Page 77 of Dissection of a Murder
“You look well!” I tell her.
“I am well, darling! We’ve had lovely, blustery weather this week.”
“Yes, cold but sunny.”
“I love this time of year. It’s made for long walks. Been lovely to get out.”
It takes me a second to register what she’s said.
“You’ve been out?”
“Yes, dear!” She smiles. “Oh, I’ve been all over. To the park, to the butcher’s—got some lovely ribs. Really juicy.”
God, she’s lost it now. Audrey hasn’t gone out by herself for months.
“I brought you some fish and chips,” I say. “I’ll go and set the table.”
As I head down the hall toward the dining room as I have done hundreds of times before, I suddenly stop. Something feels off.
I pause, mid-stride, like a predator who’s sensed a target.
Everything looks the same. It’s not that.
It’s the music.
Only when I listen to what it is does a chill slide down my spine.
The music is grainy and crackly, the way music used to sound in the 1960s. The quality is poor, yet the full drama of the song rips through the air. The deep, penetrating vocals sit alongside a waltz-like rhythm. It’s a song about jealousy. A song about revenge. A song about betrayal.
“Delilah” by Tom Jones.
Delilah.
Poking my head around the door frame, the rest of my body stiff, I stare into the room. Everything is as it should be, still, except for the old record player in the corner. I watch as the single turns around, the old needle propelling the music into the air.
As the song comes to a close, the arm returns to the beginning of the record and starts again. It’s on repeat.
Running into the lounge, I startle Audrey with my insistence.
“Audrey, this is very important,” I say. “Who put that music on?”
“Tom Jones. I saw him, you know, in 1965. Never had a thing for him. All the other women did, but—”
“How long has this music been playing?”
“What music?”
Jesus Christ.
“The music in the dining room. Can you hear it? It’s playing ‘Delilah.’ ”
“Oh! That? All bloody day. I don’t know how to turn it off. Same song all the time. None of his other hits.”
This can’t be happening.
“What time did it start, Audrey? Please think.”
“Erm…about 2 p.m., I think. Or it might have been 5 p.m.”
