Chapter 137 The Architecture Of A Frame-Up

Chapter 137 The Architecture Of A Frame-Up
CHAPTER 137

The Architecture Of A Frame-Up

The precinct was a sensory assault of bureaucratic decay and high-tension exhaustion.

The air was a stagnant cocktail of scorched coffee, industrial floor wax, and the metallic tang of old radiators.

Telephones screamed in jagged intervals, competing with the rhythmic clatter of keyboards and the low, urgent murmur of lawyers bargaining in the hallways.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly, jaundiced hue over the stacks of manila folders and the weary faces of officers who looked like they hadn't seen a bed since the previous fiscal year.

While the others were escorting people in handcuffs, their voices blending into a low, constant hum of controlled chaos.

William sat in Interview Room 4, a cramped box of cinderblocks and peeling paint. He looked entirely out of place—a tailored masterpiece in a room designed for despair.

Across the scarred metal table sat Detective Arthur Miller and Sergeant Eden Thorne from earlier that morning.

Miller was an older man with skin like weathered parchment and eyes that had seen too many autopsies.

Thorne was younger, broader, with a military fade and a jawline that suggested he enjoyed the "physical" aspect of the job.

Thorne leaned forward slightly, hands clasped on the table. “Mr. Fairchild, thank you for coming in. We just want to ask you a few questions about Miss Selene Bennett."

William adjusted his glasses, his gaze steady as he stared squares at the two men. "Let’s skip the pleasantries." William said, his voice a cool blade cutting through the room’s humidity.

"Am I a suspect? Because the lighting and the bolted-down furniture suggest this is an interrogation, not a friendly chat."

Miller offered a tired, tight-lipped smile. "Just a few questions to clear the air, Mr. Fairchild. Standard procedure in a homicide investigation."

"Then proceed," William replied, leaning back. "My wife is waiting for me in the lobby, and I’d prefer she doesn't have to spend her morning in this charnel house."

Thorne leaned forward, his elbows hitting the table. "Let’s talk about Miss Bennett. How did you know her? What was the nature of your... association?"

"She was a friend of my sister, Helena," William answered clearly. "Years ago, we shared a brief, purely physical arrangement. It was a transactional intimacy that lacked any emotional weight."

"And when was this?" Miller asked, scribbling on a notepad. "Before or after you married the current Mrs. Fairchild?"

"Two years before I was even engaged," William stated.

"And since the wedding? Have you maintained any... extracurricular ties with Miss Bennett?"

William’s jaw tightened. He raised a hand, cutting Miller off mid-sentence.

"I’m going to stop you right there. Don't bother finishing that sentence, and certainly don't bother asking the next one.
My marriage is not a topic for debate in this room. And whatever happened between Selene and me was over long before I said my vows. I made that very clear to her on multiple occasions.”

"We're trying to establish a motive, Mr. Fairchild," Thorne interjected. "A spurned lover can be a very loud problem."

"I made it clear to Selene years ago that whatever bridge existed between us had been burned and the ashes scattered," William said coldly. "There was no relationship to speak of."

Miller leaned back slightly. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Three days ago. She showed up uninvited at my office here in London.”

"Where were you last night? Specifically between 10 pm and 1 am?" Miller asked.

"I was at home. With my wife."

Thorne smirked, a jagged, skeptical look. "Being 'with your wife' is a broad term. Could you be a bit more specific for the record?"

William held the detective’s gaze, a flash of dark humor dancing in his eyes.

"I’m a healthy man with a beautiful wife, Detective. Do I really need to provide a diagram of our evening, or can we agree that my presence was accounted for in the bedroom?"

The detectives exchanged a look. "Then why," Miller asked, his voice dropping an octave, "did you ask Miss Bennett to meet you at the old park pavilion at midnight?"

"I didn't," William replied instantly.

"That’s interesting," Thorne said, "because Miss Bennett’s maid is quite insistent. She claims her mistress left the house specifically because "you" had requested a secret rendezvous at the park. She said Selene was practically glowing at the prospect of seeing you."

"Then her maid is either mistaken or coached," William said, unbothered. "I never left my bedroom until the sun was up this morning."

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. A younger officer entered, sliding a laptop onto the table before Miller.

