Day 188 – Writing exercise

…

When you look back and think about certain aspects of your life and wonder, for that fraction of a second, if you had done one thing differently, it would have made a difference.

Some well-meaning relative had said, thinking that I was not near enough to overhear, that my insistence on wanting to see the Pont d’veccio in Florence was ‘a bridge too far’, was the reason why Alexandra was dead, was not fair.

But in a literal sense it was true.  Had I not insisted, she would still be alive, and that was true.

I was standing there right now, practically in the same place, at the same time, and the memory of what happened came flooding back.

Richard Wyler, Alexandria’s high school boyfriend, had appeared out of the crowd of tourists, now grown more devilishly handsome than he had been at school.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, nearly all of 20 years later; they saw each other, and it was like I was not there.  I had known, even from the moment I met her, she had not forgotten him, even though he had abandoned her.

I had never believed that after he left I would have any sort of chance with her.  None of us in the year did, but it happened; we dropped together at college, got jobs in New York, kept bumping into each other and five years later got married.

It wasn’t until the children themselves went to college that we decided to go on the grand tour of Europe, the honeymoon we had planned but never got to take, what with one thing or another.

We got to Florence; the first few days were glorious, and then Richard appeared.

That morning a change had come over her.  One minute everything was fine; she was going down to the front desk to get a map of Florence before we went for a walking tour to round out the experience. 

She went down happier than I had seen her in years.  When she came back, it was like she was a completely different person.  I had asked her if everything was alright, but she wouldn’t tell me.

I asked her if she wanted to stay in, rest, if things had caught up and she was feeling tired, but she said I wanted to go, so we did.

And by the time we got to the bridge, I was ready to just walk away and leave her to gather her thoughts.  Then Richard appeared, and instantly she had changed again.  Back to that giddy effervescent teenager she had been back then.

Clearly she wanted to spend some time with him, and I knew and trusted her to spend some time with him, thinking it would push away the bad mood she was in.

Until she didn’t come back, and I could not get her on her cell phone.  Of course I was a little disappointed she had called to tell me that she was spending some more time with him, so I let it go.

She would come back when she was ready.

Until she had not returned the next morning.  That’s when I got worried.  He phone was now officially dead, the battery having given out.  It was one of her quirks, never remembering to charge it overnight. 

Again I waited until lunchtime, though I was not sure of my reasoning, before I went to the police

That in itself was the worst five hours of my life, going through a succession of officers saying the same answers to the same set of questions over and over.

Until I finally found an officer of the Gendarmerie who could speak English, and started asking more serious questions.  It was she who had just been advised of an unidentified American woman who had been taken to hospital with serious wounds.

She could not say the exact nature of the circumstances but accompanied me to the hospital to see if it might be Alexandria.  I thought it impossible; it had to be someone else.

When we arrived, she was advised the patient had just died.  I felt a cold shiver go through me, the sort that felt like an omen.

Getting from the front foyer of the hospital, the rather room on the fourth floor seemed to take an eternity, the corridor full of police and hospital staff.  The room was cleared, and after a few minutes, she came out to take me in.

I knew the moment I stepped through the door.  When they drew back the sheet, I collapsed.  It was like my whole world had been pulled from under me.

It was her.

…

Several people asked me if I was alright; that moment I saw her face had hit me as hard now as it had then, and I had to stop myself from falling over.

How had she died?

She had been shot.  Not alone.  Whoever had killed her had also killed Richard Wyler.  And, it appeared he had been the intended target, and Alexandra had been caught in the crossfire.

She had been alive when they found her, in another hotel, on an island on the other side of the city.

Of course, the Italian police had taken my statement when I had sought their assistance in finding her, and had made the mistake of mentioning Wyler’s importance and relationship to her, and drew all the wrong conclusions.

And for the next week I had to find a lawyer and try to prove to them that I had not shot both of them in a jealous rage. Fortunately? In the end, the hotel was able to provide CCTV of the actual shooter, and it didn’t look like me.

But I have to prove that I had not hired him to do the job for me.  Even my children, as loyal as they were to me, had doubts until proven otherwise, but the damage was done.

If I hadn’t taken her there, she would still be alive.  Her family didn’t speak to me, her friends hated me, and my children had just stopped coming home.

So why was I back in Florence revisiting the place that caused me all that grief?

I wanted to know what happened.  I was retracing steps.  I had the police report, and I had the private investigator’s report retracing her steps from the moment she met Wyler to the moment they were shot in his hotel room.

The private investigator’s report read like I was caught up in a thriller novel.  It was, when I first read it, unbelievable.  I thought the fellow was making it all up, because he had painted both of them as completely unrecognisable characters.

I had told me one because no one would believe me.

It was one of the reasons I was on that bridge.

It was a message on my phone.  No caller ID.  Simple.  “Meet me on the bridge, same day, same time, this week. I have information about Alexandria.”

Thursday, 1 pm.

…

It had to be a sick joke.  She had been here, saw Tyler and did what she did.  Nothing anyone could tell me about it was going to change the fact she was dead, and was not coming back.

I was looking for closure, not a reopening of the wound, and yet, with a morbid sense of curiosity, I found myself on the bridge at the appointed time, waiting.

For whom.  Obviously, they knew me by sight, which in itself was scary.  Who was this person?  Was it a shake-down, information for money?  It wouldn’t surprise me.

“Mr Guillam?”

First surprise, it was a woman’s voice; second surprise, she knew me by sight, and when I turned to see who asked the question, third surprise, Alexandria’s oldest friend now estranged, for reasons she would never explain.

“Deborah.”

Deborah Willis, the girl who went through high school and college with her best friend and two others, though Alexandria never told me their names.  By the time she married me, she had moved away and never mentioned them.  Only Deborah had remained until something happened.

“Edward.  Long time, no see.”

“Alexandria never told me why; she just came home from one of your weekends and said she was done with you.”

“Let’s walk.”  I noticed she had been looking around, perhaps looking for someone.

We walked off the bridge and back the way I’d come.

I sensed she needed a moment to recover from the shock of meeting me again, and to gather her thoughts.

“Alexandria was always a piece of work,” she said, finally, with an edge to her tone.  “In school she was the leader of the pack, with us lesser mortals always clamouring to be in her group.  As you can imagine, we had a love-hate relationship.”

Alexandria was difficult at times, I had to admit, but her mother once told me that she needed treating with kid gloves from time to time.  It had a lot to do with self-image and confidence.

The thing is, I found she was rarely short of either, and that it was best just to yield to her will.  That popularity extended into adulthood, and I knew she liked to flirt but trusted she knew where the boundaries were.

It was sad when I discovered she did not.  Then it was a matter of what I was prepared to live with.  We had a comfortable life, though I sensed at times she was bored.  The trip around Europe was supposed to cure that.

Perhaps it was just an excuse for her to look for something else, something less boring.  I didn’t love her less.

“She was unique.”

She looked at me sideways.  “So, you know she and Tyler’s never stopped seeing each other even after you were married.”

The thought of that stopped me in my tracks.  She had never once mentioned him after declaring he had abandoned her.  Then, if I thought about it, it all sounded a little staged.  I was too blinded by my good fortune to see it, and so much easier for her to keep up the pretence

She realised I’d stopped and came back.

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have guessed.  The signs were all there when you know what to look for.”

“It’s why I never came to your wedding.  None of us did.  We knew it was hypocrisy.  It was also the beginning of the end.  None of us liked what she was doing.  Meeting him here was not a surprise, at least not the one she wanted you to believe.  They planned it.”

I wondered in that brief moment if Deborah was here to rub salt into a gaping wound.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I work for the same people Wyler does.  Different section, but I know everything there is to know about him.  Where he is, what he’s doing.  Which brought him to Florence.  I knew Alexandria was coming here, and why.  That performance at the bridge was Oscar-winning material.  She was, after all, the leading lady in all our school and college productions.”

A titbit of information she never shared.  As far as she was concerned, school had been a drudge, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

“What does Wyler do, you too for that matter, and why bother telling me all this?”

Perhaps she sensed the anger in my tone.  “Because it was Wyler who was killed, not her.  That hospital charade was set up by me so that we could get her back home.  She was close to death, but she didn’t die.”

Why did I get the feeling the next thing she was going to tell was something I didn’t want to know?

“Wyler was an intelligence gatherer.  He was good at being the hero, the one in the room that everyone noticed, the one in the room everyone wanted to tell their life story to, especially the ladies.”

“A spy?”

“No.  He just talked to specially targeted people, mostly women, and extracted information by any and all means necessary.”

“Was Alexandria a target?”  I’m not sure what I was supposed to think, but it was getting more difficult to believe any of this.

“No.  She was basically just some fool who thought she was in love with him when he just wanted to fuck her.  It’s what we argued about, and why she told me to go to hell.  It wasn’t worth burning her marriage over.  Anyway, I told the bosses he was compromised and why, and they told him to end it.  That was what he was supposed to do here.”

“When they met, it looked to me to be that last thing on his mind.  And, so the police told me, she was found shot in his hotel bed.”

“They both were.  He was the target.  He had a job in Siena, but he was sloppy and the people the woman worked for found out.  They sent an assassin.  The thing was, he hadn’t filed a report, and we needed it, so I assumed in those last moments before he did, he passed it on, or at the very least, where the information was.”

It was a story, and so far-fetched that it was almost believable.  They say truth is stranger than fiction, and I guess when it came to intelligence, the how always comes ahead of the why.

“Did he?”

“The short answer is yes.  The long answer requires more time and effort than I care to expend.”

“Did she tell you?”

“No.  She had leverage.  We need it; she knows it.”

“And you’re here because?”

“She’s somewhere in Florence.  She escaped once she realised what was going on, whether she thinks she’s in danger from us, or the others, I don’t know, and I’m assuming she has come to get the information and use it to make a bargain.”

And if all those TV shows I’d seen over the years were right, she didn’t have a bargaining chip, just a one-way ticket to the graveyard.  Once she handed it over, no more leverage.

Then there was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: what did all of this have to do with me?  Now I knew she had been cheating on me all this time; it made the loss less painful.  The fact he was using her, maybe that was karma.

“How does any of this involve me?”

“I think she’ll try to contact you.”

“How could she possibly know I’m here?”  Then it dawned on me.  The masters of intelligence gathering, she’d known exactly where every character would be on the chessboard. “You told her.”

“She asked.  We had to make sure they didn’t come after you and her children, just to be safe, so if you feel like people have been watching you, you weren’t imagining it.”

I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to say that.

