LarrySun: Who do you think is more callous between he and Cain?

for now, i can't tell but Cain's intensions were known, they were revenge/payback in most cases
but for Jamal, i think he was really evil, he was the first to rape cain's wife in his presence after tying him to a chair.

i'll keep my fingers crossed... can't judge for now

that's by the way, Where is update naaa Bros?

“Anuli!” David thundered, he was looking very angrily at his wife, “How dare you, Anuli? How dare you?”

“Give yourself a break, David dear. You’ve been venturing this for years. It’s high time you let off the anguish. It has changed you. I want the David trapped deep down inside you—I want the better David; the caring, loving and understanding David. Not this one, not this one that places curses on people at will.” Tears rushed to her eyes, “You’ve got to let the feeling go, David. The man is dead already—you’ve got to let go. It would be better for you and I that way.”

Lot asked softly, “Is there any truth in what your wife said, Mr. Malik?”

David nodded reluctantly.

“What actually happened?”

He did not talk.

“Tell them, David.” His wife urged.

His lips trembled as he began, “It was around ten years ago—I was about twenty years old at the time when I found out that they were having a relationship. I remember it was shortly after my mother’s accident.”

“What’s her name? Your girlfriend’s.”

“Her name is June Williams; she was named June because she was born within the first ten minutes of the month of June in 1982.” He paused and continued, “I found them both coming out from a hotel gate, the way they were holding each other suggested the obvious that had occurred in one of the suites. The most damning part was the fact that when I confronted June about it later on she admitted without any remorse.” He held his head in his palms and whimpered emotionally.

“What did your father say about it?”

“His father didn’t know.” Anuli answered.

“Excuse me?” said Lot.

“Jamal didn’t know that June Williams was his son’s girlfriend; it was June who put herself before the old man. She was very much aware that Jamal was her boyfriend’s father. She was nothing but a dog, even dogs will take offence at my comparison.”

“So, this June slept with both father and son?”

Annuli shook her head, “No, she didn’t. David never slept with her. He was waiting for the honeymoon night. The old man didn’t understand what made David leave home to live in a state in the eastern part of the country. But David never forgave him for what happened.”

“From your explanation,” Lot remarked, “I don’t see why the old man should be blamed for something of which he wasn’t aware.”

“His father was married, Detective, why would he start jumping from one woman to another? The man’s promiscuity was alarming; God rest his soul.”

“I hope his so called promiscuity was not why he lost his life.”

Annuli scoffed irritably, ‘If you’re thinking that David had any hand in his father’s death, then you’re deeply mistaken.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Malik, you don’t know what I’m thinking—not even a little inkling. What became of June Williams?”

“Nobody knows,” Anuli shrugged, “We don’t know anything about her anymore.”

“She’s deceased.” David said.

His wife cast a sharp glance at him, “How did you know that, David? You didn’t tell me anything about that.”

He looked at his wife furiously, “Why should I tell you? It wasn’t any of your damn business, was it?”

“How did she die?” Lot cut in.

“She died last year—on her birthday. She was thirty.”

“I suppose her death didn’t result from AIDS or Cancer.”

“She was shot to death.”

Annuli gasped.

“By whose hand?” Lot asked.

“I don’t know.”

His reply wasn’t convincing. Lot had learned to be as wary of intuition as he was of superficial judgements, but it was hardly possible to be a long-serving detective and not know when a suspect was lying. He decided to change the topic sooner than later.

“Where were you both on the night of December Twenty-fourth?”

Annuli replied immediately, “We were in David’s room, sleeping.”

Lot’s suspicious eyes were cast on her, then he turned to David, “Is that true, Mr. Malik?”

The husband consulted his wife’s face for a brief moment before replying, “Yes-yes, that’s true.”

“Can either of you recount to us what you can remember about that night?”

It was Anuli who recounted, “After having a nice dinner—well, supper would be a more appropriate word, I suppose—we left the dinning room and went to David’s room.”

