like his own, slowly closed and she stopped breathing.
George gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation without getting any response. He felt his wife’s wrist for a pulse – there was none.
In desperation he shook the motionless body, causing flecks of blood to spread to her long blonde hair and his own, before finally accepting he could not bring her back to life.
“No, no, no,” the distraught husband cried out, sobbing uncontrollably and holding her close to him.
George saat in a trance for several minutes. Finally grasping what needed to be done, he walked across the llounge to pick up the telephone and dial 999. But the phone suddenly started ringing.
“Hello,” he muttered into the mouthpiece.
“Is that you, George?” It was his mother-in-law.
“Isabella’s been stabbed.”
“What?” she cried. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Just phone the police!” he yelled back.
“George, have you had another row? Isabella told me you argued this morning. Have you stabbed her?”
“Please stop asking me questions, Ruth. She’s dead.”
“No. That can’t be true. Did you do it?”
“Ruth, phone the bloody police, will you!” He slammed down the phone.
In the 14 minutes before the police arrived, he protected his dead wife’s ‘modesty’ by pulling together the kimono he had given her as a birthday present that morning so her breasts were no longer exposed.
xxxxx
George, whose blue suit and hands were still covered in blood, told the lead officer DI Jeff Nottage how he’d tried desperately to save his wife without success.
But the devastated husband found it hard to concentrate on what the policeman was saying in response and began to suffer a migraine which caused him to feel sick and dizzy.
“When your mother-in-law phoned us she seemed to think you had rowed with your row and stabbed her.”
“No,” protested George. “I came in to find her lying on the floor after being attacked.”
His grief, coupled with the effects of the Sumatriptan he took, was causing a feeling of nausea to sweep over him.
‘I’d better breathe in and out slowly or I’m going to throw up,’ George thought.
If he needed a distraction it was provided by the Scene of Crime Officers, dressed in protective clothing, scrutinizing everything in sight. The whole thing seemed a blur, including being driven to Eastbourne Police Station where his blood-covered suit and other clothing were taken for
examination.
The dizziness was replaced by nausea as he sat in a sweatshirt, jogging bottoms and plimsolls provided by the police, but he tried to collect his thoughts upon being further questioned by Nottage and another officer.
George became aware that their tone had changed from when he first encountered them.
“Did your wife have any enemies?” Nottage asked.
“On the contrary, as a glamorous fashion model she had a lot of fans.”
The policeman took the opportunity to develop this line of inquiry. “Presumably, most of them were male admirers. Was that difficult for you?”
“Yes, it could be annoying, especially as some of these blokes were quite blatant about what she looked like in underwear. We had a few words this morning about amorous birthday messages she received on Facebook. I told her she should delete them, but she just laughed it off.”
“So you argued?”
“You could say that. The non-stop attention she received was a real pain. It brought extra stress and I began taking Sumatriptan tablets for migraines. But we loved each other and Isabella phoned me to suggest I came home early from
work today to have sex.”
The feeling of sickness returned, causing George to add: “I’m not feeling up to answering any more questions at the moment. Is it alright if I go now?”
He was shocked when Nottage replied: “You don’t seem to realise the full implications of what I told you earlier, sir.”
“My wife’s death has been devastating. I wasn’t fully focused on what you were saying as I had one of my migraines. Remind me.”
Nottage spelt it out. “I referred to you being covered in blood and, by your own admission, you held the knife that killed your wife. There was no trace of anyone else having been present – no footprints, nothing. And when your mother-in-law asked on the phone if you had done the stabbing you didn’t deny it.
“So I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything unless yhou wish to do so, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Author Bio:
Author Tony Flood, who lives in Eastbourne, has spent most of his working life as a journalist, initially on local and regional papers and then on nationals. He was also editor of ‘Football Monthly’, Controller of Information at Sky Television and enjoyed a spell with ‘The People.’
In his celebrity book My Life With The Stars – Sizzling Secrets Spilled, Tony recalls: “My work as a showbiz and leisure writer, critic and editor saw me take on a variety of challenges – learning to dance with Strictly Come Dancing star Erin Boag, becoming a stand-up comedian and playing football with the late George Best and Bobby Moore in charity matches.”
My Life With The Stars provides revelations and amusing anecdotes about showbiz and sports personalities including Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra, Muhammad Ali, George Best, Kylie Minogue, Eric Morecambe and Des O’Connor.
Tony also writes in other genres and his crime thrillers have been endorsed by best-selling author Peter James. They are Triple Tease, Stitch Up – Killer or Victim? and Fall Guy – who really killed his wife?, and all feature compassionate copper DCI Harvey Livermore. In addition, there’s a fantasy adventure for youngsters called Secret Potion and a book Tony has co-written with wife Heather, aptly titled Laughs and Tears Galore – short stories and poems with twists!
Recently, Tony joined The Collective of seven local writers all contributing one character to family saga Driven by Desire, which is full of conflict, fierce ambition and passion as well as a dramatic kidnap.
Tony also writes theatre reviews for the Eastbourne Herald, Brighton Argus and BourneFree Live, as well as playing veterans football for Sovereign Harbour Veterans. He is the oldest – and slowest – player in the team.
Contact Author:
Email: tflood04@yahoo.co.uk