I shrugged.  “She’s not a spy, so I don’t expect much.”

“You’d be surprised.  I am at the level of cunning she has acquired in the last week, particularly in evading us.”

“I can’t help her.”

“I think she believes you can.”

“I won’t.”

“She’ll have a story, a convincing one.  She has spent years lying to everyone, even to herself.  We just want you to call us when she does approach you.  She is out of her depth.  I am too if you want the truth, and since this all went sideways, I just want out.  Unfortunately, this was deemed my mess, and I have to clean it up.  Just call me when she comes.  I’ll do the rest.”

“Which is?”

“As usual, resolve the problem by any or all means available.  Irrespective of the cost.”

She looked tired.

I just felt like a building had fallen on me.

When we parted, I didn’t think I’d see her again.  A pity, in another lifetime I liked her perhaps a little more than I should.  I’d always wondered what Deborah had seen in her.

…

The idea of confronting a dead person was not something I had been contemplating.  What it did was anger me, considering the damage it had done to me by all those who believed I killed her, children included.

To be honest, getting away, far away from all of them, had been necessary for my sanity, and I had seriously been contemplating never going back

While staying in Greve, I had been looking at cottages, and deciding where I might just stay and never go home.  If Alexandria was alive, the kids could have her; everyone could.

I trudged up the stairs to my hotel room, churning over every little detail that, if I had looked harder, would have pointed to the betrayal.  It annoyed me that I refused to look at them then, or believe something was wrong.

And then on the landing, a new sensation hit me.  The scent of her perfume.  It wasn’t for the first time, and I’d believed it to be my imagination wanting to believe she hadn’t gone.

I opened the door, and the scent lingered.  I stepped in and closed the door behind me. 

I could feel her presence.  She had that ability to affect me.  She had a way of enveloping you, making you feel like you were the only one in the room with her.

Except it was all a lie.  Everything about her was a lie, and I’d allowed myself to be caught up in it.

I took the two steps from the door to the entrance to the dining room and said, “I know you’re here somewhere, Alex.”

Then she stepped out, the old Alexandria, the one who could still take my breath away the same as she had twenty years ago. And probably always would.

“Of course you do.  My charming friend Debby has been in your ear.”

“Nearly five months and you didn’t think to tell me.”

“They wouldn’t let me.”

“You wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to hear.”

“A man gave his life for it.”

“The same man you’ve been screwing for years.”

OK.  That finally silenced her.  I wondered if she knew just how much Deborah would tell me.  Just enough also that I would do her bidding.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, or you wouldn’t have done it.  It fits with my initial assessment, the silly fool who thought he’d won the lottery, only to discover that he was really the inconvenient excuse.  Twenty years, Alex.  You must feel so vastly superior.”

“You may never believe me, Edward, but I am sorry.  It was unforgivable, arrogant and selfish of me.  I did, do care for you.”

“Did. That had run its course by the time we got on the plane.  You made it perfectly clear you wanted to be anywhere but with me.”

“You changed,” she said, as if those two words would explain it all away.

“No.  I’m exactly the same as I was when I met you.  You changed.  Wyler changed you.  He had the lifestyle, the life you always saw you wanted.  It didn’t include kids or a husband.”

“I’m sure they don’t miss me.  I wasn’t much of a mother to them.  You did all of that.”

“They all think I killed you. Why do you think I’m here?  They never want to see me again.  No one back home does.”

“Interesting.”

Right then, had I given free rein to my emotions, I would have willingly throttled her.  How could I be tried for murder when she was already dead?  The fact I took two steps towards her, and she retreated, indicated she knew she had just hit a raw nerve.

“Look.  What happened didn’t go the way it was supposed to.  He told me it was the end, we couldn’t do it any more, and I convinced him to be together one last time.  Had I known he was a marked man and an assassin was coming to kill him, a small detail he forgot to mention, everything would have been fine.  I would have come back, admitted I was having an affair, and we would talk about it.  But what happened happened.  What are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing.  You’re going to leave, I’m not going home, there’s nothing and no one there I care for any more.  Why did you bother tracking me down when you knew what the result would be?”

“I thought you’d be more forgiving.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t faked your death.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“And that’s the problem right there.  You are not going to take responsibility for your actions.  I’m surprised you haven’t blamed me for everything that went wrong.  All this time I blame myself, that if I hadn’t brought you here you’d still be alive…” I glared at her.  “Just get out of my sight.”

“I am sorry.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

I think she finally saw the futility in arguing with me.  She simply shrugged and left.

I called Deborah and told he she just left my room.

…

Life sometimes surprises you.

I didn’t go home, I told no one where I was going, and decided that, aside from my neighbours who called me that mysterious man who doesn’t say much, I kept to myself, tending my acre of olive trees somewhere in Tuscany.

It took me six slow and sometimes difficult months to repair the villa back to a livable condition, and ahead of me were the final touches.  At least now when it rained I didn’t have to have a shower in the dining room.

About three months after I last saw Alexandria, I started getting emails from my children, the first from each admitting they had made assumptions and were glad to finally hear how and where their mother died.

Deborah was true to her word when she said they would get the truth or as close to the truth as possible.  She sent me copies of her emails and their questions so I was across it.

The main thing was I was not to blame, and what happened I could not have stopped.  There was also the blunt truth that she was having an affair with a bad man and they had promised to rendezvous in Florence.  She even had an email trail that disparaged me, and suggested they would meet and live together, somewhere in Italy.

Someone in her organisation was a master storyteller.

The irony was not lost on them when they learned I was living in Tuscany, and wasn’t planning to come back.  They asked for forgiveness, and I said it would take time.  Maybe I would let them come and visit, but no one else could.  Children were all over the place with their feelings and loyalties; adults knew what they were doing.

None deserved or would ever get my forgiveness.

Then, at the end of summer, eight months had passed, and it had been raining, cooling the hot August day, leaving it cool and just perfect.

Two cars, one with carabinieri on the side, stopped outside my house.

I knew who the person was in the second car, and watched the officer get out of the first car, go back to the other car, open the door and help a woman get out of the passenger’s side.  The officer was the same woman officer who had told me Alexandria was dead.

The drivers of the two cars got out and stood by their vehicles.  One was Deborah.

It meant that the procedures they used on Alexandria had worked. 

There had been one more conversation with Deborah and Alexandria a week after she had been captured outside my hotel.  There, Alexandria discovered she had two choices: one to be locked up in an isolated prison that no one had ever escaped from and would never leave, or she submitted to a memory erasure procedure, and if it worked, would be returned to me.

To me it sounded awful.  And illegal.  But it wasn’t my idea.  I argued against having it, because even in jail she would know who she was.

She said she had no choice.  Either way, in most respects she was dead, so what did it matter?  She signed the forms, and said she would see me again; and this time she would be different.

I wasn’t holding my breath.

After six months, I had all but given up expecting anything.  I had heard nothing, and I didn’t know where or who I was to ask.

Perhaps it had worked.

The woman I saw walking beside the officer was looking around, smiling, and I had to say she looked very little like the woman in my hotel room eight months ago.  She was like the girl I first met nearly twenty-one years ago, before the obsession with the gym and losing weight.  Her hair colour was golden, long, and out so that the breeze lifted wisps into her face, causing her to brush it aside.

She was in full summer mode, happy, confident, and she could still take my breath away.

I opened the door.  The officer acted as if she didn’t know me.

“Mr Walters?”

“Yes?”

“As discussed yesterday, we have brought your wife home.  She has slight memory loss, but the doctors agree it will return eventually.  She remembers you, which is, I believe, a good thing.”

She stood patiently beside the officer.  Her eyes registered recognition.  Deborah said she had her memory retrained to the point where she knew she was married to me, that we had once lived in another country and that we had moved here for her health.  And to recover from a very bad accident, which was the reason for her memory loss.  Other than that, she was perfectly well.

She also had a new name and an Italian heritage.  She had always been able to speak Italian fluently, as well as several other European languages.  That hadn’t changed.

“Alessandria.”

“Gordon.  I was surprised when they came yesterday to tell me I could come home.  You’ve done the place up.  I guess all that nagging finally worked out.”

I took her outstretched hand and guided her inside.  The office wasn’t staying.  Through the windows I saw Deborah’s wave before getting back in her car.  She would come back in a week to see how Alessandria was managing.

Then she gave me a hug.  In my ear she whispered, “You have no idea how glad I am to be home.”

“You have no idea how glad I am you are home.”

Now alone with her, I was not quite sure what to do next.  I knew she was Alexandria, but she didn’t look like her; they had made changes so she would not be too recognisable.  And it felt like I could not assume that everything would be marital bliss instantly.  She would have to find her way and get comfortable.

She kissed me on the cheek, hugged me, then went into the bedroom, checking if everything was there.  Several large cases had arrived the day before with her belongings, and I’d set them out like she had never been away.  Everything of Alexandria’s was there, including her favourite perfume.

She sat on the bed and smiled, then a tear ran down her cheek.  Happy, sad, glad, upset?

She patted the bed beside her, and I sat.

“We start again.  I think I was not too good a wife before; this I feel, not remember.  Do not tell me about previous life; we shall create a new one.”

“Do you feel comfortable here?”

“Why should I not?  We were, before the accident, embarking on a second honeymoon.  Let it be so, and perhaps let it not end.  Champagne?”

“Of course.”  I gently wiped the tears away and went out to get the bottle waiting in the fridge.

It was more than I expected, or hoped for.  I said a silent prayer of thanks, then took two glasses and the bottle in an ice bucket back to the room.

The computer had restarted, and there was a Zoom call, which, before I could stop her, she answered. 

It was Alexandria and Edward, our children, each named after us because Alexandria thought it was the thing to do.  I thought it was odd.

“Dad.” I could hear Edward before I could see him.  “Dad, you never told us Alessandria was home from the hospital.”

She was sitting in front of the screen, looking a little confused.  I had hoped to ease her into the fact she was a stepmother, and that they had one.

It seemed Deborah had woven a story for them.

“Just now, Ed, and she’s a little tired from the trip.  Can we do this tomorrow?”

“No.”  She said.  “I am alright.  I have been waiting and wanting to meet you, and hope that you will accept me not as a replacement but a friend if and when you need one.  You could come and stay for a while.  I would love to show you my country.”

“That’s what we called for.”  Alexandria had sat down beside Edward.  It was not hard to see her mother in the daughter.  “We thought we could visit, see a little of Italy, spend some time repairing bridges.”

“Of course.  When?”

