If I hadn’t known any better, my first sight of Neil Frame would have convinced me of his guilt. Narrowed eyes blinking rapidly, he sat behind a table in the middle of the interrogation room. A muscle in his left cheek fluttered as if a moth was trapped under the taut, grey skin. After a moment his gaze steadied, then his eyes swung from me to my old friend and ex-colleague, Detective Sergeant Bill Hamilton of Lothian and Borders CID, and back to me again. Neil Frame’s bloodless lips formed a shaky smile. He stood. As I approached him I noticed the fingernails of the hand he offered me were bitten painfully short. The fingertips were pink-raw where he’d gnawed at the skin.

I sniffed. “Somebody been decorating in here?” I said. I didn’t give him my usual handshake for fear of squeezing too hard and making his fingers bleed. “Stinks of paint.” 

“Sunflower yellow,” he informed me in a quiet voice. “Slapped on.” He paused, stared at our clasped hands. “Yesterday afternoon.” His grip slackened and his fingers slid away from mine. 

“Hope they didn’t do it for my benefit,” I said, dragging a chair out from the table.  I sat down and waited for him to say something pertinent. I was hoping for something like, “Thanks for coming to see me, Mr. Culler,” so I was disappointed when he muttered, “There’s not a single window you can open.”

Behind me, DS Bill Hamilton said, “You want me to stay?”  

“I think Mr Frame is going to behave himself,” I said. Neil Frame was a head shorter than my six-four and probably four or five stones lighter. Anyway, I suspected I was safe enough. He wasn’t the violent type.

The door clicked shut.

Frame hobbled towards the near wall, wringing his sore hands, gazing at the floor. He looked like he’d benefit from a walking stick. Trouble had come crashing down on him so hard he was going to have to reach up to tie his shoelaces. He turned, eyes flashing over the sunflower yellow walls. 

“What am I going to do?”  His gaze dropped to his feet. “Hang myself?”

I looked down and let my lips curl into what I hoped passed for a wry smile.  He was pissed off. And who wouldn’t be? The police had confiscated his shoelaces.  Damned irritating. Standard procedure, though. I didn’t say so, but he was lucky they’d returned his shoes. Back in his cell once again, he’d have to leave his footwear outside the door. A precaution, in case he decided to club himself to death. Laces, supposedly even more dangerous, were forbidden under any circumstances. Logic that made sense if you had an extremely thin neck and trouble had crashed down on you so hard you stood less than a foot tall. You might, then, conceivably, be able to use your shoelaces to hang yourself. Otherwise, your best bet was to try strangling yourself.  Problem was, you’d pass out before you did any lasting damage.

“Nonsense, isn’t it?”  I said, looking up from Neil Frame’s loosely shod feet.  He nodded and started shuffling back to the table. I caught myself thinking how amusing it would be if he stumbled and cracked his head open on the floor. No fear of that happening, though. His progress was far too careful. And far too slow. I could have hanged myself in the time it was taking him to cross the room. I didn’t, even though I was in possession of the means to do so. Instead, I waited for him to reach the table. Then I waited for him to sit down. I waited while he fidgeted in his chair.  I waited while he cleared his throat. I was just about to offer him my shoelaces and some free advice about what to do with them when he said, finally, “What did my lawyer tell you?”

“Not much.”

When Colin Hudson phoned I was at my office, stabbing a cigarette butt into a heaped ashtray which, along with a second heaped ashtray, dominated the scarred, burned, ash-layered surface of my pine-effect, self-assembly desk. He told me Neil Frame wanted to hire me. Frame wanted help proving his innocence. 

I’d struggled to keep the surprise out of my voice. “The guy who carved up his wife and his best friend?” This was a real bonus.

“Not according to him”

“What does he say?”

“He was set up.”

“You believe that?”

The lawyer’s silence told me as much as any words could have done.

I looked at Neil Frame and said, “Mr. Hudson told me your fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. He said your clothes were covered in blood.” I picked a piece of lint off the breast pocket of my new anthracite grey Dolce & Gabbana suit.  “In the blood of both victims.”

“I didn’t kill them.” Eyes wide, Frame stared into space and muttered, “I didn’t do it.”

