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  • Confession to Murder

    I heard the chap behind me very clearly; ‘You better believe me, I did it finally, I killed her, I said I would; there was no other way; she was making my life hell, she’s gone, I really had no choice.’ I was shocked when his neighbour chuckled, adding, ‘I know, she had it coming.’ They must have become aware that I had moved my head in order to eavesdrop, and they clammed up. I guessed by their accents that neither of them was Scottish, but there are hardly any of us anymore in Edinburgh.

    I started trembling at the proximity of a self-confessed murderer; I knew that I couldn’t just forget it, that I had to do my civic duty. I have heard of citizen’s arrest, but no idea how to proceed. Besides if he had killed his wife, as I supposed, he’d be more than a match for me; I admit to being something of a coward.

    I decided not get down at my Stop and follow them to wherever they were going. If they had different destinations, which one to follow? I had no idea which of the two had confessed. I’d just follow the first one, get him arrested and let the cops sort the rest out?

    Luckily they stopped on Princes Street opposite the castle and I had a good look at both of them. Young chaps in their late twenties, I guessed. Both were well-built, one rather lanky, blue eyes, short straw-coloured hair, the other dumpy with mouse-coloured hair. I would have no difficulty picking them from an Identification parade. I pretended to be looking at the books at Waterstone’s and when they overtook me, I tailed them. They did not have far to go, both going into Curry’s the electronics specialists. The place had barely opened and I lingered outside whilst they did their business. After ten minutes there was no sign of them so I went in, pretending that I was looking for something. Suddenly I caught sight of both of them behind the counter; they were shop assistants. One was explaining to a potential buyer how the Kindle worked whilst then other one was putting away wires and things into a box.

    That was going to make my task easier. I could hop over to the cop shop in Gayford Square less than ten minutes away and speak to someone. In the meantime the two culprits (one of them at least was a killer) weren’t going anywhere.

    The police were pleased and in no time at all a car was sent to pick the men up and bring them to the station where I duly identified them.

    ‘What’s your name?’ the duty sergeant barked at the tall lanky one.
    ‘Felix.’
    ‘Do you have a second name, Felix?’
    ‘I killed her.’
    ‘Yes, we know, we’ll come to that in a sec, just tell us your second name.’
    ‘Ikilder, I-k-i-l-d-e-r.’


    pic: A plaque in honour of Conan Doyle seems a fitting image for a murder story.

    (ReadWave is organising a flash fiction competition, a 500 word story on the theme of "An overheard conversation" and this is going to be my entry)
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