“We arrived in Florence in two days.  Grandma arranged it.  She was coming with us, but Granddad got sick and is in hospital.  It will be just us, on our best behaviour.  OK.  Got to go.  See you then.”

The screen went blank.

I looked at Allessandria.  “Wow,” she said.  “They are everything you said they were, even if they made a mistake in blaming you for their mother’s death.  I guess children are like that.  Alexandria looks like her mother, doesn’t she?”

I looked at her, trying to tell if there was a hidden meaning in her tone.  Perhaps I worried too much.

“She does.  It hurts sometimes, but you managed to assuage that pain.  In more ways than one.”

“Is that why you picked me?  The name.  You know it’s the Italian version of it.”

“Perhaps in my grief it crossed my mind, but not specifically.  I simply fell in love with you the first time I saw you, and it only gets stronger every time I see you.  Now.  Champagne.  Time to celebrate your return.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 188 – Writing exercise

…

When you look back and think about certain aspects of your life and wonder, for that fraction of a second, if you had done one thing differently, it would have made a difference.

Some well-meaning relative had said, thinking that I was not near enough to overhear, that my insistence on wanting to see the Pont d’veccio in Florence was ‘a bridge too far’, was the reason why Alexandra was dead, was not fair.

But in a literal sense it was true.  Had I not insisted, she would still be alive, and that was true.

I was standing there right now, practically in the same place, at the same time, and the memory of what happened came flooding back.

Richard Wyler, Alexandria’s high school boyfriend, had appeared out of the crowd of tourists, now grown more devilishly handsome than he had been at school.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, nearly all of 20 years later; they saw each other, and it was like I was not there.  I had known, even from the moment I met her, she had not forgotten him, even though he had abandoned her.

I had never believed that after he left I would have any sort of chance with her.  None of us in the year did, but it happened; we dropped together at college, got jobs in New York, kept bumping into each other and five years later got married.

It wasn’t until the children themselves went to college that we decided to go on the grand tour of Europe, the honeymoon we had planned but never got to take, what with one thing or another.

We got to Florence; the first few days were glorious, and then Richard appeared.

That morning a change had come over her.  One minute everything was fine; she was going down to the front desk to get a map of Florence before we went for a walking tour to round out the experience. 

She went down happier than I had seen her in years.  When she came back, it was like she was a completely different person.  I had asked her if everything was alright, but she wouldn’t tell me.

I asked her if she wanted to stay in, rest, if things had caught up and she was feeling tired, but she said I wanted to go, so we did.

And by the time we got to the bridge, I was ready to just walk away and leave her to gather her thoughts.  Then Richard appeared, and instantly she had changed again.  Back to that giddy effervescent teenager she had been back then.

Clearly she wanted to spend some time with him, and I knew and trusted her to spend some time with him, thinking it would push away the bad mood she was in.

Until she didn’t come back, and I could not get her on her cell phone.  Of course I was a little disappointed she had called to tell me that she was spending some more time with him, so I let it go.

She would come back when she was ready.

Until she had not returned the next morning.  That’s when I got worried.  He phone was now officially dead, the battery having given out.  It was one of her quirks, never remembering to charge it overnight. 

Again I waited until lunchtime, though I was not sure of my reasoning, before I went to the police

That in itself was the worst five hours of my life, going through a succession of officers saying the same answers to the same set of questions over and over.

Until I finally found an officer of the Gendarmerie who could speak English, and started asking more serious questions.  It was she who had just been advised of an unidentified American woman who had been taken to hospital with serious wounds.

She could not say the exact nature of the circumstances but accompanied me to the hospital to see if it might be Alexandria.  I thought it impossible; it had to be someone else.

When we arrived, she was advised the patient had just died.  I felt a cold shiver go through me, the sort that felt like an omen.

Getting from the front foyer of the hospital, the rather room on the fourth floor seemed to take an eternity, the corridor full of police and hospital staff.  The room was cleared, and after a few minutes, she came out to take me in.

I knew the moment I stepped through the door.  When they drew back the sheet, I collapsed.  It was like my whole world had been pulled from under me.

It was her.

…

Several people asked me if I was alright; that moment I saw her face had hit me as hard now as it had then, and I had to stop myself from falling over.

How had she died?

She had been shot.  Not alone.  Whoever had killed her had also killed Richard Wyler.  And, it appeared he had been the intended target, and Alexandra had been caught in the crossfire.

She had been alive when they found her, in another hotel, on an island on the other side of the city.

Of course, the Italian police had taken my statement when I had sought their assistance in finding her, and had made the mistake of mentioning Wyler’s importance and relationship to her, and drew all the wrong conclusions.

And for the next week I had to find a lawyer and try to prove to them that I had not shot both of them in a jealous rage. Fortunately? In the end, the hotel was able to provide CCTV of the actual shooter, and it didn’t look like me.

But I have to prove that I had not hired him to do the job for me.  Even my children, as loyal as they were to me, had doubts until proven otherwise, but the damage was done.

If I hadn’t taken her there, she would still be alive.  Her family didn’t speak to me, her friends hated me, and my children had just stopped coming home.

So why was I back in Florence revisiting the place that caused me all that grief?

I wanted to know what happened.  I was retracing steps.  I had the police report, and I had the private investigator’s report retracing her steps from the moment she met Wyler to the moment they were shot in his hotel room.

The private investigator’s report read like I was caught up in a thriller novel.  It was, when I first read it, unbelievable.  I thought the fellow was making it all up, because he had painted both of them as completely unrecognisable characters.

I had told me one because no one would believe me.

It was one of the reasons I was on that bridge.

It was a message on my phone.  No caller ID.  Simple.  “Meet me on the bridge, same day, same time, this week. I have information about Alexandria.”

Thursday, 1 pm.

…

It had to be a sick joke.  She had been here, saw Tyler and did what she did.  Nothing anyone could tell me about it was going to change the fact she was dead, and was not coming back.

I was looking for closure, not a reopening of the wound, and yet, with a morbid sense of curiosity, I found myself on the bridge at the appointed time, waiting.

For whom.  Obviously, they knew me by sight, which in itself was scary.  Who was this person?  Was it a shake-down, information for money?  It wouldn’t surprise me.

“Mr Guillam?”

First surprise, it was a woman’s voice; second surprise, she knew me by sight, and when I turned to see who asked the question, third surprise, Alexandria’s oldest friend now estranged, for reasons she would never explain.

“Deborah.”

Deborah Willis, the girl who went through high school and college with her best friend and two others, though Alexandria never told me their names.  By the time she married me, she had moved away and never mentioned them.  Only Deborah had remained until something happened.

“Edward.  Long time, no see.”

“Alexandria never told me why; she just came home from one of your weekends and said she was done with you.”

“Let’s walk.”  I noticed she had been looking around, perhaps looking for someone.

We walked off the bridge and back the way I’d come.

I sensed she needed a moment to recover from the shock of meeting me again, and to gather her thoughts.

“Alexandria was always a piece of work,” she said, finally, with an edge to her tone.  “In school she was the leader of the pack, with us lesser mortals always clamouring to be in her group.  As you can imagine, we had a love-hate relationship.”

Alexandria was difficult at times, I had to admit, but her mother once told me that she needed treating with kid gloves from time to time.  It had a lot to do with self-image and confidence.

The thing is, I found she was rarely short of either, and that it was best just to yield to her will.  That popularity extended into adulthood, and I knew she liked to flirt but trusted she knew where the boundaries were.

It was sad when I discovered she did not.  Then it was a matter of what I was prepared to live with.  We had a comfortable life, though I sensed at times she was bored.  The trip around Europe was supposed to cure that.

Perhaps it was just an excuse for her to look for something else, something less boring.  I didn’t love her less.

“She was unique.”

She looked at me sideways.  “So, you know she and Tyler’s never stopped seeing each other even after you were married.”

The thought of that stopped me in my tracks.  She had never once mentioned him after declaring he had abandoned her.  Then, if I thought about it, it all sounded a little staged.  I was too blinded by my good fortune to see it, and so much easier for her to keep up the pretence

She realised I’d stopped and came back.

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have guessed.  The signs were all there when you know what to look for.”

“It’s why I never came to your wedding.  None of us did.  We knew it was hypocrisy.  It was also the beginning of the end.  None of us liked what she was doing.  Meeting him here was not a surprise, at least not the one she wanted you to believe.  They planned it.”

I wondered in that brief moment if Deborah was here to rub salt into a gaping wound.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I work for the same people Wyler does.  Different section, but I know everything there is to know about him.  Where he is, what he’s doing.  Which brought him to Florence.  I knew Alexandria was coming here, and why.  That performance at the bridge was Oscar-winning material.  She was, after all, the leading lady in all our school and college productions.”

A titbit of information she never shared.  As far as she was concerned, school had been a drudge, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

“What does Wyler do, you too for that matter, and why bother telling me all this?”

Perhaps she sensed the anger in my tone.  “Because it was Wyler who was killed, not her.  That hospital charade was set up by me so that we could get her back home.  She was close to death, but she didn’t die.”

Why did I get the feeling the next thing she was going to tell was something I didn’t want to know?

“Wyler was an intelligence gatherer.  He was good at being the hero, the one in the room that everyone noticed, the one in the room everyone wanted to tell their life story to, especially the ladies.”

“A spy?”

“No.  He just talked to specially targeted people, mostly women, and extracted information by any and all means necessary.”

“Was Alexandria a target?”  I’m not sure what I was supposed to think, but it was getting more difficult to believe any of this.

“No.  She was basically just some fool who thought she was in love with him when he just wanted to fuck her.  It’s what we argued about, and why she told me to go to hell.  It wasn’t worth burning her marriage over.  Anyway, I told the bosses he was compromised and why, and they told him to end it.  That was what he was supposed to do here.”

“When they met, it looked to me to be that last thing on his mind.  And, so the police told me, she was found shot in his hotel bed.”

“They both were.  He was the target.  He had a job in Siena, but he was sloppy and the people the woman worked for found out.  They sent an assassin.  The thing was, he hadn’t filed a report, and we needed it, so I assumed in those last moments before he did, he passed it on, or at the very least, where the information was.”

It was a story, and so far-fetched that it was almost believable.  They say truth is stranger than fiction, and I guess when it came to intelligence, the how always comes ahead of the why.

“Did he?”

“The short answer is yes.  The long answer requires more time and effort than I care to expend.”

“Did she tell you?”

“No.  She had leverage.  We need it; she knows it.”

“And you’re here because?”