“Before we go any further,” I said, “I should let you know that I charge five hundred pounds a day.”

“Arrange that with my lawyer. Money’s not an issue, and Mr Hudson knows that. Patrick recommended you. Which is good enough for me.”

“Patrick?”  I did my best to look puzzled.

“Patrick Simpson,” he clarified.

Patrick Simpson.  Victim of a knife attack two days ago.  Died in his bed.  Detail not released to the press:  fourteen stab wounds perforated his naked torso. 

Girlfriend, found on the floor next to the bed. Also naked. Throat cut.  Undisclosed:  extensive injuries to breasts, genitals, eyes. Throat slashed post mortem.  Girlfriend’s name: Anne Frame. Otherwise known as Mrs. Neil Frame.

“You mean that Mr. Simpson is the same one…”

“…that owns Hybrid, the pharmaceutical company that hired you to look into an internal security problem a couple of months ago.”

“Small world,” I said. 

“You made quite an impression, Mr. Culler.” Frame studied his bitten fingers.  “Patrick said if I ever needed a private investigator I should contact you. Claimed you were the best PI working in Edinburgh.” He paused, frowning. “It’s almost as if he had a premonition, or something. As if he knew I’d be needing your help. He made sure I wouldn’t forget your name.”

“How did he do that?”

“Told me there was only one Culler in the Yellow Pages.”

“I must remember that,” I said, taking out my notebook. “That’s good,” I said.  “One Culler.” I chuckled. “Yellow. And it’s true.” I opened the notebook and, at the top of the first blank page, wrote my new client’s name. Underneath, in capital letters large enough for him to read, I wrote INNOCENT. I underlined it. His lips twitched when I added a question mark. “Maybe you could start by telling me exactly what happened,” I said.

“I’ve told it so many times.”

“Not to me.”

He dragged his hand through his hair. “Tuesday night,” he said. “I got a call from Patrick.”

“At home?”

“Yeah, and I know what you’re thinking. There must be a record of the call, right?”

“Well?”

“He called from an unregistered mobile phone. Not his. At least, not the one they found at his house.” Neil Frame put his little finger in his mouth and gnawed at what was left of the fingernail. I let him take his time. After a while he took his finger out of his mouth, wiped saliva on his shirt and said, “The police don’t doubt that somebody called me at twenty-five past seven on Tuesday night. They just don’t believe it was Patrick.” He looked away for a minute.

Time enough for me to scribble a few words: fool, idiot, loser. Quickly, I flipped the page. I asked, “What did he say?”

“Just that something had happened to my wife and could I hurry over to his house.”

“Those were his exact words?”

Frame closed his eyes. “I believe his version contained a few expletives.”

“Shock me.”

“Very well.” His eyes sprang open. “Patrick said, 'Anne’s got some kind of fucking problem. Get your fucking arse over here now.' Something like that.”

“Go on,” I told him.

“I asked him what had happened to her. He said she’d had a panic attack.”

“Why did he phone you? Why not call an ambulance?”

“It had happened before,” he said. “Twice. Although not for some time. She had seemed better lately.” He looked at his hands. Thought about chewing his fingers again. Wisely, he decided not to. “An ambulance was unnecessary. He knew that. We both did.”

“Didn’t it bother you?”

“As I said – ”

“No, the fact that your best friend and your wife were together. Did that not bother you?”

“The three of us enjoyed one another’s company. We were all friends. It wasn’t unusual for Patrick and Anne to spend time together.”

“You trusted them?”

“Implicitly.”

He was staring at his fingernails again. The silence dragged. When I could bear it no longer I said, “So, he told you about your wife’s panic attack. What happened next?”

“I said I’d get there as soon as I could and hung up.” He folded his arms and rocked backwards and forwards, speaking in a whisper. “It was raining outside. I slipped in a puddle, landed on my knee.” He winced, as if experiencing the fall again. “Tore a hole in my trousers. I picked myself up, got in the car and drove to Patrick’s house.”

“How long did that take?”

“Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

 “What then?”

