Page 132 of Joker in the Pack

I sat down on a plastic chair with a bump. Despite the escalating nastiness, it hadn’t crossed my mind that we’d be dealing with murder, but I’d bet my last penny that kitchen knife had been used for more than preparing Sunday dinner.

Nye held a video camera with one hand and my hand with the other as he filmed Test-tube gathering the evidence. The knife, the envelope, and he fingerprinted the box for good measure. As soon as he’d finished, he cleaned up the mess, and we slotted the box back into its rightful position.

“What now?” I asked.

“Back to the lab,” Nye said.

Of course, we hit Monday morning traffic, and I bit my tongue to keep from cursing all the incompetent drivers we came across.

“I could walk faster,” I muttered.

“Want me to distract you?” Nye asked.

Test-tube might have been sitting up front with the driver, but even so…

“You’re not serious?”

Except he was. He draped his jacket over my lap, and I barely noticed as we pulled into the underground car park at Blackwood’s offices. Nye helped me from the car and half carried me to the lift in the corner.

“I can’t believe you did that!”

“You were a willing participant, babe.”

Yes. Yes, I was.

Down in the lab, Test-tube went through the envelope-opening procedure again, with this sheet of paper in much better condition. Surely this would be the end of the line? I just wanted answers.

A small crowd had gathered by the time Test-tube projected Ronnie’s words onto a big screen, no doubt as intrigued by the mystery as I was. My heart raced as I began reading his heavy scrawl for the second time in two days.

I, Ronald Rigby, do testify that this is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Last night, I travelled alone to the village of Middleton Foxford with the intention of committing a burglary. I’d selected my target in advance, and over the past few weeks, I’d visited the property a number of times to check it out.

My intention was to wait until the occupants of the house were sleeping, then steal Helena Palmer’s jewellery box, which I’d heard she kept on a chest of drawers in the bedroom.I arrived at Prestwold Manor at thirty minutes past midnight and gained access through a downstairs window which I’d previously identified as having a faulty catch.

As I walked through the dining room, I saw a light on in the lounge. Wanting to check the whereabouts of Fenton and Helena Palmer, I looked through a gap between the door and frame.

On the far side of the room, Fenton Palmer was crouching over the body of Helena Palmer. There was a large quantity of blood visible—on Fenton, on Helena’s chest, and all over the rug she was lying on. The knife found with this statement was visible on the coffee table.

Helena Palmer did not appear to be moving, and Fenton Palmer made no effort to call for help. I hid in the hall closet while he rolled his wife’s body up in a piece of plastic sheeting he fetched from the garage.

He carried her to his car (a Range Rover) and drove approximately four hundred yards to St. James’s church, where he parked outside. I followed on foot and got there as he carried Helena’s body into the churchyard and placed her next to a freshly dug grave.

Over the next hour, Fenton used a shovel which was already there to deepen the hole and bury his wife at the bottom of it. He then filled the hole up to its original depth. That grave was intended for Eunice Briggs, who died earlier in the week.

While Fenton was filling in the final shovelfuls of dirt, I made my way back to Prestwold Manor and removed the knife from the scene to stop him from disposing of this key piece of evidence.

I hope that with my statement and the knife, Fenton Palmer can be brought to justice.

Ronald Rigby

I was shaking by the time I read the last sentence. Tate’s father was a murderer? He’d killed his wife, and the evidence was right there in front of us, in all its blood-streaked glory. Poor Tate. Our relationship might have fizzled out before it properly started, but I still ached for him.

Test-tube gave a low whistle. “A bit rough and ready, but Ronnie’s got all the good stuff in here.”

Nye nodded. “Timeline fits. The village busybody told us Fenton’s wife ran off around the same time as the blackmail payments started. Looks like she didn’t leave voluntarily.”

“What do you want to do with this stuff?”

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