“She’s somewhere in Florence.  She escaped once she realised what was going on, whether she thinks she’s in danger from us, or the others, I don’t know, and I’m assuming she has come to get the information and use it to make a bargain.”

And if all those TV shows I’d seen over the years were right, she didn’t have a bargaining chip, just a one-way ticket to the graveyard.  Once she handed it over, no more leverage.

Then there was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: what did all of this have to do with me?  Now I knew she had been cheating on me all this time; it made the loss less painful.  The fact he was using her, maybe that was karma.

“How does any of this involve me?”

“I think she’ll try to contact you.”

“How could she possibly know I’m here?”  Then it dawned on me.  The masters of intelligence gathering, she’d known exactly where every character would be on the chessboard. “You told her.”

“She asked.  We had to make sure they didn’t come after you and her children, just to be safe, so if you feel like people have been watching you, you weren’t imagining it.”

I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to say that.

I shrugged.  “She’s not a spy, so I don’t expect much.”

“You’d be surprised.  I am at the level of cunning she has acquired in the last week, particularly in evading us.”

“I can’t help her.”

“I think she believes you can.”

“I won’t.”

“She’ll have a story, a convincing one.  She has spent years lying to everyone, even to herself.  We just want you to call us when she does approach you.  She is out of her depth.  I am too if you want the truth, and since this all went sideways, I just want out.  Unfortunately, this was deemed my mess, and I have to clean it up.  Just call me when she comes.  I’ll do the rest.”

“Which is?”

“As usual, resolve the problem by any or all means available.  Irrespective of the cost.”

She looked tired.

I just felt like a building had fallen on me.

When we parted, I didn’t think I’d see her again.  A pity, in another lifetime I liked her perhaps a little more than I should.  I’d always wondered what Deborah had seen in her.

…

The idea of confronting a dead person was not something I had been contemplating.  What it did was anger me, considering the damage it had done to me by all those who believed I killed her, children included.

To be honest, getting away, far away from all of them, had been necessary for my sanity, and I had seriously been contemplating never going back

While staying in Greve, I had been looking at cottages, and deciding where I might just stay and never go home.  If Alexandria was alive, the kids could have her; everyone could.

I trudged up the stairs to my hotel room, churning over every little detail that, if I had looked harder, would have pointed to the betrayal.  It annoyed me that I refused to look at them then, or believe something was wrong.

And then on the landing, a new sensation hit me.  The scent of her perfume.  It wasn’t for the first time, and I’d believed it to be my imagination wanting to believe she hadn’t gone.

I opened the door, and the scent lingered.  I stepped in and closed the door behind me. 

I could feel her presence.  She had that ability to affect me.  She had a way of enveloping you, making you feel like you were the only one in the room with her.

Except it was all a lie.  Everything about her was a lie, and I’d allowed myself to be caught up in it.

I took the two steps from the door to the entrance to the dining room and said, “I know you’re here somewhere, Alex.”

Then she stepped out, the old Alexandria, the one who could still take my breath away the same as she had twenty years ago. And probably always would.

“Of course you do.  My charming friend Debby has been in your ear.”

“Nearly five months and you didn’t think to tell me.”

“They wouldn’t let me.”

“You wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to hear.”

“A man gave his life for it.”

“The same man you’ve been screwing for years.”

OK.  That finally silenced her.  I wondered if she knew just how much Deborah would tell me.  Just enough also that I would do her bidding.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, or you wouldn’t have done it.  It fits with my initial assessment, the silly fool who thought he’d won the lottery, only to discover that he was really the inconvenient excuse.  Twenty years, Alex.  You must feel so vastly superior.”

“You may never believe me, Edward, but I am sorry.  It was unforgivable, arrogant and selfish of me.  I did, do care for you.”

“Did. That had run its course by the time we got on the plane.  You made it perfectly clear you wanted to be anywhere but with me.”

“You changed,” she said, as if those two words would explain it all away.

“No.  I’m exactly the same as I was when I met you.  You changed.  Wyler changed you.  He had the lifestyle, the life you always saw you wanted.  It didn’t include kids or a husband.”

“I’m sure they don’t miss me.  I wasn’t much of a mother to them.  You did all of that.”

“They all think I killed you. Why do you think I’m here?  They never want to see me again.  No one back home does.”

“Interesting.”

Right then, had I given free rein to my emotions, I would have willingly throttled her.  How could I be tried for murder when she was already dead?  The fact I took two steps towards her, and she retreated, indicated she knew she had just hit a raw nerve.

“Look.  What happened didn’t go the way it was supposed to.  He told me it was the end, we couldn’t do it any more, and I convinced him to be together one last time.  Had I known he was a marked man and an assassin was coming to kill him, a small detail he forgot to mention, everything would have been fine.  I would have come back, admitted I was having an affair, and we would talk about it.  But what happened happened.  What are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing.  You’re going to leave, I’m not going home, there’s nothing and no one there I care for any more.  Why did you bother tracking me down when you knew what the result would be?”

“I thought you’d be more forgiving.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t faked your death.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“And that’s the problem right there.  You are not going to take responsibility for your actions.  I’m surprised you haven’t blamed me for everything that went wrong.  All this time I blame myself, that if I hadn’t brought you here you’d still be alive…” I glared at her.  “Just get out of my sight.”

“I am sorry.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

I think she finally saw the futility in arguing with me.  She simply shrugged and left.

I called Deborah and told he she just left my room.

…

Life sometimes surprises you.

I didn’t go home, I told no one where I was going, and decided that, aside from my neighbours who called me that mysterious man who doesn’t say much, I kept to myself, tending my acre of olive trees somewhere in Tuscany.

It took me six slow and sometimes difficult months to repair the villa back to a livable condition, and ahead of me were the final touches.  At least now when it rained I didn’t have to have a shower in the dining room.

About three months after I last saw Alexandria, I started getting emails from my children, the first from each admitting they had made assumptions and were glad to finally hear how and where their mother died.

Deborah was true to her word when she said they would get the truth or as close to the truth as possible.  She sent me copies of her emails and their questions so I was across it.

The main thing was I was not to blame, and what happened I could not have stopped.  There was also the blunt truth that she was having an affair with a bad man and they had promised to rendezvous in Florence.  She even had an email trail that disparaged me, and suggested they would meet and live together, somewhere in Italy.

Someone in her organisation was a master storyteller.

The irony was not lost on them when they learned I was living in Tuscany, and wasn’t planning to come back.  They asked for forgiveness, and I said it would take time.  Maybe I would let them come and visit, but no one else could.  Children were all over the place with their feelings and loyalties; adults knew what they were doing.

None deserved or would ever get my forgiveness.

Then, at the end of summer, eight months had passed, and it had been raining, cooling the hot August day, leaving it cool and just perfect.

Two cars, one with carabinieri on the side, stopped outside my house.

I knew who the person was in the second car, and watched the officer get out of the first car, go back to the other car, open the door and help a woman get out of the passenger’s side.  The officer was the same woman officer who had told me Alexandria was dead.

The drivers of the two cars got out and stood by their vehicles.  One was Deborah.

It meant that the procedures they used on Alexandria had worked. 

There had been one more conversation with Deborah and Alexandria a week after she had been captured outside my hotel.  There, Alexandria discovered she had two choices: one to be locked up in an isolated prison that no one had ever escaped from and would never leave, or she submitted to a memory erasure procedure, and if it worked, would be returned to me.

To me it sounded awful.  And illegal.  But it wasn’t my idea.  I argued against having it, because even in jail she would know who she was.

She said she had no choice.  Either way, in most respects she was dead, so what did it matter?  She signed the forms, and said she would see me again; and this time she would be different.

I wasn’t holding my breath.

After six months, I had all but given up expecting anything.  I had heard nothing, and I didn’t know where or who I was to ask.

Perhaps it had worked.

The woman I saw walking beside the officer was looking around, smiling, and I had to say she looked very little like the woman in my hotel room eight months ago.  She was like the girl I first met nearly twenty-one years ago, before the obsession with the gym and losing weight.  Her hair colour was golden, long, and out so that the breeze lifted wisps into her face, causing her to brush it aside.

She was in full summer mode, happy, confident, and she could still take my breath away.

I opened the door.  The officer acted as if she didn’t know me.

“Mr Walters?”

“Yes?”

“As discussed yesterday, we have brought your wife home.  She has slight memory loss, but the doctors agree it will return eventually.  She remembers you, which is, I believe, a good thing.”

She stood patiently beside the officer.  Her eyes registered recognition.  Deborah said she had her memory retrained to the point where she knew she was married to me, that we had once lived in another country and that we had moved here for her health.  And to recover from a very bad accident, which was the reason for her memory loss.  Other than that, she was perfectly well.

She also had a new name and an Italian heritage.  She had always been able to speak Italian fluently, as well as several other European languages.  That hadn’t changed.

“Alessandria.”

“Gordon.  I was surprised when they came yesterday to tell me I could come home.  You’ve done the place up.  I guess all that nagging finally worked out.”

I took her outstretched hand and guided her inside.  The office wasn’t staying.  Through the windows I saw Deborah’s wave before getting back in her car.  She would come back in a week to see how Alessandria was managing.

Then she gave me a hug.  In my ear she whispered, “You have no idea how glad I am to be home.”

“You have no idea how glad I am you are home.”

Now alone with her, I was not quite sure what to do next.  I knew she was Alexandria, but she didn’t look like her; they had made changes so she would not be too recognisable.  And it felt like I could not assume that everything would be marital bliss instantly.  She would have to find her way and get comfortable.

She kissed me on the cheek, hugged me, then went into the bedroom, checking if everything was there.  Several large cases had arrived the day before with her belongings, and I’d set them out like she had never been away.  Everything of Alexandria’s was there, including her favourite perfume.

She sat on the bed and smiled, then a tear ran down her cheek.  Happy, sad, glad, upset?

She patted the bed beside her, and I sat.

“We start again.  I think I was not too good a wife before; this I feel, not remember.  Do not tell me about previous life; we shall create a new one.”

“Do you feel comfortable here?”

“Why should I not?  We were, before the accident, embarking on a second honeymoon.  Let it be so, and perhaps let it not end.  Champagne?”

“Of course.”  I gently wiped the tears away and went out to get the bottle waiting in the fridge.

It was more than I expected, or hoped for.  I said a silent prayer of thanks, then took two glasses and the bottle in an ice bucket back to the room.

The computer had restarted, and there was a Zoom call, which, before I could stop her, she answered. 

It was Alexandria and Edward, our children, each named after us because Alexandria thought it was the thing to do.  I thought it was odd.

