Chapter 3: Interrogation II

As Karim waited for the line of witnesses from the house that night, his thoughts began to wander again. Now that he had some facts to work with, he let the possibilities simmer, shaping themselves into quiet suspicions.

Who was the woman Aisha described? Did the commissioner pick her up the same way he had picked up Aisha, or had they known each other before? Aisha had said they conversed and laughed easily. That wasn’t the sort of thing you did with a stranger, not in those circumstances. There had been familiarity there — the kind that came from more than a single chance meeting.

Elegant, like a model or an actress. That was how Aisha had painted her. Elegant, confident, laughing by the commissioner’s side. This didn’t look like a random tryst. Maybe it was a crime of passion after all. A lover betrayed? A partner cut out of a deal?

He leaned back, twirling the pen between his fingers. It spun almost without thought, his reflex when ideas tangled. He swirled once in his chair, lost in the maze of half-formed conclusions.

So absorbed was he that he didn’t notice the figure in the doorway.

She lingered there a moment, arms folded lightly, watching him with an expression that mixed fondness with quiet judgment. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, exposing fine-toned muscle, the veins on his forearms drawn like quiet rivers under his clear brown skin. He looked older in this light, more tired, though his posture resisted admitting it.

“Detective,” she finally called out, her voice carrying its usual blend of warmth and formality.

He turned in his chair, blinking himself out of reverie. When he saw her, a big, bright smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that tried to mask the exhaustion beneath.

“Irene,” he said, his voice lighter for a moment.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she strode in and came to stand beside him. Without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her small manicured hand to his forehead as though checking a child for fever. He stiffened slightly at the touch, his body unsure what to do with the softness it offered.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” she asked, her tone part teasing, part concerned.

“Yes… maybe a couple of hours, if that,” he muttered, turning his eyes back to his jotter as if to hide the faint color rising in his cheeks. The pen kept spinning, betraying him.

He tried for deflection. “How did your date go? Please tell me it went better than my night.”

Her lips twitched. The brightness faltered for a fraction of a second. She took the chair across from him, brushing back a strand of hair. “It was… fine,” she said, too quickly.

Silence grew between them, stretched thin and awkward. Karim kept his eyes on his notes, suddenly aware of how unnatural the air had become. Irene studied him, waiting for him to meet her gaze.

“You’re always awkward with me,” she said at last, her tone gentler now, like someone pointing out a bruise rather than a wound. “Why is that?”

He opened his mouth, fumbling for words he hadn’t yet shaped. But before he could answer, the door opened and an officer ushered in the first witness. The interruption was a relief, a lifeline. Karim turned, pen in hand, face settling back into the mask of professionalism.

The cook walked in with measured steps. She was middle-aged, dressed in a plain wrapper and blouse, her head tied with a scarf. She carried herself with calm dignity, as though even grief or fear would not be allowed to ruffle her. When she sat, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and looked Karim directly in the eye.

“Please, state your name,” Karim began.

“My name is Mama Ruth,” she replied evenly. Her voice was steady, her manner collected.

“You worked for the commissioner?”

“Yes. I was his cook.”

“Were you in the house on the night of his death?”

“Yes,” she said again, her voice unshaken. “I was in my room. He had sent the other workers away, as he often did when he wanted privacy. He kept only me that night, for food. And the policemen outside, of course. That was his way.”

“What do you mean by ‘his way’?” Karim asked.

Mama Ruth’s expression did not change, though her lips pressed faintly together. “He brought women, sir. Sometimes one, sometimes more than one. He would send the other staff home early and make sure only his guards remained. I knew better than to ask questions. He paid well, but he was a man of appetite. Many times, he came with strange women and made them satisfy him at once.”

Irene shifted slightly in her chair, uncomfortable with the bluntness. Karim only nodded, his face unreadable. “And on this particular night?”

“I was in my quarters when I heard a scream. A woman’s scream. I came out quickly. That is when I saw him tied to the chair, blood on the kitchen floor, and that girl crying.” She paused, then added calmly, “I did not see any other person. But…”

“But?” Karim pressed gently.

“There was a scent in the house,” Mama Ruth said. “A perfume. Not the one the crying girl wore. Another. Stronger. Sweet. It lingered in the kitchen and the corridor. I smelled it when I came out.”

Karim’s pen scratched across the page. Perfume again. A pattern.

“Did you see any signs of another woman?” he asked.

“No,” she said firmly. “Only the scent. And I know what I smelled.”

Her composure never wavered. Her account was steady, unembellished. Karim admired her control. He asked a few more questions — when she had last seen the commissioner alive (earlier in the evening, when he asked her to prepare food), whether she had heard voices (she thought she heard laughter, but she could not swear to it), and what she did after finding the body (she called out to the guards).

When he finally dismissed her, she stood, gave a respectful nod, and walked out with the same measured calm she had entered with.

The door opened again almost immediately. This time, it was one of the policemen who had been stationed outside that night. His uniform was slightly rumpled, his face heavy with fatigue. He saluted briefly before taking a seat.

“Name?” Karim asked.

“Constable Jonah, sir.”

“You were posted outside the commissioner’s house that night?”

“Yes, sir. Me and four others.”

“Tell me what you observed.”

Jonah shifted uncomfortably. “To be honest, sir, we didn’t see much. The commissioner didn’t allow us to look into his car when he brought the ladies home. Tinted glass. And we weren’t allowed into the house when they were there. He gave strict instructions. If we tried to look, there would be trouble. We kept our post outside.”

Karim tapped the pen lightly on the desk. “And when did you realize something was wrong?”

“When we heard the scream, sir,” Jonah said. His voice softened, as though the memory unsettled him. “We rushed in. Found the cook already there, and the girl crying. The commissioner was… he was already gone.”

“Did you see anyone leaving the house? Any unusual movement?”

Jonah shook his head. “No, sir. Not before the scream. The gate was locked. If anyone left, it wasn’t through the main entrance.”

Karim noted this carefully. “Did you hear anything earlier? Any voices?”

Jonah hesitated. “Yes, sir. Laughter. A woman’s voice, maybe two. I can’t be sure. But it felt like more than one.”

Karim’s pen paused. “And the perfume?”

Jonah nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Expensive. It didn’t belong to the crying girl. Too rich for her. It clung to the hall, the study. Even outside near the veranda.”

Karim scribbled furiously. Three separate mentions of perfume. That was no coincidence.

When the constable was dismissed, Karim leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. The testimonies lined up — the cook with her calm certainty, the constable with his weary loyalty. Each pointed again to the presence of another person in that house, a woman whose scent lingered and whose identity remained faceless.

A faceless woman. Elegant, expensive, laughing at the commissioner’s side.

Perfume. Always the perfume.

He rubbed his temples, fatigue pressing at him, but the pattern would not let him rest. Whoever she was, she had vanished like smoke — no trace but the lingering sweetness of her scent.

And that was what gnawed at him most. Not the commissioner’s cruelty, not the spectacle of his death, but the fact that someone could be so present in the room, leave such a mark in memory, and yet remain untouchable, unseen.

He glanced at Irene across the table. She was watching him again, quiet, thoughtful. Her gaze carried both curiosity and something else he wasn’t ready to name. He allowed her to be with him when he interrogated soft witnesses. Sometimes, he had to use force. He kept the door locked then. 

He looked away first. “Bring in the next witness,” he said, his voice low but steady.

The investigation pressed on.

#Nemesis