THE DISCOVERY
It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me. Any other explanation would make more sense. Besides, every minute of the past twenty-four hours could be accounted for, with plenty of eyewitnesses ready to vouch for me.
Yesterday, Friday the 19th of February, I woke at seven. My wife was still asleep; she had two weeks off. We had agreed I would drop her and her mother at the airport after work. I showered, dressed, and went downstairs in twenty minutes, but I couldn’t find my car keys. With no time to search, I took hers — they always hung by the mailbox in the hallway. There was no traffic, so I reached work early. I’m in transport logistics. The dispatch team hadn’t arrived yet, but the warehouse gates were open, and the warehousemen saw me walk in.
I worked from eight until half past one, with a fifteen-minute smoking break at ten. At lunchtime I met Don and Andy in the city, and we returned to the office by half past two. The rest of the day passed without incident. I was surrounded by people the entire time; they can confirm I never left except for the usual breaks with my colleagues. I finished at half past six and was home ten minutes later.
My wife was already packing. She and her mother were flying to France for a week, as they did every year — just the two of them. I wasn’t going; work wouldn’t allow it, and we had our own holiday planned for later. We ate dinner at seven, checked their luggage and passports, and left the house at twenty past eight. We collected her mother from the neighbouring town, a fifteen-minute drive away.
We reached the airport around ten. Finding a space in the underground car park was a nightmare — too many cars, confusing signs, and ongoing works. We finally parked on the fourth floor and hurried to the terminal. Registration had already begun, but their flight wasn’t due to leave until five to midnight. There was no time for our usual coffee before boarding. I hugged them both, waved as they passed through border control, and left the moment they disappeared from sight.
The terminal was almost empty. Only the janitor remained. I followed him outside and asked for a light; I couldn’t find mine. I never smoked in front of my wife — she hated it — but the tension of airport goodbyes always left me needing one.
The drive home was quiet and lonely. I listened to my favourite eighties station and pulled into the driveway at a quarter to two. I wasn’t tired, so I poured a whisky and watched a recorded programme from the night before. I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew, the remote clattered to the floor. I switched off the television, put the glass in the sink, and went upstairs to bed. I’ve no idea what time it was; I never checked the clock.
I woke around ten on Saturday with a pounding headache, dizziness, and nausea. Bright sunlight streamed through the window — I had forgotten to close the shutters. I had fallen asleep fully dressed, shoes still on. My shirt reeked of sweat. I stripped it off, threw it in the washing machine, and took a cold shower. I felt slightly more human afterwards.
Downstairs, I noticed two whisky glasses in the sink. I couldn’t remember drinking that much. Normally I only have one at the end of the week to unwind. I didn’t dwell on it. I washed both glasses and put them away. While I ate breakfast, I wondered how to spend the day. I was alone and didn’t fancy staying in. Maybe I would call the lads or go down the pub. First, though, I needed to find my car keys.
I searched the bedroom while ringing my best friend Mick. He said he would come and pick me up later. The moment we hung up, my wife called. She sounded cheerful, telling me they had landed safely and were already on their way to their first excursion. She promised to ring again that evening.
Still no sign of the keys. I went downstairs to check the garage and storage room. I had a strong feeling I had lost them on the way home after meeting Mick on Thursday. As I passed the living room, something caught my eye through the open door — a strange dark shape on the floor. At first, I thought my jacket had fallen. I paused, then pushed the door wider.
As the room slowly came into view, my blood turned to ice. There, in the middle of the living room, bathed in morning sunlight, lay a man with a knife handle protruding from his chest.