“Dad.” I could hear Edward before I could see him.  “Dad, you never told us Alessandria was home from the hospital.”

She was sitting in front of the screen, looking a little confused.  I had hoped to ease her into the fact she was a stepmother, and that they had one.

It seemed Deborah had woven a story for them.

“Just now, Ed, and she’s a little tired from the trip.  Can we do this tomorrow?”

“No.”  She said.  “I am alright.  I have been waiting and wanting to meet you, and hope that you will accept me not as a replacement but a friend if and when you need one.  You could come and stay for a while.  I would love to show you my country.”

“That’s what we called for.”  Alexandria had sat down beside Edward.  It was not hard to see her mother in the daughter.  “We thought we could visit, see a little of Italy, spend some time repairing bridges.”

“Of course.  When?”

“We arrived in Florence in two days.  Grandma arranged it.  She was coming with us, but Granddad got sick and is in hospital.  It will be just us, on our best behaviour.  OK.  Got to go.  See you then.”

The screen went blank.

I looked at Allessandria.  “Wow,” she said.  “They are everything you said they were, even if they made a mistake in blaming you for their mother’s death.  I guess children are like that.  Alexandria looks like her mother, doesn’t she?”

I looked at her, trying to tell if there was a hidden meaning in her tone.  Perhaps I worried too much.

“She does.  It hurts sometimes, but you managed to assuage that pain.  In more ways than one.”

“Is that why you picked me?  The name.  You know it’s the Italian version of it.”

“Perhaps in my grief it crossed my mind, but not specifically.  I simply fell in love with you the first time I saw you, and it only gets stronger every time I see you.  Now.  Champagne.  Time to celebrate your return.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 187 – Words that seem to be there but are not

…

The Ghost in the Machine: Why Your Brain Skips Words (and How to Catch Them)

“Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.” — William Safire

If you read that opening sentence at a glance, your brain likely auto-corrected it. You probably didn’t even notice that the word “leave” was missing.

That is the phenomenon that keeps professional writers, editors, and students up at night. Why does our brain—an incredibly sophisticated biological supercomputer—blindly skip over our own errors? And more importantly, why is meticulous proofreading the most critical step in communication?

The Psychology of the “Invisible” Error

When we write, we aren’t just putting symbols on a page; we are externalising a thought process. By the time you reach the end of a sentence, your brain has already “pre-processed” the meaning.

When you go back to proofread, your brain isn’t reading what is actually there. Instead, it is performing a shortcut, retrieving the intended meaning from your memory and projecting it onto the page. You aren’t reading the text; you are reading your own internal map of the text.

This is why, as William Safire famously pointed out, we often leave words out. Our brains are “predictive engines.” If you write, “The cat sat on the mat,” your brain knows the pattern of that sentence so well that it fills in the gaps even if you accidentally typed, “The cat sat mat.”

Why Precision is Your Only Currency

In a digital age where attention spans are measured in seconds, precision is more than just good grammar—it’s a trust signal. Here is why closely checking your writing is non-negotiable:

1. It Protects Your Credibility

Typos, omitted words, and grammatical slips act as “cognitive friction.” When a reader hits an error, they pause. That pause breaks their immersion. If enough errors occur, the reader stops focusing on what you are saying and starts focusing on your lack of attention to detail. Once you lose their focus, you lose their trust.

2. Clarity Prevents Chaos

Omitted words can change the entire intent of a sentence. In professional settings, a missing “not” or a misplaced decimal point isn’t just an embarrassment—it’s a liability. Rigorous proofreading ensures your message is received exactly as you intended, leaving zero room for interpretation.

3. It Respects Your Audience

When you publish unpolished work, you are essentially asking the reader to do the heavy lifting of editing your thoughts. Taking the time to proofread is a mark of respect; it shows that you value the reader’s time and have put in the effort to make your ideas as accessible as possible.

Pro-Tips for Catching the Ghost Words

If your brain is programmed to hide your mistakes, how do you trick it into revealing them? Use these professional tactics to bypass your own internal “auto-correct”:

• Change the Medium: If you wrote the draft on a laptop, print it out. A physical page triggers a different visual response in the brain than a screen does.
• The “Read-Aloud” Rule: When you read silently, your brain moves faster than your eyes. When you read aloud—physically sounding out every syllable—your brain is forced to process every singular word. You will hear the missing words immediately.
• Read Backwards: It sounds tedious, but reading your sentences from the final word to the first forces your brain to analyse individual words rather than the “flow” of the sentence. It makes the text look foreign, which makes errors stand out like sore thumbs.
• Step Away: This is the most important rule. You cannot proofread your own work immediately after writing it. You need to create “cognitive distance.” Give it an hour, or better yet, a full night. Returning with fresh eyes is the only way to see what is actually written, rather than what you intended to write.

Final Thoughts

William Safire’s quote serves as a humble reminder: we are all prone to the same cognitive blind spots. Excellence isn’t about being perfect; it’s about having a system that catches the humanity in your work.

The next time you hit “send” or “publish,” take a moment to read your work one last time—not as the author, but as a sceptical stranger. Your readers will thank you for it.

---

Struggling to polish your content? Remember: Writing is an act of creation, but editing is an act of refinement. Take your time, slow down, and don’t let your brain skip the details.

…

Day 187 – Words that seem to be there but are not

…

The Ghost in the Machine: Why Your Brain Skips Words (and How to Catch Them)

“Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.” — William Safire

If you read that opening sentence at a glance, your brain likely auto-corrected it. You probably didn’t even notice that the word “leave” was missing.

That is the phenomenon that keeps professional writers, editors, and students up at night. Why does our brain—an incredibly sophisticated biological supercomputer—blindly skip over our own errors? And more importantly, why is meticulous proofreading the most critical step in communication?

The Psychology of the “Invisible” Error

When we write, we aren’t just putting symbols on a page; we are externalising a thought process. By the time you reach the end of a sentence, your brain has already “pre-processed” the meaning.

When you go back to proofread, your brain isn’t reading what is actually there. Instead, it is performing a shortcut, retrieving the intended meaning from your memory and projecting it onto the page. You aren’t reading the text; you are reading your own internal map of the text.

This is why, as William Safire famously pointed out, we often leave words out. Our brains are “predictive engines.” If you write, “The cat sat on the mat,” your brain knows the pattern of that sentence so well that it fills in the gaps even if you accidentally typed, “The cat sat mat.”

Why Precision is Your Only Currency

In a digital age where attention spans are measured in seconds, precision is more than just good grammar—it’s a trust signal. Here is why closely checking your writing is non-negotiable:

1. It Protects Your Credibility

Typos, omitted words, and grammatical slips act as “cognitive friction.” When a reader hits an error, they pause. That pause breaks their immersion. If enough errors occur, the reader stops focusing on what you are saying and starts focusing on your lack of attention to detail. Once you lose their focus, you lose their trust.

2. Clarity Prevents Chaos

Omitted words can change the entire intent of a sentence. In professional settings, a missing “not” or a misplaced decimal point isn’t just an embarrassment—it’s a liability. Rigorous proofreading ensures your message is received exactly as you intended, leaving zero room for interpretation.

3. It Respects Your Audience

When you publish unpolished work, you are essentially asking the reader to do the heavy lifting of editing your thoughts. Taking the time to proofread is a mark of respect; it shows that you value the reader’s time and have put in the effort to make your ideas as accessible as possible.

Pro-Tips for Catching the Ghost Words

If your brain is programmed to hide your mistakes, how do you trick it into revealing them? Use these professional tactics to bypass your own internal “auto-correct”:

• Change the Medium: If you wrote the draft on a laptop, print it out. A physical page triggers a different visual response in the brain than a screen does.
• The “Read-Aloud” Rule: When you read silently, your brain moves faster than your eyes. When you read aloud—physically sounding out every syllable—your brain is forced to process every singular word. You will hear the missing words immediately.
• Read Backwards: It sounds tedious, but reading your sentences from the final word to the first forces your brain to analyse individual words rather than the “flow” of the sentence. It makes the text look foreign, which makes errors stand out like sore thumbs.
• Step Away: This is the most important rule. You cannot proofread your own work immediately after writing it. You need to create “cognitive distance.” Give it an hour, or better yet, a full night. Returning with fresh eyes is the only way to see what is actually written, rather than what you intended to write.

Final Thoughts

William Safire’s quote serves as a humble reminder: we are all prone to the same cognitive blind spots. Excellence isn’t about being perfect; it’s about having a system that catches the humanity in your work.

The next time you hit “send” or “publish,” take a moment to read your work one last time—not as the author, but as a sceptical stranger. Your readers will thank you for it.

---

Struggling to polish your content? Remember: Writing is an act of creation, but editing is an act of refinement. Take your time, slow down, and don’t let your brain skip the details.

…

Days 185 and 186 – Writing exercise

…

Investigating death was a ‘thing” that some people took seriously, and others took as a challenge.

For them, it was about the numbers, the appearance of solving crimes, so the public could feel safe, to win that imaginary contest of who could solve the most crimes, and celebrate it on Friday night at the pub.

For others, like me, it was about justice.  It was about finding that person who committed the crime, not the most likely candidate buried under a trove of circumstantial evidence.

The pity of it was that our helicopter Detective Chief Superintendent was a numbers man, temporarily stopping in at our station on his way to bigger and better things.

He didn’t like to be thorough and methodical, and he definitely didn’t like me.  That’s why when he put his head out the door and saw that I was the only detective in the room, I could feel rather than see the sigh.

Or maybe that was because he should be down the pub with the rest of the team celebrating the extraordinary closure rate for this month.

“Burgess.”

I looked up.  “Sir.”

“Sending you a straightforward case.  The old man had apparently died in his sleep.  One of us to look in, dot the i’s.  I’ll send you the file.”

When the Chief Inspector says straightforward, there’s always an underlying suggestion not to make more out of it than there was.

The problem was that nothing in our line of work was straightforward.  Not if justice was to be served.

…

People die in their sleep all the time.  What’s unusual is that most of those who did were discovered in the morning, not at 5 pm.

I arrived at the house, one of twelve similar terrace houses, in a street of a hundred or so.  Most had been updated, and small manicured gardens.

Darkness had arrived on a cold, wet, wintry night where everyone would have preferred to be somewhere else, preferably warm.

The street seemed to be full of blue flashing lights and panda cars, but it was deceptive.  The house was cordoned off, and the crime scene crew were ready to go.

First responders had arrived at or near five, and checked the building, pulled the girl who discovered the body and the doctor she had called before she called the police.