“What about others? Did you leave them behind?”

“The after-meal chat was so intense that the mistress had to ask us to leave the room. My sister-in-law, Ruth, was so ill-mannered that I could not wait to leave her presence. I remember that when I was rising to take my exit from the room, others were still seated. David caught up with me in the corridor.”

“So you both went directly to your room?”

“Christopher was asleep in my arms and I had to lay him down. So, yes, we went directly to David’s room.”

“Then?”

“Then we went to bed—until that terrible cry came. It was so terrible; the scream of a man in mortal agony.”

“At what time exactly did you retire to bed?”

“We left the dining room at ten-thirty, and we were already in bed when the grandfather’s clock chimed eleven times. I remember that one vividly.”

“At what time did you hear the cry?”

She frowned, “Um—I can’t really recall. It could have been at around one or two. It wasn’t like I was watching the time and expecting to hear a shriek at a particular tick of the seconds hand. We all returned to bed at about a quarter to three in the morning of Christmas Day.”

“What did you do when you heard the scream?”

“David and I immediately sprang off the bed and ran to the door, but the door was locked—it took us about five to ten minutes to get the door opened."

“Was everyone present when you were struggling with the door?"

“I can’t really tell, I wasn’t counting. My brother-in-law, Gabriel, was definitely there. He and my husband were exchanging words before the door was finally opened.”

“Who else was there?”

She pointed at Daniel and said, “He was there too. There was also the maid.”

“There were Esther and Remi,” David added, “We found them banging at the door.”

“I can’t remember if my sister-in-law, Ruth, was there. Can you, darling?”

David shook his head, “No, I can’t.”

“What about Mr. Johnson?”

The couple shook their heads. They claimed they couldn’t recall seeing him there either.

“I want you both to think back hard,” Lot urged as he consulted the small map of the main building, which he had evidently been studying ever since Daniel had given him. “I understand that your room comes before the maid’s. is that right?”

They nodded in unison.

“Shortly after the time you heard the scream, did anyone run past your window?”

David replied in the negative, “No, I don’t think so.”

Annuli said, “I didn’t notice anyone perform that exercise.”

“Coming to think about it again,” said David, “The person might have run past our window when we rushed out of the room. Such things happen, you know.”

“Mr. Malik, who do you think would have any reason to have your father killed?”

“Isn’t that the job of you detectives?”

“Just humour me.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. It could be anybody. My father has offended many people during his lifetime.”

‘If you asked me,” Anuli said, “I’d say it’s Ruth who did him in.”

“That’s interesting,” Lot said, “Why did you say that?”

“I’m a woman and I know how a fellow woman thinks. That woman hates her father with an unusual passion. You’ll agree with me that the knife is a woman’s weapon. That is why we always advise men never to argue with us in the kitchen. We know where everything is. The woman’s cold countenance is quite murderous.”

“Mr. Malik, you made one remarkable statement shortly after seeing your father’s corpse.”

“Did I?”

“ ‘The moon moves slowly but by daybreak it crosses the sky’ Those are the exact words you said. Do you remember now?”

“I guess.”

“Why did you say that? What does it mean, Mr. Malik?”

David shrugged, “I just said it for speaking sake.”

“No, you didn’t. Those words are a quote and there’s a reason why you used those particular words.”

“I meant that his nemesis finally caught up with him.”

“And what might that nemesis be?”

“I think you already know that, detective. Stop drilling me like crude oil. The can of worm you’re trying to pry open, I hope you have a perfect justification for it.”

Lot turned to Anuli, “And you, Mrs. Malik, what did you mean by your own expression?”

“What expression?”

“You said your deceased father-in-law won’t be changing his will after all.”

She spread her hands in defense, “Of course, the dead don’t come back to life—not since Jesus Christ’s ascension.”

“What will were you talking about?”

