“Last night,” the woman said, “Miss Amelia Edwards went missing immediately after leaving her office.”
Victoria leaned forward, studying her two visitors: one man, one woman, both in black suits. Government service was written all over them: the office-chair postures, the cut of their clothes, the silenced pistols tucked into their coats.
“And you want me to find her.”
“No,” the woman replied. “We found her two hours ago, floating in the Thames. We want you to find her phone.”
“How critical is the information it contains?”
The man slid a cheque across the table and Victoria raised an eyebrow.
“How did she die?” Victoria asked.
“Drowning,” the man said. “No signs of force. No chemicals in her system. Whoever did it was clever.”
“That would be beyond clever,” Victoria replied. “To show no signs of force at all, not even the smallest bruise…”
“What are you implying?” the woman asked.
Victoria sighed. “The phone may be beyond my skills to recover.”
“You can’t tell us where it is?”
“I can tell you exactly where it is. The bottom of the Thames.” She shook her head. “The thing about murders that look like suicides is that sometimes, they’re suicides.”
Word Count: 199
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to A Mixed Bag for the prompt photo!