1
A Case of Pink Figurines
By Annie Liu
The bedroom stunk of pink, not a placid, tranquil sort of pale pink, but the kind of shade that screamed at you when you stared too long, and gave you the sort of feeling you got when you looked at the sun. Wilson felt like gagging.
Although really, that might have had more to do with the decapitated head on the floor. No one had closed its milky eyes yet, and the unblinking gaze seemed to be wading through his soul in a way that made him wish for a stronger coffee - perhaps even a thorough reconsideration of his career choices.
“Still going strong, pal?" The other detective, Jacobe, his self-proclaimed ‘new partner in crime’, slapped a sinewy hand across his back.
“Yes," Wilson replied, snappish, and drew a notebook out of his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll have you know that I was dux of my academy," he said, tilting his chin up and sauntering over to the corpse. “I’m very good at dealing with this sort of thing, even if it is my first day on the field." He felt rather satisfied with his answer – feigned confidence was most promising for any group activity.
A small muscle twitched strangely in the other man’s cheek, but he merely spread his lips into a hearty smile and clasped his hands together. “Righto, my friend. Look and jot as you please."”
Heavy silence followed. Wilson’s hand scribbled furiously on his wad of paper, taking down everything from the diameter of the crimson droplet to the angle of the sunlight beaming on the corpse.
“So … What do you think?" Jacobe grinned. “Cause of death? Reason for murder? Suspects?"
Wilson rolled out his shoulders and said in a most staunch manner, “I shall have to think on it further."
“I see. Why don’t we ponder this over at my house? … Personally, I believe that the beheading must’ve been from a knife. A butcher’s? It’s not a very clean cut is it? She was quite young, not bad on the eyes … ex-lover’s always a potential."
He looked down at the head and tusked, “What a shame. Only twenty-three. And she was such a darling to work with."
Wilson shifted his feet awkwardly and made a huffing sound. “That doesn’t matter now. I’m her new replacement on this job and we had better not waste time and find the actual details out soon."”
“Yes, yes, and so we should. Come then, back in the car again. Sure you got all the notes you need?"”
An hour later, the two were back in Jacobe’s dining room; Wilson, spectacles firmly on, pouring over his scribbles, whilst Jacobe, glass of wine in one hand, stared out at the marvellous view of the woods out back beyond his yard. From inside the wall of paned glass windows, one could just see the last sparrow, perched on a sycamore, singing its lonely melody as the sun deflated and fell.
“Did you know her very well?"” Wilson asked, rupturing the quiet, curiosity evading him. “The deceased woman, I mean."”
“Of course I did. We saw each other five days a week after all."”