“During the time we were chatting at the dinner table, Jamal placed a call to his lawyer. He said he was planning to change his will. From the little David told me, my father-in-law was an eccentric man. He was forever placing people in his will and striking them out a week later.”

Lot and Okafor exchanged brief glances.

“I believe you both saw the second corpse we found last week.” Lot spoke to the couple.

“Of course.” David replied. Annuli merely nodded.

“Does either one of you recognize the man?”

‘I’ve never seen the man before in my life.” David said.

“Me neither.” Annuli added.

Detective Lot paused for a few seconds before saying, “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Malik. But before you go, I have one last question. Does either one of you know anyone named Abel?”

Annuli shook her head no.

David said, “I only know of the Abel in the Bible.”

“Who owns the copy of Animal Farm in the living room?”

“What animal farm?” David asked ignorantly.

Before Lot would speak, Anuli said:

“Oh, I remember—that book that has the picture of a pig drawn on its front cover, right?”

“Right. You’ve got a great memory, Mrs. Malik.” Lot observed.

Annuli smiled, “Not much, I remember only because of the picture on the front cover. The pig drawn on it was clean and pretty; I’ve never seen a clean and pretty pig in all my life. It’s the insanest imagery I’ve ever beheld, it’s in contrast to the metaphor behind someone being called a pig.”

“Do you know who was reading the book?”

“No, I don’t,” she replied, “I only know who owns it.”

“Who?”

“My sister-in-law.”

“Mrs. Ruth Brown?”

She shook her head, “No, the book belongs to Miss Esther Malik.”

Nice update sir
*still following*

Nice!!! The twist and Suspense continues. So Whoever was reading the Animal farm would be responsible for the crime? What if it was the owner that folded that particular page? Come to think of it. Famous actually saw a gurl, and maybe he was mistaken in the identity of the individual...what if...well the possibilities are endless. What if I fold my hands and watch the whole scenario unfold like a rising flower...at dawn's morn?

@Larry u dey torment pesin with suspense. Chai chai Larry daris god o!

Left,Right,Left, Right........ Lot pulling the strings.....

TWENTY-THREE

The depth lies in the valleys where we seek here and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. This new revelation given by the Hindustani was a hot knife in the butter of logic. The gumshoe and his sidekick, however, debated on the rather remarkable observations reflected by the couple.

“I think she was lying,” said Daniel, David and Anuli had left the room. The detective had asked the lawyer to wait in another room.

“What brought about your thought?” asked Lot.

“When humans are under pressure, we’re all willing to lie.”

“Even to the people we love?”

“Especially to the people we love. We lie more to our beloved ones mostly because we care about them so much. Why do you think we tell the truth to priests and total strangers we meet in buses? It’s because we don’t love them, so we don’t care what they think. Of course, we must lie to the detectives too if we’re guilty of something.”

Lot shook his head, “That’s not my philosophy of life. Anyway, what about the husband? Was he lying too?”

“I don’t believe he was—he didn’t speak much, his wife did most of the blabbering.”

“I’m agreeing with you on that. The wife was definitely lying about something; it was quite glaring. You tend to become unnecessarily loquacious only if you’re trying to cover up a falsehood with more falsehood. If a liar has prepared an intricate, spacious, well-constructed lie, it may be difficult to trap him. For the questioner, the fortunate point is that so few lies are well-constructed beforehand. Most lies are spur-of-the-moment, and, even if they had been thought beforehand, the liar cannot resist the temptation to elaborate. For example, if you sincerely want to go to dinner with somebody, and circumstances makes it impossible, your apologies to that person later are brief and cost you no effort. It is only when you wish to heartily avoid the dinner and miss it deliberately that your apologies take the form of a lengthy and detailed story. In other words, the betraying detail is the unnecessary detail—like that of our dear Mother India.”

“Nice theory,” Daniel complimented nonchalantly, “So, what was her unnecessary detail?”