Those were the people I would speak to first. 

The co-ordinator was at the door, an officer who had been doing the job for as long as I had been at the station, and was good at it.  He would have secured the scene and ensured that nothing had been touched since the first responder had arrived.

“Larry.”

He just finished the call and swivelled sideways.

“Detective Inspector Burgess.  If you’re here, your boss doesn’t think it’s open and shut.”

“The other detectives are busy, and I’m hoping it is.  Is it?”

“On appearances, yes, but we both know how it usually goes, winter, rain, freezing cold, and wanting to get out of it.”

“Privileges of rank, I’m afraid.  They’re off celebrating the crime numbers.”

Larry was as thrilled about it as I am.  “Hello, your assistant has arrived.”

I turned to look back the way I came.  It was not the Detective Sergeant I was expecting, but one of the Chief Superintendent’s ‘modern methods’ detectives, fast-tracking a new system.

It was the ‘achievement-based’ Superintendent’s way of keeping me on the straight and narrow.

“Buchanan.”

“Sir, Chief Super just gave me the highlights.  You’d think people would be more considerate.”

Yes, you would, but it was not something I would say within earshot of the girl who found him.  It was a typical Buchanan comment.

“I’m sure it wasn’t done to inconvenience you.”  I went back to Larry.  “What can you tell us?”

“The deceased is a man named Devlin McConnaughy, aged 75, living alone, and according to the doctor, was dead when the girl arrived.  The girl is Mr McConnaughy’s granddaughter.  She arrived about 5 pm, a routine stop by on her way out to meet her friends for dinner.  She had a key and visited three or four times a week.  When she found him and couldn’t rouse him, she called the doctor, then the police, when he said McConnaught was dead, about 5:15 pm.  The first responders got her about 5:29.   The teams have been notified and are standing by.”

“We can look at the scene?”

“Just about.  Just waiting on word that we won’t be trooping in like a herd of elephants.”

I’d heard about crime scenes being contaminated by people who were either not trained properly or didn’t care.  We still didn’t know if this was a crime scene.  The crime scene investigators’ preliminary run-through would determine that.  I’d seen a few getting dressed.  I’d be going in in one of those white suits myself.

Buchanan took that as a cue to get suits for us, and hopefully, there was a spot inside to put them on.  Outside was wet, and we didn’t need wet boots plodding through the house.”

“Your thoughts?  You’ve seen the body.”

“And the state of the house, but you’ll see what I mean soon enough.  It looks like he died in his sleep.  The girl had to move him slightly to check if he was still alive, but it looked to be a reasonable assumption based on appearances.  He’s very heavy, and she couldn’t move him far.  I’m hoping there’s nothing sinister otherwise; this is going to be a long night.”

A long night indeed.

….

We got the OK to go in, and the forensic teams followed us in.

This house was old, decrepit and overgrown.  The owner hadn’t bothered, or couldn’t maintain the place, and the outside gave an indication of the state of the inside.

A lifetime of hoarding.

It was difficult to get from the front door to the bedroom, trying not to knock over piles of books, boxes and newspapers.

The preliminary team had set a path to follow that would least impact on the scene.

Further into the house, at the end of the passage, was a kitchen and a rear exit.  On each side, there were rooms, a sitting room, bedrooms, a bathroom, and the old man’s room.

In the bedroom, equally piled up with books and boxes, there was a body on the bed and a paramedic standing to one side.

I looked at the body, scrunched up as though his last moments alive were very painful.  Death was never pretty. 

Larry nodded to the paramedics.

“Visually, there is no evidence of foul play.  There was a doctor in attendance when we arrived.  He advised us that the man was deceased, but did not have an explanation as to what killed him, other than it had been quick.  We sent him out after a short discussion about his actions on arrival.  The man’s granddaughter is with the doctor outside. She is the person who first discovered the body, called the doctor, then the emergency services.”

Larry looked at me.  “Any further questions?”

“No.  We’ll have to wait for the coroner and a post-mortem.”

“They should be here any moment.  It’s a busy night.”

“Good.  It’ll give me time to talk to the doctor and the granddaughter.”

I looked around the room, looking for obvious signs that someone else had been in the room, or that the killer, if there was one, had broken in to get to the man. 

It was beginning to look like a very big if.  The Superintendent might get his wish, that it was an open and shut case.

No obvious clues were lying around, and I was not seeing any obvious signs of murder, bruising, blunt force trauma or anything suspicious.  There were no bullet or knife wounds.

There was careless discarded pill sheets and a nasal spray on the bedside table, all of which forensics would sweep up and test.

Similarly, in the bathroom cabinet, there were more pills, about six different types, including one I knew to be heart medication.  He had high blood pressure.  A heart attack then might not be unexpected.  He also had other cold and influenza medications.  Perhaps he had recently been ill.  It was cold and miserable.

The coroner would have more to say on that.

I think I was disappointed.

There was just a contorted body with a lifeless expression and dead eyes.  It was rather creepy.

…

Dotting the i’s, Buchanan and I went outside and found the doctor and granddaughter waiting patiently. 

That was a first; most of the people detained by the first responders were very vocal about having to wait around, and in this weather, these two should have been more annoyed.

I know I would be.

Coming out the front door, I looked around at the few neighbours who had gathered to see what was happening.  The uniformed officers would have got statements from all of them.

Sometimes it is said that the killer would hang around after the murder as a bystander waiting for the police.  My assessment of everyone in the small groups was that none of them fitted the profile.

At the moment, it was a motiveless murder.  The only two with a possible opportunity were the granddaughter and the doctor.  An old man, living alone?  What did he have that others might covet?

The house.  Even in its current state in this neighbourhood, it had to be worth a lot.  Was there anything in the house?  If there was a will lying around, the forensic teams would find it.

But there was the granddaughter and the doctor. 

They were standing just up from the door, sheltering under a small verandah roof.  In that spot, there was protection from the elements, except the cold.

The rain had turned into a steady drizzle.

I shivered.  The ghost of the old man is finally leaving?

The two were expecting me.  I sent Buchanan off with the doctor.  I stayed with the girl.  The granddaughter was about 20ish and more conservative than a lot of 20-year-olds I’d seen, especially the daughters of my sister.

She had been crying, so it was safe to assume she had cared about the old man.

I introduced myself, “Detective Inspector Burgess.  You are?”

“Christine Davies, the man’s granddaughter.  I was looking in on my grandfather as I do most Fridays, and found him like that.  Dead.  It’s horrible.”

More tears flowed, and her grief was genuine.

It was horrible and for most a frightening experience.  I could imagine how she felt, and even having seen more than my share of dead people, it doesn’t make you immune to the horror of it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.  Just a couple of questions.  You have a key to the door?”

“Yes.  I come on average three times a week, sometimes more, to check on him.  No one else does, nor does it seem they care.  He was recently in the hospital for a few days, had his appendix removed.”

“The last time?”

“Two days ago.  He called and asked if I could drop in.  He said he misplaced a card and asked me to look for it.”

“A card?”

“Those cards the bank gives you to use rather than go to the branch.  He asked me to set up his internet banking account. He didn’t like the idea of a card replacing his money or the idea that he didn’t have to go to the bank, but I convinced him that the world was moving on and he had to catch up.  He reckoned it was the first step in them stealing your money.”

Or someone else, like a craft granddaughter. Ostensibly, she had access to his accounts if she set them up.  We had the computer and phone and would find out.

“Did you find the card?”

“No.  He got me to go back to the bank and sort them out.  He was feeling a little tired.  He didn’t look well, and I said I’d get the doctor to call.”

She gave me the details so I could check.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Yes, but he was busy and couldn’t get here until today.  I called him first to make sure he was not still alive because I tried what they do on TV, you know, the pulse in the neck thing, but I got nothing.  He came quickly and confirmed he was dead.  That’s when I called the emergency services.”

“Did you check to see if anyone else had been there, or was there any sign of a break-in?”

“Everything looked the same, though, as you’ve no doubt seen, the place is a bit of a mess, but I’ve been trying to clean it up a bit.  I just went in the usual way, the front door, called out that it was me, and when he didn’t answer, went down the passage to his room.”

“Did anyone else have a key?”

“Just about everyone, I mean, his children.  There are five, including my mother.  Once my grandmother died, they all lost interest in visiting.  Or should I say when they realised there was no money in her will for any of them?  Not that there was much anyway.  He’s not rich.”

“He owns this house?”

“It’s a dump.  It can’t be worth that much.  I tried to convince him that he would be better off in an old folks home with other people and be cared for, but he said it would be like being in jail.”

“Did he tell you you might benefit from a will?”

She made a face when she realised the implications of that seemingly innocent question.

“Or did I coerce him into leaving me this place, and then kill him for it?  I mean, seriously.  I was the only one who cared what happened to him. You think I wanted it for the so-called pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?  I told him to leave whatever he had for cancer research.  A couple of years back, he was diagnosed with cancer, but they got it in time, and he has been free of it, although I feared it might have come back.  He said he was fine, but you can’t tell.”

I didn’t know much about it.  She seemed honest, but then, in my experience, some people have that knack of coming across exactly the opposite of what they are.  Perhaps the cancer had come back and killed him.

She gave her details on how to contact her for any follow-up questions and then let her go.

By that time, Buchanan had finished with the doctor and confirmed the recent cancer diagnosis, the coroner had arrived and could not shed any more light on the body until after the post-mortem, and I  left, leaving Buchanan to clean up.

At that point, it was the proverbial open and shut case.

…

The call from the Chief Superintendent was not unexpected because Buchanan would have reported to him the moment I left the scene.

He asked, and I told him that it seemed like a death by natural causes, because no one at the scene had made a different determination.

That would only come after a post-mortem and blood work. That would be available the next day.  He did question whether either was necessary in such circumstances, and I said we were dotting the i’s just as had requested.

It did not earn me any brownie points.

The fact that the granddaughter said that any of his family members might have killed him for his money was a very familiar story.  Sex and money were the two most popular reasons for killing someone, and neither seemed likely.

Unless the will and he’d been secreting millions away somewhere.  The granddaughter did think he had, but she would not be the first person, seemingly innocent, to lie to me

At the moment, it was sitting on the benefit of the doubt.  That might change in the next day or so.

Until then, rest was not going to come easily.  Something was nagging at the back of my neck.  A detail I should know and couldn’t remember. Perhaps I was making more of it than I should.

I went back to the office and did an internet dive into all things Devlin McConnaughy, and found very little.  It could wait until the next day.

