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The moment he saw the painting he knew who had murdered his wife. It was as clear as if he was looking at a snapshot of the scene of the crime.

 

He felt no emotion, no physical response whatsoever. It was as if his whole being had been put on hold. For the moment he only had one thing in mind. To get out of the house as fast as possible, leaving no suspicion of who he was or where he had come from.

 

Fortunately he was always prepared for such emergencies. He took out a business card from his wallet and extended it towards the woman standing beside him.

 

'It is clearly inconvenient to view your home thoroughly right now Mrs. Benson. Why not call the office sometime and we can arrange a mutually convenient time.

 

The woman took the card eagerly as she looked at his name.

 

"Oh thank you, Mr. Forbes. To be honest, I am in a bit of a muddle right now due to a few late nights. I must say I was a bit bewildered when you called. I thought Eric and I had agreed to wait until after Christmas. But if you say this is a good time to sell, well maybe we'll talk about it a bit more.

 

He nodded courteously. "Do you have a large family?"

 

"No, just me and my husband. He's a house painter, and as you can see leaves a lot of gear around the house." She motioned to tins of paint and turpentine littered along the hallway and on the upstairs landing. "That's why we are repainting ourselves now. We want to move to a larger place.

 

He took a chance. "You surprise me. From the pictures on the wall I would have taken him for an artist - or are they yours?"

 

He gestured towards the detailed paintings in the hall. The one nearest them showed a charming old-fashioned parlour full of interesting antiques, including a large ornate grandfather clock. That had been the clue.

 

Oh no, that's just a hobby of his. If Eric has a job in a house that impresses him, he comes home and sketches or paints it from memory" she answered.

 

Franklin turned to the painting as if to admire it, noting its fine and accurate detail. The pattern on the Persian carpet, the colours of the upholstery, even the clock face set at 4 o'clock. A cold chill went through him.

 

"Well, it must be grand to be so talented" smiled the phantom Mr. Forbes of Hi-Grade-Realty as he left the house. "Thank you for your time Mrs. Benson. We'll wait 'till you contact us."

 

He walked down the road, turning the corner to where he had left the car. Old habits die hard and he never parked too close to a house he was casing. But the moment he got behind the wheel his control fragmented into gulps of grief and remorse and he shook with sobs.

 

A few minutes later, composed, and with his mind now clear and busy thinking and planning, he drove to the rambling old house on the outskirts of town that had been his home and castle. As he went inside, memories flooded through him and his eyes were moist again with tears.

 

It was six months since he had arrived back late one night to find Annie's battered and ravaged body sprawled on the floor of the old fashioned parlour. And his grief was as fresh as if it had been yesterday.

 

During the last thirty weeks the law had confirmed itself to be the ass he had thought it to be. Indeed. his own criminal career was based on that very premise. But whereas he had always prided himself to planning his jobs down to the last detail, he found the law to be a tangled mess of trivialities. Finally the police had told him there was no real clue leading to the assassin, and were temporarily shelving the case. But not he knew better.

 

It had been mere chance that had led him to the house on the corner of Wattle Drive. It had simply fit well into his premise of where he would find a good haul with plenty of high tech consumer goods. Visibility of the front door and downstairs windows were limited due to being flanked by thick bushes; whilst the position of the house allowed a good get-away from back or side.

 

He had been watching the house over a number of days. He then knew Eric Benson to be a house painter, a heavy smoker, and golf enthusiast, and his wife an extravagant shopper and bingo addict. There were no children or pets. Every Wednesday night they went to the local pub, and when they did get home, late, they were usually the worse for wear.

 

In his usual meticulous fashion, this morning he had undertaken a preliminary check, posing as a salesman from the local real estate agency. The fact that the Benson's had already been considering selling had been a bonus. But even if they hadn't the usual blarney about quality homes in that area being highly sought after usual procured an invitation to view. And that's all he had needed

 

But he hadn't been prepared to see his own home, his own lounge room, displayed on the wall. And now that he had time to think, he knew exactly what had happened, and what time.

 

In his own perverse and crooked way, Eric Benson used the same ploy as Franklin. He must have visited Annie on spec, offering a special price to decorate the house, in order to gain entry. Or maybe he had contacted her as a genuine potential customer, and the desire to rape had been more of an impulse. His artistic trophies displayed so triumphantly on his walls suggested he was probably a serial rapist, who prey on vulnerable women in their own homes. Men with little thought other than their own carnal needs for sex and power, and who leave behind a tangled web of broken lives.

 

Unfortunately, this victim had already been suffering from a heart condition, and the effect of being bashed and raped had killed her. But it was going to be unfortunate for Mr. Eric Benson, Franklin promised himself, with clenched fists. He would see to that.

 

He went over to the grandfather clock. The one that had been the vital clue to not only who had been in the house, but when. For Franklin had only given Annie the clock the very morning of her death. It had been a special prize from his dealings up north, and one he had kept especially for her.

 

They had stood in front of it commenting on the workmanship.

 

"Frank, it's beautiful" she had said. Then, with a wistful smile added, "but do you think we could adjust the pendulum so that it's a little quieter? The sound of the seconds ticking away are a constant reminder of how quickly our life is passing."

 

"It only needs a little oil in the right place, and a touch of t.l.c. I'll give it a spot check when I get home tonight", he had said adding playfully, "You too if you're lucky."

 

All that was behind him now, of course,. And the only thing before him - revenge on his wife's killer.

 

He could have easily killed Eric Benson outright. But Franklin prided himself on being essentially a religious man, and therefore the scriptures dealing with an eye for an eye, implied that the death sentence must be slow and terrifying, like Annie's. This would not be so easy, but he had time on his side. He could wait.

 

It was not too long before the idea and the opportunity came to him. He just needed to be sure of a few facts, and there were easily confirmed after a nocturnal visit to the house on Wednesday night when the Benson's were at the pub. He made his entry through an unlocked laundry window, then roamed the ground floor freely. Going upstairs, he noted with particular satisfaction that Mr. and Mrs. Benson occupied separate bedrooms. Perhaps that was the key, Franklin thought. Sexual repression.

 

One week later he was back in the house again, quietly and methodically making his final preparations. He had parked the car at the end of the street and then waited for the Bensons to come home. As usual they were a bit intoxicated, noisy and awkward. Even so, he waited a full hour after the lights went out, before stealthily crawling in through the laundry window once again. Picking up a number of turps bottles from the hall, he quickly made his way upstairs and poured then liberally on and around Eric Benson's bedroom door. Then he lit the match.

 

He did not wait to see the flames roar into life for he was busy in the main bedroom, throwing the lightly chloroform rag over the face of the recumbent slightly snoring Mrs. Benson before scooping her up quickly and carrying her downstairs into the back garden. As he threw her down on the ground, he allowed himself the pleasure of looking up and seeing the desperate face of his victim as he tried to open the window that had been earlier screwed down. A sound from inside indicated the spare bottles of turps he had hidden in the closet were also igniting. The smell of the highly inflammable chemicals hung heavy in the night.

 

As Franklin drove down the street he could hear the clang of the fire engines as they raced towards Wattle Drive. Hopefully they would find little more than a bewildered and shocked Mrs. Benson and the charred remains of Mr. Benson. And even if they did, it wouldn't matter.

 

He walked into the comfortable familiarity of his home, poured himself a large whiskey and stood a few minutes in front of the old clock 'till it proclaimed midnight. At the final chime he put out his hand and stopped the pendulum, leaving the house in quiet mourning.

 

"Goodbye Annie my love" he said as he gulped the fiery liquid down. "You can rest easy now."

 

Then he went to bed for the best night's sleep in seven months.