“Not really detail,” explained Lot, “But just a teeny-tiny obiter dictum; what she said about being in their room when the cry sounded was an obvious lie. They weren’t in the room when the cry came, at least one of them wasn’t.”

“David may have the strongest motive to have his father killed. He bore resentment against the man for what happened ten years ago. Not only that, his alibi wasn’t solid; we’ve got only his words and those of his wife, no one else saw them, and their baby isn’t old enough to be questioned.”

“Is that all?” Lot appeared to be deriving ideas from his companion’s explanation.

“No, that’s not all,” persisted Daniel, “there is also the quote he made at beholding the corpse, ‘The moon moves slowly...’, it’s funny that there was a bright moon shinning that night. But to me, that quote is quite absurd—now thinking about it. I tell you, there’s something suspicious about the couple. From what his wife also said that night, it appears as though she was very much concerned about the will. If you ask me, I’ll say Mr. Malik was murdered because of his intention to have his will altered the next day. And frankly, my suspicion rests on both of them—David and Anuli alike.”

Detective Lot was enjoying this, but there was something quite bizarre in the young footballer as he expatiated his suspicion, for he had never seen Daniel Famous directly accuse anyone. Famous, to him, had been the one with too trusting a nature; he never really believed anyone was capable of committing grievous crimes. If someone was an axe murderer and butchered people in a frenzy of intoxicated excitement, Famous might rather blame the gin bottle for the brutal butchery rather than the maniac. He might even go ahead and defend the condemned slayer that his malfeasance resulted only from faulty upbringings.

This Daniel he was seeing now was far from the initially described persona; his suspicion about the couple was genuine. And his explanation also carried a tone of irritation, as if he’s caught the couple perform the deed right in his presence. But the accusation, Lot reflected still, went farther than his proved points. His anger stemmed from something deeper, something more mysterious. Daniel usually showed more tolerance than this frank disgust he was currently exhibiting.

“We haven’t questioned everybody, Famous; you cannot directly accuse anyone of committing the crimes now. Besides, you should have more plausible reasons than those you gave if you have to condemn anyone. You must be able to ascertain the motive behind the crime, lest your accusations carry no weight.”

“I already told you the motive—it was the will. When they found out that Jamal was going to have his will changed the next day, they got him killed.”

“And why would they do that? It wasn’t like David would get the lion’s share. The only person who should have reasons for stopping Jamal from changing the will was Abel, but he’s deceased too.”

“This is how I’m looking at it, sir,” enunciated Daniel, “The couple discovered that Jamal was planning to exclude them from the will, so they quickly silenced him before he could carry out his intention. You remember what Anuli said in the course of the elaboration; she said something like she hated her father-in-law because he was always putting people in his will and later removing them. Maybe her father-in-law was in the mood again and decided it was David’s turn to get scratched out. So, they did what they had to do.”

Lot stared at his subordinate for a moment and said, “Elementary, my dear fellow. I think you’re forgetting something important. What about the half-burnt note stuffed in the dead man’s pocket? You think they did that?”

Daniel nodded and said, “I think they did it. The writer of the note was probably referring to Anuli when he started the name with V; it's the first letter of Veer.”

“It doesn’t make sense at all, Famous.”

“What doesn’t?”

Lot shifted in his seat and said, “Look at it this way: let’s assume you kill someone for gain, and you later discovered a note that would incriminate you about the crime if found by the police. What would you? You would destroy the note totally. And the easiest and most reliable way would be to burn it to ash and grind the ash to dust. You don’t burn it in half and them stuff it in your victim’s pocket to be discovered.”

Daniel pondered over that and said:

“You’re right, I agree with you. I guess my suspicion clouded my judgement.”

“No, no,” protested Lot, “Don’t agree with me. I’m actually enjoying derailing your train of thought. You’re thinking more lucidly of recent. Of course, your accusation is quite plausible, although not likely probable, but it is a humbling remark.”