….

Buchanan was in before I was, which to me was unusual.  I could smell the hand of the Superintendent’s in this new work ethic.

The other detectives followed me in slowly, some of them worse for wear.  None bothered to ask me why I hadn’t turned up; I had ceased talking to most of them over the last six months.

The feeling of hatred was mutual.

My desk had an analysis of Devlin’s phone and computer.  The sum total of nothing except a portal to the bank, and internet searches for holidays.

Given the nature of the holidays, it seemed they were more likely made by the granddaughter. 

We agreed to disagree

The interviews were typed up and put in a file sitting on mt desk.  Still no autopsy report or of the blood work, so we were still waiting for results.

…

Real policing was not a nine-to-five job, and there was no such thing as weekends.  Truth be told, you really couldn’t have a life, not in the early years of a detective’s career.

I had devoted early on that it wouldn’t be fair to subject someone else to the sacrifices that had to be made.  It was why my older comrades found it difficult to get a decent work-life balance, and the divorce rate was much higher than for any other occupation.

Or at least it seemed that way to me.

But, given my choices, it was not unusual to find me in at the office or volunteering on workdays when others wished to be at home with their families.

This day was no exception.

There was a report on the laptop? The phone, the neighbourhood interviews and I had the notes to write up the one I had conducted.

There was no post-mortem yet, which would arrive soon. 

Was I expecting anything?

There was very little evidence collected at the house.  They had found a copy of the will, and I was going to check with the solicitor.  It left a substantial amount to the granddaughter and reasonable amounts to the children.  A clause said that if any of them contested it, it would be held over until it was adjudicated by the courts.

The value of the house as an inheritance was a viable motive.  If it were a suspicious death. 

I had copies of his bank accounts, three, one a working account, one a savings account and one an investment account.  There was not enough in any of them to warrant killing the man for his money.

The house was owned by him, and we would have to talk to a real estate agent to get an approximate value.

I looked in my email and found a preliminary toxicology report with nothing unusual.  So, no drug overdosing, self-inflicted or otherwise.  Suicide was always on the list, and had to be ticked off.

An hour later, the post mortem came in, and it confirmed that Devlin had a heart attack and had been on painkiller medication for what looked to be a recent accident that scarred his leg.

It had nothing to do with his death.

The phone rang. 

Burgess.  “The body last night.  Verdict?”

There was only one verdict he wanted to hear.

“Nothing points to murder.  Heart attack and died.”

“Good.  Wrap it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

End of the discussion.  I put all the papers back in the file and left it in my in tray.  It could wait until Monday morning.  I would interview the solicitor, meet the granddaughter’s parents, and talk to the granddaughter again.

There was something not right.  Something about this case resonated with something I had read about, a few years ago, on the tail end of the COVID pandemic.

I was going for a walk in the park to clear my head.  I had a lot of searching and reading to do.

…

The trouble with quick clearance rates is that sometimes justice is not served.  The Devlin McCannaughy case was one.

But over the next few days, listening to all of the members of that family argue and squabble over the spoils, and furious that the granddaughter got nearly everything, the accusations were just that, accusations.

The lawyer knew all about the will and the reasons behind it.  So apparently did all those in line time inherit.  There was no motive for any of them other than the main beneficiary.

The trouble was, I could find no evidence to support my theory, and solid evidence was required before there would be any prosecution.

Did I think the granddaughter was guilty of murdering her grandfather for the money?  She didn’t steal from him, not like the children did; it was her mother who had stolen her father’s card and taken money out of the account.

We could prosecute her for theft, but the amount was almost irrelevant and not worth the court’s time.

How did the granddaughter do it?

By the nasal spray.  I had read about a case, one I had used in a paper I wrote about the perfect murder.  The thing is, she would need medical knowledge of what toxin to use and not leave a trace.  I had ordered another tox screen, but we didn’t know what we were looking for.

Motive and opportunity, but not the means.  Even though it was only her prints on the nasal spray beside the bed, one taken from the bathroom cabinet, there was a simple explanation, one given freely when I interviewed her.

She collected and gave him his medication. Yes, he had high blood pressure, and yes, he had minor heart problems, but nothing that would kill him.

When I gave the report to the Chief Superintendent, he just laughed and told me I was not working for MI5 and I should keep my conspiracy theories to myself.

Of course I did, but fate eventually intervened.  The Chief Superintendent was found dead in a sleazy motel, dead because of a heart attack.

Everyone drew the same conclusion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 185 and 186 – Writing exercise

…

Investigating death was a ‘thing” that some people took seriously, and others took as a challenge.

For them, it was about the numbers, the appearance of solving crimes, so the public could feel safe, to win that imaginary contest of who could solve the most crimes, and celebrate it on Friday night at the pub.

For others, like me, it was about justice.  It was about finding that person who committed the crime, not the most likely candidate buried under a trove of circumstantial evidence.

The pity of it was that our helicopter Detective Chief Superintendent was a numbers man, temporarily stopping in at our station on his way to bigger and better things.

He didn’t like to be thorough and methodical, and he definitely didn’t like me.  That’s why when he put his head out the door and saw that I was the only detective in the room, I could feel rather than see the sigh.

Or maybe that was because he should be down the pub with the rest of the team celebrating the extraordinary closure rate for this month.

“Burgess.”

I looked up.  “Sir.”

“Sending you a straightforward case.  The old man had apparently died in his sleep.  One of us to look in, dot the i’s.  I’ll send you the file.”

When the Chief Inspector says straightforward, there’s always an underlying suggestion not to make more out of it than there was.

The problem was that nothing in our line of work was straightforward.  Not if justice was to be served.

…

People die in their sleep all the time.  What’s unusual is that most of those who did were discovered in the morning, not at 5 pm.

I arrived at the house, one of twelve similar terrace houses, in a street of a hundred or so.  Most had been updated, and small manicured gardens.

Darkness had arrived on a cold, wet, wintry night where everyone would have preferred to be somewhere else, preferably warm.

The street seemed to be full of blue flashing lights and panda cars, but it was deceptive.  The house was cordoned off, and the crime scene crew were ready to go.

First responders had arrived at or near five, and checked the building, pulled the girl who discovered the body and the doctor she had called before she called the police.

Those were the people I would speak to first. 

The co-ordinator was at the door, an officer who had been doing the job for as long as I had been at the station, and was good at it.  He would have secured the scene and ensured that nothing had been touched since the first responder had arrived.

“Larry.”

He just finished the call and swivelled sideways.

“Detective Inspector Burgess.  If you’re here, your boss doesn’t think it’s open and shut.”

“The other detectives are busy, and I’m hoping it is.  Is it?”

“On appearances, yes, but we both know how it usually goes, winter, rain, freezing cold, and wanting to get out of it.”

“Privileges of rank, I’m afraid.  They’re off celebrating the crime numbers.”

Larry was as thrilled about it as I am.  “Hello, your assistant has arrived.”

I turned to look back the way I came.  It was not the Detective Sergeant I was expecting, but one of the Chief Superintendent’s ‘modern methods’ detectives, fast-tracking a new system.

It was the ‘achievement-based’ Superintendent’s way of keeping me on the straight and narrow.

“Buchanan.”

“Sir, Chief Super just gave me the highlights.  You’d think people would be more considerate.”

Yes, you would, but it was not something I would say within earshot of the girl who found him.  It was a typical Buchanan comment.

“I’m sure it wasn’t done to inconvenience you.”  I went back to Larry.  “What can you tell us?”

“The deceased is a man named Devlin McConnaughy, aged 75, living alone, and according to the doctor, was dead when the girl arrived.  The girl is Mr McConnaughy’s granddaughter.  She arrived about 5 pm, a routine stop by on her way out to meet her friends for dinner.  She had a key and visited three or four times a week.  When she found him and couldn’t rouse him, she called the doctor, then the police, when he said McConnaught was dead, about 5:15 pm.  The first responders got her about 5:29.   The teams have been notified and are standing by.”

“We can look at the scene?”

“Just about.  Just waiting on word that we won’t be trooping in like a herd of elephants.”

I’d heard about crime scenes being contaminated by people who were either not trained properly or didn’t care.  We still didn’t know if this was a crime scene.  The crime scene investigators’ preliminary run-through would determine that.  I’d seen a few getting dressed.  I’d be going in in one of those white suits myself.

Buchanan took that as a cue to get suits for us, and hopefully, there was a spot inside to put them on.  Outside was wet, and we didn’t need wet boots plodding through the house.”

“Your thoughts?  You’ve seen the body.”

“And the state of the house, but you’ll see what I mean soon enough.  It looks like he died in his sleep.  The girl had to move him slightly to check if he was still alive, but it looked to be a reasonable assumption based on appearances.  He’s very heavy, and she couldn’t move him far.  I’m hoping there’s nothing sinister otherwise; this is going to be a long night.”

A long night indeed.

….

We got the OK to go in, and the forensic teams followed us in.

This house was old, decrepit and overgrown.  The owner hadn’t bothered, or couldn’t maintain the place, and the outside gave an indication of the state of the inside.

A lifetime of hoarding.

It was difficult to get from the front door to the bedroom, trying not to knock over piles of books, boxes and newspapers.

The preliminary team had set a path to follow that would least impact on the scene.

Further into the house, at the end of the passage, was a kitchen and a rear exit.  On each side, there were rooms, a sitting room, bedrooms, a bathroom, and the old man’s room.

In the bedroom, equally piled up with books and boxes, there was a body on the bed and a paramedic standing to one side.

I looked at the body, scrunched up as though his last moments alive were very painful.  Death was never pretty. 

Larry nodded to the paramedics.

“Visually, there is no evidence of foul play.  There was a doctor in attendance when we arrived.  He advised us that the man was deceased, but did not have an explanation as to what killed him, other than it had been quick.  We sent him out after a short discussion about his actions on arrival.  The man’s granddaughter is with the doctor outside. She is the person who first discovered the body, called the doctor, then the emergency services.”

Larry looked at me.  “Any further questions?”

“No.  We’ll have to wait for the coroner and a post-mortem.”

“They should be here any moment.  It’s a busy night.”

“Good.  It’ll give me time to talk to the doctor and the granddaughter.”

I looked around the room, looking for obvious signs that someone else had been in the room, or that the killer, if there was one, had broken in to get to the man. 

It was beginning to look like a very big if.  The Superintendent might get his wish, that it was an open and shut case.

No obvious clues were lying around, and I was not seeing any obvious signs of murder, bruising, blunt force trauma or anything suspicious.  There were no bullet or knife wounds.