The two detectives huddled over the screen, the blue light reflecting in their eyes as they watched a file play. Miller glanced at William, a new, sharper edge in his expression.

"That’ll be all, Jenkins," Miller said. Once the door closed, he turned the screen toward William and hit play.

The grainy footage showed the exterior of William’s office from three days ago. William was visible on screen, lifting a limping Selene into his arms.

Her arms were draped around his neck, her head tucked against his chest as he carried her to his car with possessive ease.

"Your own company’s CCTV," Thorne noted. "Care to explain this 'transactional' distance? You look fairly cozy for two people who haven't spoken in months."

"Like I already said. She arrived at my office uninvited and staged a fall that resulted in a sprained ankle,"
William said calmly.
"I was performing a basic act of chivalry by taking her to the hospital. You can call her uncle, the surgeon; he treated her. I’m sure he can confirm the clinical nature of the visit."

Miller nodded, but his hand moved to the keyboard again. He hit play and spun the laptop back around.

This time, the video was from a hidden security camera in Selene’s drawing room. It captured the violent confrontation from two days ago.

William was shown lunging at Selene, his fingers cinched tightly around her throat, his face a mask of murderous rage as he hovered over her.

"This was recovered from Miss Bennett's home," Miller said. "Tell me, Mr. Fairchild, what leads a 'chivalrous' man to try and crush a woman's windpipe in her own living room?"

William didn't flinch. "She intentionally caused a scene that threatened the safety of my wife and our unborn child. In my world, that is an act of war that I cannot forgive."

"Why not report her?" Thorne asked, leaning back. "Why not call us and let the law handle a simple harassment case? Why go over there and play judge, jury, and executioner?"

William leaned in, his voice dropping to a silk-wrapped threat.

"Because the law is a slow, cumbersome beast that arrives long after the damage is done. I don't wait for a police report to protect my family. I address the threat at the source. If someone poisons your well, you don't call a committee; you find the person with the vial."

Miller tapped his pen against the table. "The maids also claim you threatened to skin them alive. They say you told Miss Bennett—and I quote—that you would 'cut out her eyes and chop off her arms' if she ever looked at your wife again or touched her.”

William’s expression remained glacial. "Were her eyes removed from her skull?"

Miller blinked. "No."

"Were her arms severed at the shoulder?"

"No," Miller admitted.

"Then how can you be so sure I’m responsible for her death?" William asked. "If I were the one who had finished her, the crime scene would have looked exactly like the promise I made."

Thorne leaned in, his voice a low growl. "We have it on good authority, Fairchild, that you have a history of 'violent outbursts.' Word on the street is that one of those rages led to the 'disappearance' of a maid in your household a few months back. You’re a man who likes to make people vanish when they become inconvenient."

William didn't even blink at the mention of Clara. "Rumors are the currency of the bored and the bitter, Sergeant. I suggest you stick to evidence."

"This is a grave matter, Mr Fairchild," Miller said, his voice becoming stern. "The timeline, the threats, the physical altercation... The evidence is mounting into a very solid wall. We can't just overlook a dead woman in a park when all roads lead to your front door."

"I thought I asked you a moment ago if I was a suspect," William said softly. "And you told me I wasn't."

Miller opened his mouth to reply, but William cut him off. "How exactly did you gather 'reliable sources,' witness statements from staff, and multiple CCTV files in less than twenty-four hours?

Selene has been dead for barely a dozen hours. Either you are the most efficient precinct in the history of Scotland Yard, or someone handed you this case in a gift-wrapped box."

"We’re just doing our jobs," Thorne snapped.
William stood up, the movement sudden and commanding.

"No. You’re wasting my time. You’ve had your chat, you’ve shown your movies, and you’ve essentially insulted my marriage and my character. We are finished here. If you want another word from me, you’ll have to go through my legal team. I’m going home to my wife."

"We aren't finished with you, Fairchild!"
Thorne shouted, standing up to meet him.

William paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder with a look of pure, aristocratic disdain.

"Maybe you aren't. But I have a life to live, and it doesn't involve sitting in a room that smells of cheap tobacco and failure."

He gripped the door handle, his eyes flashing like dark diamonds.

"Stay close? Detective, if you want me back in this building, make sure you bring a warrant and a better script. Because right now, you’re just a pair of extras in a movie that I’m producing."

He walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.