“The note alters it all—you don’t commit a murder and incriminate yourself by pulling that act of the note.” A smile crinkled the side of his mouth, “I may not be bright, but I’m not entirely a retard as you believe.”

Lot ignored the last statement of his subordinate. “What if the criminal was trying to incriminate someone else instead?”

Daniel frowned, he didn’t understand that. He scratched his nose and he scratched his cheek.

Lot continued, “This plan was well-planned—not a spur-of-the-moment job, and it is a possibility that the same hand that wielded the knife also held the pistol. And if it was David or his wife or both, then there is something more sinister abounds—I fear a lot. It better not be David.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“You remember the playing cards, don’t you? Four Balls.”

He tried to recall the significance of the circle, and when he did, his mouth came open. “You-you mean he could be the one who placed down those cards?”

“If he really was, then someone will be killed very soon—quite sooner than we think.”

“And who might that third person be?”

Lot stared at Daniel and said, “Gabriel Malik—Ariel.”

pweeeetychi: hahahahahaha, just waiting for more secrets to be opend, i never knew Jamal was this promiscuos, all accusing fingers to one man...

But can't wait to know the killer.

The old guy truly deserves to die. I've hated him from the prequel.

Iaz93: Jamal! Jamal! Jamal!

I think Cain is more wicked. Jamal r*ped, Cain r*ped and killed.

Flakeey:

for now, i can't tell but Cain's intensions were known, they were revenge/payback in most cases
but for Jamal, i think he was really evil, he was the first to rape cain's wife in his presence after tying him to a chair.

i'll keep my fingers crossed... can't judge for now

that's by the way, Where is update naaa Bros?

Cain poisoned his own wife, killed his wife's parents and murdered Abigail's first boyfriend. Including the hundreds of innocent people on board a plane.

Flakeey: Nice update sir
*still following*

Thanks, Flake.

kelsmic: Nice!!! The twist and Suspense continues. So Whoever was reading the Animal farm would be responsible for the crime? What if it was the owner that folded that particular page? Come to think of it. Famous actually saw a gurl, and maybe he was mistaken in the identity of the individual...what if...well the possibilities are endless. What if I fold my hands and watch the whole scenario unfold like a rising flower...at dawn's morn?

What if nothing is at it seems?

Adinije: @Larry u dey torment pesin with suspense. Chai chai Larry daris god o!

Lol! Thanks Ad!

rapmike: Left,Right,Left, Right........ Lot pulling the strings.....

There are endless possibilities. Lot is doing a tough job.

Ariel
it better not be

he must not be murdered o

ariel must not die ooooo

LarrySun: The old guy truly deserves to die. I've hated him from the prequel.

The feeling is mutual, although not as much as i hate cain, I'm beginning to think, Jamal was cursed or so.

What if Mrs malik isn't really blind?
#Just thinking#

Daniel held up his hand as if to shield a blow, “Wait-wait, this is absolutely confusing. Why the writer?”

“Has you battery begin to lose power already? Have you forgotten what the lawyer said so soon?”

Daniel was considerably mortified at this outrageous epithet. “The lawyer said a lot of things.” He replied grimly.

“According to him—the lawyer, I mean—the latest will states that twenty percent of the deceased’s property is to be shared between David and his brother, Gabriel.”

“You mean their real motive is to have the whole twenty percent for themselves, with Gabriel out of the way?”

“And Abel was murdered so that his share would be distributed among the rest of the surviving family members. And the note, the note could be implicating only one person among the family members.” He stopped.

“Who?” Daniel asked anxiously.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Ruth Brown?”

“On the contrary, it’s Vera.”

“Who is Vera?”

Lot stared at him again, “I think you know who Vera is, Famous.”

Then he remembered. Vera! He remembered Esther claiming to know Remi as Vera. He stood up instantly, sweating.

“Why would he want to do that?”