There was careless discarded pill sheets and a nasal spray on the bedside table, all of which forensics would sweep up and test.

Similarly, in the bathroom cabinet, there were more pills, about six different types, including one I knew to be heart medication.  He had high blood pressure.  A heart attack then might not be unexpected.  He also had other cold and influenza medications.  Perhaps he had recently been ill.  It was cold and miserable.

The coroner would have more to say on that.

I think I was disappointed.

There was just a contorted body with a lifeless expression and dead eyes.  It was rather creepy.

…

Dotting the i’s, Buchanan and I went outside and found the doctor and granddaughter waiting patiently. 

That was a first; most of the people detained by the first responders were very vocal about having to wait around, and in this weather, these two should have been more annoyed.

I know I would be.

Coming out the front door, I looked around at the few neighbours who had gathered to see what was happening.  The uniformed officers would have got statements from all of them.

Sometimes it is said that the killer would hang around after the murder as a bystander waiting for the police.  My assessment of everyone in the small groups was that none of them fitted the profile.

At the moment, it was a motiveless murder.  The only two with a possible opportunity were the granddaughter and the doctor.  An old man, living alone?  What did he have that others might covet?

The house.  Even in its current state in this neighbourhood, it had to be worth a lot.  Was there anything in the house?  If there was a will lying around, the forensic teams would find it.

But there was the granddaughter and the doctor. 

They were standing just up from the door, sheltering under a small verandah roof.  In that spot, there was protection from the elements, except the cold.

The rain had turned into a steady drizzle.

I shivered.  The ghost of the old man is finally leaving?

The two were expecting me.  I sent Buchanan off with the doctor.  I stayed with the girl.  The granddaughter was about 20ish and more conservative than a lot of 20-year-olds I’d seen, especially the daughters of my sister.

She had been crying, so it was safe to assume she had cared about the old man.

I introduced myself, “Detective Inspector Burgess.  You are?”

“Christine Davies, the man’s granddaughter.  I was looking in on my grandfather as I do most Fridays, and found him like that.  Dead.  It’s horrible.”

More tears flowed, and her grief was genuine.

It was horrible and for most a frightening experience.  I could imagine how she felt, and even having seen more than my share of dead people, it doesn’t make you immune to the horror of it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.  Just a couple of questions.  You have a key to the door?”

“Yes.  I come on average three times a week, sometimes more, to check on him.  No one else does, nor does it seem they care.  He was recently in the hospital for a few days, had his appendix removed.”

“The last time?”

“Two days ago.  He called and asked if I could drop in.  He said he misplaced a card and asked me to look for it.”

“A card?”

“Those cards the bank gives you to use rather than go to the branch.  He asked me to set up his internet banking account. He didn’t like the idea of a card replacing his money or the idea that he didn’t have to go to the bank, but I convinced him that the world was moving on and he had to catch up.  He reckoned it was the first step in them stealing your money.”

Or someone else, like a craft granddaughter. Ostensibly, she had access to his accounts if she set them up.  We had the computer and phone and would find out.

“Did you find the card?”

“No.  He got me to go back to the bank and sort them out.  He was feeling a little tired.  He didn’t look well, and I said I’d get the doctor to call.”

She gave me the details so I could check.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Yes, but he was busy and couldn’t get here until today.  I called him first to make sure he was not still alive because I tried what they do on TV, you know, the pulse in the neck thing, but I got nothing.  He came quickly and confirmed he was dead.  That’s when I called the emergency services.”

“Did you check to see if anyone else had been there, or was there any sign of a break-in?”

“Everything looked the same, though, as you’ve no doubt seen, the place is a bit of a mess, but I’ve been trying to clean it up a bit.  I just went in the usual way, the front door, called out that it was me, and when he didn’t answer, went down the passage to his room.”

“Did anyone else have a key?”

“Just about everyone, I mean, his children.  There are five, including my mother.  Once my grandmother died, they all lost interest in visiting.  Or should I say when they realised there was no money in her will for any of them?  Not that there was much anyway.  He’s not rich.”

“He owns this house?”

“It’s a dump.  It can’t be worth that much.  I tried to convince him that he would be better off in an old folks home with other people and be cared for, but he said it would be like being in jail.”

“Did he tell you you might benefit from a will?”

She made a face when she realised the implications of that seemingly innocent question.

“Or did I coerce him into leaving me this place, and then kill him for it?  I mean, seriously.  I was the only one who cared what happened to him. You think I wanted it for the so-called pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?  I told him to leave whatever he had for cancer research.  A couple of years back, he was diagnosed with cancer, but they got it in time, and he has been free of it, although I feared it might have come back.  He said he was fine, but you can’t tell.”

I didn’t know much about it.  She seemed honest, but then, in my experience, some people have that knack of coming across exactly the opposite of what they are.  Perhaps the cancer had come back and killed him.

She gave her details on how to contact her for any follow-up questions and then let her go.

By that time, Buchanan had finished with the doctor and confirmed the recent cancer diagnosis, the coroner had arrived and could not shed any more light on the body until after the post-mortem, and I  left, leaving Buchanan to clean up.

At that point, it was the proverbial open and shut case.

…

The call from the Chief Superintendent was not unexpected because Buchanan would have reported to him the moment I left the scene.

He asked, and I told him that it seemed like a death by natural causes, because no one at the scene had made a different determination.

That would only come after a post-mortem and blood work. That would be available the next day.  He did question whether either was necessary in such circumstances, and I said we were dotting the i’s just as had requested.

It did not earn me any brownie points.

The fact that the granddaughter said that any of his family members might have killed him for his money was a very familiar story.  Sex and money were the two most popular reasons for killing someone, and neither seemed likely.

Unless the will and he’d been secreting millions away somewhere.  The granddaughter did think he had, but she would not be the first person, seemingly innocent, to lie to me

At the moment, it was sitting on the benefit of the doubt.  That might change in the next day or so.

Until then, rest was not going to come easily.  Something was nagging at the back of my neck.  A detail I should know and couldn’t remember. Perhaps I was making more of it than I should.

I went back to the office and did an internet dive into all things Devlin McConnaughy, and found very little.  It could wait until the next day.

….

Buchanan was in before I was, which to me was unusual.  I could smell the hand of the Superintendent’s in this new work ethic.

The other detectives followed me in slowly, some of them worse for wear.  None bothered to ask me why I hadn’t turned up; I had ceased talking to most of them over the last six months.

The feeling of hatred was mutual.

My desk had an analysis of Devlin’s phone and computer.  The sum total of nothing except a portal to the bank, and internet searches for holidays.

Given the nature of the holidays, it seemed they were more likely made by the granddaughter. 

We agreed to disagree

The interviews were typed up and put in a file sitting on mt desk.  Still no autopsy report or of the blood work, so we were still waiting for results.

…

Real policing was not a nine-to-five job, and there was no such thing as weekends.  Truth be told, you really couldn’t have a life, not in the early years of a detective’s career.

I had devoted early on that it wouldn’t be fair to subject someone else to the sacrifices that had to be made.  It was why my older comrades found it difficult to get a decent work-life balance, and the divorce rate was much higher than for any other occupation.

Or at least it seemed that way to me.

But, given my choices, it was not unusual to find me in at the office or volunteering on workdays when others wished to be at home with their families.

This day was no exception.

There was a report on the laptop? The phone, the neighbourhood interviews and I had the notes to write up the one I had conducted.

There was no post-mortem yet, which would arrive soon. 

Was I expecting anything?

There was very little evidence collected at the house.  They had found a copy of the will, and I was going to check with the solicitor.  It left a substantial amount to the granddaughter and reasonable amounts to the children.  A clause said that if any of them contested it, it would be held over until it was adjudicated by the courts.

The value of the house as an inheritance was a viable motive.  If it were a suspicious death. 

I had copies of his bank accounts, three, one a working account, one a savings account and one an investment account.  There was not enough in any of them to warrant killing the man for his money.

The house was owned by him, and we would have to talk to a real estate agent to get an approximate value.

I looked in my email and found a preliminary toxicology report with nothing unusual.  So, no drug overdosing, self-inflicted or otherwise.  Suicide was always on the list, and had to be ticked off.

An hour later, the post mortem came in, and it confirmed that Devlin had a heart attack and had been on painkiller medication for what looked to be a recent accident that scarred his leg.

It had nothing to do with his death.

The phone rang. 

Burgess.  “The body last night.  Verdict?”

There was only one verdict he wanted to hear.

“Nothing points to murder.  Heart attack and died.”

“Good.  Wrap it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

End of the discussion.  I put all the papers back in the file and left it in my in tray.  It could wait until Monday morning.  I would interview the solicitor, meet the granddaughter’s parents, and talk to the granddaughter again.

There was something not right.  Something about this case resonated with something I had read about, a few years ago, on the tail end of the COVID pandemic.

I was going for a walk in the park to clear my head.  I had a lot of searching and reading to do.

…

The trouble with quick clearance rates is that sometimes justice is not served.  The Devlin McCannaughy case was one.

But over the next few days, listening to all of the members of that family argue and squabble over the spoils, and furious that the granddaughter got nearly everything, the accusations were just that, accusations.

The lawyer knew all about the will and the reasons behind it.  So apparently did all those in line time inherit.  There was no motive for any of them other than the main beneficiary.

The trouble was, I could find no evidence to support my theory, and solid evidence was required before there would be any prosecution.

Did I think the granddaughter was guilty of murdering her grandfather for the money?  She didn’t steal from him, not like the children did; it was her mother who had stolen her father’s card and taken money out of the account.

We could prosecute her for theft, but the amount was almost irrelevant and not worth the court’s time.

How did the granddaughter do it?

By the nasal spray.  I had read about a case, one I had used in a paper I wrote about the perfect murder.  The thing is, she would need medical knowledge of what toxin to use and not leave a trace.  I had ordered another tox screen, but we didn’t know what we were looking for.

Motive and opportunity, but not the means.  Even though it was only her prints on the nasal spray beside the bed, one taken from the bathroom cabinet, there was a simple explanation, one given freely when I interviewed her.

She collected and gave him his medication. Yes, he had high blood pressure, and yes, he had minor heart problems, but nothing that would kill him.

When I gave the report to the Chief Superintendent, he just laughed and told me I was not working for MI5 and I should keep my conspiracy theories to myself.

Of course I did, but fate eventually intervened.  The Chief Superintendent was found dead in a sleazy motel, dead because of a heart attack.

Everyone drew the same conclusion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026