“I brought the car to a halt in his driveway. Opened the door. Waded through a massive puddle that spread all the way to the front path. Squelched up to the front door. Banged on it. No response. Rang the buzzer.” His arms still crossed, he rubbed his biceps as if he was cold. “No answer. Tried the handle. The door was open.” His fingers dug into his arms. “I crept inside. The hallway was dark. I remember groping for the light switch.” He shivered. “Took ages to find it. When I snapped it on, bright light drenched the hallway. I called their names. No answer. I took my wet shoes off. Didn’t want to ruin the carpet. I headed towards the sitting room. Looked inside. It was empty. Tried the kitchen. Empty. I thought maybe Patrick had put her to bed.” He swallowed. “When I opened the bedroom door I saw the…I saw…I approached the bed. I wasn’t taking it in. I heard a noise behind me. Then I don’t remember anything else until I woke up next to…” He touched the back of his head. “Somebody hit me from behind. Knocked me out.”

“You have a bruise there? That’s good. It corroborates your story.”

“I was hit with a marble bookend.” He smiled. “It was found on the bed next to Patrick’s body. With his prints all over it.”

“You think Patrick hit you?”

“The police think so. They think I found him and Anne together and started slapping her about and Patrick clubbed me with the bookend to get me to stop.”

“And then you got mad and killed them both in some kind of jealous frenzy.”

“Yeah.” His thin lips trembled. “Yeah. That’s what they think. But they’re wrong. Patrick was already dead when I got there. So was Anne.” His eyes shone. “I want to find out who murdered my wife.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. “I want to find out who killed my best friend.” He sniffed again. “Somebody was waiting for me in Patrick’s bedroom. I was set up, Mr. Culler. My fingerprints are on the knife. But they were planted there when I was unconscious. Do you believe me?”

I assured him I did.

“Can you help me?”

I assured him I could.

***

When I got home I went straight to the fridge and opened a can of lager. I should have had a bottle of champagne, but, hey, I don’t like the stuff. I made myself comfortable on the settee and tried to watch television. I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept replaying the final moments of Anne Frame’s life. It was different for Patrick. For him, it was a kind of suicide. But for her...

Afterwards, I was sick. I felt sick again now. I took a long swig of beer and still felt sick.

A month ago Patrick Simpson called me and asked me to visit him at his office. “Another job for you,” he said when I arrived. He picked up a photograph of a smiling couple off his polished walnut, leather-inlaid executive desk. “Mr. and Mrs. Frame,” he said. He replaced the picture. Then, hands clasped together, elbows resting on the desk, he said, “How would you like to make half a million pounds?”

That got my attention straight away. I lit a cigarette. I didn’t want to appear too eager.

“I’ve consulted the best doctors money can buy,” he said. “Know what they tell me?”

I looked blank.

“I’m going to die,” he told me. “I look healthy enough, don’t I? I know. Well, I’m not. It’s like this. I get some headaches, go to the doctor, see a few specialists, this is what they tell me. “Mr. Simpson, there’s nothing we can do, except pray for a miracle.” How do you like that, Mr. Culler? I have an inoperable brain tumour.” He picked the photograph off his desk. “See this happy couple? Lovely image, is it not?” He slammed the photo against the edge of the desk. Glass showered over the thick carpet. “Been in love with her all my life, you know. And guess what? The bitch.” He cracked the frame off the edge of the desk again. “Is not.” He slammed the frame down once more. It snapped. “Interested.” He stared at the broken pieces for a minute, then wiped his desk clear with a single sweep of his arm. “If I’m going to die, I want to die under my terms. I want my death to be under my control, Mr. Culler. Is that incomprehensible? Do you think it’s too much to ask?”

“Perfectly reasonable,” I said, sucking smoke deep into my lungs.

“It has to look like a crime of passion,” he said. “And it has to implicate Neil.”

“What exactly are we talking about here?” I asked him.

“I’ll pay you quarter of a million pounds to kill his smug bitch of a wife.” I wondered for a moment if he was serious. “And a further quarter of a million for killing me.” He was. “Do that for me, Mr. Culler, and I’ll die a happy man.”

I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but my own reflection. “I’m no killer, Mr. Simpson,” I said. “However, I’m one hell of a quick learner.”

I reached across the desk and shook his hand.

The End