“To have another member of the family out of the way. He knew that if Remi was accused of committing the crimes and got arrested, this would be too devastating for Ruth. Knowing that she had no other child except Remi might subject her to commit suicide. Her daughter is the only flicker of light in her existence; she never shows it, but everyone knows and after killing herself, the twenty percent would wholly become Esther’s—who would become the fourth and last victim among the family, excluding Jamal. In the end, David and his wife would inherit everything through evil but systematic plots.”

“They have to be stopped now!”

“We are powerless about that, we’ve got no evidence against them, Famous. Besides, my explanations are only plausible but improbable. I was speaking on merely speculative grounds—there’s nothing to back up my suppositions. They could actually be innocent. In fact, a part of me believes they are innocent, one of them at least. We’ve still got evidences to gather and more suspects to interview. If the V was actually referring to Vera, then Remi could as well be the criminal. To get to the bottom of this case, I must become like Edison who reportedly tested hundreds of materials before finding a filament that worked in his incandescent lamp."

“I strongly believe Remi is not the criminal. We must be very careful about this investigation so as not to slip on the way and accuse the wrong person.” Daniel looked at his superior’s face and said, “You know what I’m talking about, sir.”

“This case is more complicated than the initial. Everyone in this case has a motive for murder, and out of the multitude must we pick the criminal—it could be anybody, it could even be Gabriel Malik.”

“I can tell you two reasons why it cannot be the writer who committed the crimes.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Crime writers are, as a rule, not bloodthirsty people. They avoid physical violence because their murderous feelings are efficiently blown off in print as to have little energy left for boiling up in action. And they are also accustomed to the idea that murders are made to be detected that they feel a wholesome reluctance to put their criminal theories into practice. They don’t have the time for committing crimes because they are mostly engaged in earning their bread and butter like reasonable citizens.”

“You gave me more than two reasons. But you should likewise know that not all crimes are solved. Take the murders of Dele Giwa and Funsho Williams for instance, D.B. Cooper wasn’t caught in his free fall robbery since November 24, 1971. And most writers of crime fiction believe that they can get away with crimes if they put their minds to it. I’ve encountered a writer who claimed, after being caught defiling a little girl, to be working on the research of a book he was writing. They all hide under the veil of naughty research.”

“Have you read any of Ariel’s books?”

“I’ve read two of his books between yesterday and today. How a writer thinks is revealed plainly in his books. From reading Ariel’s works, I can correctly guess how his mind works.”

“And do you think he’s one who is capable of committing patricide?”

“He’s capable of committing genocide. His Brick of Jericho reveals how crimes could be committed without little possibility of the criminal being discovered. The criminal was later caught in the sequel Babylon which was due to the inconspicuous errors left behind from its immediate prequel. I don’t fancy reading story books but I confess enjoying those two books; they match my psychological temperament. The red herrings are quite convincing and the whodunit superbly portrayed. It was a nice piece of work he did in writing the two books. His third book, albeit incomplete, is quite different from the first two; it it Romance. But which writer in his right mind would writer about a writer who writes about another writer?”

“You surprise me, sir. I’ve never known you as a hero worshipper. You’re the kind who sees through humbug. You don’t take anyone at their own or the world’s valuation; you take them at your own valuation. You’re beginning to sound as though Ariel is a superhuman just because he wrote clever books. Maybe one day, someone will write about us too.”

“Aren’t we digressing off the main points?” Lot observed, “Ariel is a writer, and this profession makes it quite complicated to understand him.”

“How so?”

"Writers are some of the world’s most mysterious people. They can be totally different from what their works may say about them—I hate dealing with people like them. But I’ve got no choice now, have I? Please call him in, Famous, will you? The writer, that is.”

As usual, Ariel's writing abilities marks him. A writer always has wide imaginations( to a degree).

hahaha writers are some of the world's most mysterious people
Larry...true of false?
and are you mysterious?

kudos bro.

hmmmmmm, i guess mr larry is mysterious too.

Keep up the good work.

I love ur story Larrysun.

All I can say is 'WOW' Your writing is flawless and I love the way the story is turning out

but i thought cain is dead. between Larry where is the romantic guy nahh. I'm still waiting for him oo

ToriEManson whr u dey?

Ariel entered the room in quite a cheerful mood, as if nothing in the world was bothering his creative mind. He was enveloped in a well-cut blue shirt. And below the sharply pressed edge of his boot cut trousers the shoes were highly polished.

It was only Lot who noticed something else about the young man. For all his cheerfulness, Ariel was nervous. He was carrying it off under a façade of gaiety, but the apprehensiveness nether was genuine.

He sat down carelessly and offered his hand to Lot, but the detective was in no mood to shake hands with Chinua Achebe or Soyinka if one of them had suddenly entered. Ariel smiled at both men studying him and spread his hands in an amused concentration, “Well, I’d have betted with my pen that I wasn’t called to be physically scrutinized, but here we are.” The geniality was still plastered on his visage. “What can I do for you, gentlemen? This is a pleasure talking to you guys. I suppose you want my fingerprints to compare them with the ones you found on that dagger that stuck on the back the corpse. I didn’t do it. I always stab people in the front, not the back.” He turned to Daniel and said, “I like that suit, Calvin Klein?”

Daniel told him no, Mark and Spenser.

“Fingerprints wouldn’t help,” the footballer said, “The dagger has been wiped clean, but we don’t really believe in fingerprints; it’s just that they’re only routines, but we can’t be expected to bother about them.”

“Your name is Gabriel Malik, right?” Lot asked suddenly.

“Of course, I thought you knew that.”

“I just wanted to be sure,” the sleuth replied and asked, “You’re also Ariel?”

“The one and only—I adopted that pseudonym from Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Who would read Tempest and not remember Ariel?”

“Of course, I remember,” replied Daniel, “Ariel is the spirit that helped Prospero; that wizard with the power of sorcery, right?”

Ariel went over to Daniel and gave him a hug, patting his back. “You’re a comrade, detective!” he told the confused Famous.

“Actually, I’m not the detective,” Daniel pointed at Lot, “He is.”

“My mistake.”

“What have you been drinking, Ariel?”

“Just had a pint of those hard stuffs, I’m alright—absolutely sober—trust me.” He belched and blessed himself, almost getting the sign of the cross correctly on his chest.

Lot smirked, “Trusting you is what I may not be able to bring myself to do, Mr. Malik.”

“Because you think I killed my father?”

“Did you?”

Ariel suddenly laughed out loud, it was an uproarious mirth that extended to about half a minute before he collected himself back to sanity. Lot and Daniel looked at him and asked themselves. Is this the man who wrote Brick of Jericho? What has gone loose in his dome?

“I’d have preferred it better if you’d asked me the question in a more clever way. But the simple reply to that is capital No. I have no cause to have my father murdered. He did not offend me at all. I can’t imagine wanting to kill an animal, let alone a man, but I like guns and I like holding them. I’ve held a pistol a number of times during my research. I like the feel of the Smith and Wesson in my hand, and the scimitar too.”

“You believe your father’s murder was one of vendetta, right?”

“Let’s face it, my father wasn’t a paragon of sainthood—he was a man with the touch of the devil in him. He drank too much. He committed adultery ten million times. He fornicated unashamedly with other men’s wives. And he was very stingy with his money. He always paid cash whenever he needed to make any transaction. In the first place, he hated writing cheques because it was so much bother and his signatures never tallied; so he decided that every time he wrote cheques, the banks were always trying to rob him, so he stopped.”

“We’ll talk about your father presently, Mr. Malik,” said Lot, “Now, let’s talk about you. What’s your middle name?”

“Do you need to know?” after a moment, he added, '‘Do you need to know that for the purpose of your investigation?” the voice was unemphatic, but the eye met Lot’s with something of the insistence of an interrogator.

Lot replied, “I don’t know. Probably not. It isn’t easy with murder to know what will prove relevant. Most cases that go wrong do so because too few questions are asked, not too many. I’ve always felt the need to know as much about the victim as possible, and that includes things about his children.”

“It must be gratifying to have a job which can be used to justify what in other might be called intrusive curiosity.” He paused, then went on, “Anyway, my middle name is Arabic. I don’t even know its meaning.”

“What is the name?”

“Ramon.”

“What religion do you practice, Islam or Christianity?”

“The latter. David used to follow father to the mosque when we were little but he stopped when he came of age. I’ve never set my foot in a mosque my entire life.”

“Ariel, are you a father?”

“Not that I know of.”

This drew a smile, if not a laugh, on the face of the detective.

“You are funny,” Lot commented.

Ariel squinted at him, ‘Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”

“I think both. I’ve read your novel, Ariel.”

The writer smiled, “Thanks.”

“In one of your novels a character avers to something six times. Every writer should have a pet substitute, or substitutes, for ‘say’. There should be an alternate variation for ‘he said’ or ‘she said’, they can rather declare, state, blurt, spout, cry, pronounce, avow, murmur, mutter, snap—there are dozens of them. I’m not a literary critic though, I just stated the obvious. Your second novel struggles with character development. A novelist should just create his characters and let them go ahead and develop the actions and the plots themselves. You included all the elements of style perfectly—vocabulary, syntax, paragraphing-absolutely perfect.”

“Your imagination is wasted on the detective business. You should be a novelist.”

“No, my father wanted me to become an engineer. You have a real gift for telling a tale, and a flair for titles, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You dedicated your first two books to someone named Erin. Who is Erin?”

Ariel took a long time before replying. His face has changed into a sorrowful countenance. He swallowed slowly and said, “Erin was the love of my life.”

Lot caught the position of the verb and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Malik. Do you mind telling us what happened to her?”

Ariel shook his head, “She died almost two years ago; she was robbed and stabbed to death in front of an ATM.”

“Was the criminal caught?”

“No,” Ariel firmly replied, “Of all the crimes committed in this country, only less than twenty percent is justifiably accountable. What great works our lawmen are doing.” He looked squarely at Lot and said, “I know who you are; I’ve read a lot of articles about you. In fact, I’m writing one about you. Yet, I feel that this mystery is too complicated for you to crack—I submit, therefore, that you have the chance to prove me wrong. Solve these crimes and I’ll know that you’re really different from those scumbags who call themselves detectives. Honestly, I don’t think you can do it.”

Lot looked at the writer with amusement. A befitting reply was boiling within him but he held his tongue. This wasn’t the time to give such reply. Instead, he said:

“In your third book, Ash, your dedication appears strange to me.”

“How?” the writer asked wearily.

“You dedicated you third book to your toilet,” Lot said, “Isn’t that a little bit strange?”

Flakeey: Ariel
it better not be

he must not be murdered o

Ha-ha! What is it that makes that Ariel so lovable?

hebenz: ariel must not die ooooo

I'm beginning to envy the guy.

pweeeetychi:


The feeling is mutual, although not as much as i hate cain, I'm beginning to think, Jamal was cursed or so.

What if Mrs malik isn't really blind?
#Just thinking#

Lol! What if she is really blind? Lol!

rapmike: As usual, Ariel's writing abilities marks him. A writer always has wide imaginations( to a degree).

A nice observation from a fellow writer.

Flakeey: hahaha writers are some of the world's most mysterious people
Larry...true of false?
and are you mysterious?

kudos bro.

I didn't say that o! I heard it from Lot himself.

pweeeetychi: hmmmmmm, i guess mr larry is mysterious too.

Keep up the good work.

Me mysterious? I'm an open book.