The Constable (Revised)(2nd Edit)

         When Arnold Albriet arrived at his home in Oxford, England, nothing seemed suspect. The soft, large sun, which had kept England at 67 degrees all day, was beginning to descend over the foothills, filling the sky with a brilliant mix of sharp pink and a vibrant yellow. The breeze, ever present in his neighborhood, was beginning to chill the area as it prepared to descend into night.
                As he was pulling his dark red Porsche into his long, cobblestone driveway, he could still hear the quieting celebrants of the one to nil World Cup victory over Brazil. He could hear chants of “Rooney, Rooney, Rooney….” belted from every house on the block. He smiled to himself, thinking of the pub he had just left, all the men, much younger than him, going insane over every play grand old England made. He could remember those years, a constant state of drunkenness to accompany the heavy use of drugs. He smiled to himself as a cheer so loud it could have woken a man from a comma broke the reverie. Soccer, he thought to himself, is the only sport that creates this kind of pandemonium.
         He arrived at, and opened, the large, wooden door, ornamented with a brilliant arching window and a gilded doorknob. He stepped over the threshold, dropping his metal briefcase to his left, kicking his leather shoes to the right, and suspending his coat and hat from a large, antique coat rack at the entrance of the den. Undoing his tie, he sat down on the leather sofa and turned on his television.
                The news was on, telling the story of an awful car crash on the London bridge, two women, one pregnant, had crossed lanes and been rear ended, pushing them over the side of the rails. The car had plummeted, they both died. The man’s friend, a defense attorney, would be defending the driver of the car that hit them.  Arnold pitied his friend, any jury, at the mention of a killed pregnant woman, would be drawn to sympathy. What is more, the driver of the car had been drunk, as well as on probation. The man thought to himself that he should call his friend in the morning, make sure that he was okay. He had a tendency to get overly depressed about losing cases and go on daylong drinking runs. The last time had gone too far, he had almost killed himself with a knife he stole from his neighbor.
         His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a stranger standing in the shadow of the room, “Awful story, eh?”
         “Do I know you?” he asked the intruder in an inquiring tone.
         “I doubt it.”
         “Then who the 'ell are you.”
         “Let me explain myself.”
         “You'd better.”
         “40 years ago, Moscow, I was in a bar, talking to this man, an informant for the S.A.S, he was in a very dangerous position, telling me all the suspicious Soviet activity, mapping out security for the capitol building. Then, before even finishing his vodka, he grabbed a nearby bottle and cracked it over my skull. Three days later, I awoke in a prison cell, far from Moscow, a holding pen for political prisoners and spies. I kept thinking to myself, why did my informant do this, did I provoke him, did I ask too much? Years later the Cold war ends, the wall falls, and I was released. I searched, diligently, and finally located the man who put me there.  To put a long story short, I am here for revenge.”
         “But I have never even been to Russia!”
         “I know. However I also know that the local constable has."
                "That may be so, and if your not out of my bloody house in ten seconds I'll be damn sure you meet him."
                "I plan to meet him. Say, is he as meticulous as some say he is."
                "Yes."
                "Good, very good."
                A small, vicious smile flashed on the intruders face, followed by a silenced gunshot. Blood and brain matter flew from the man’s head and painted the wood flooring an awful red.

                A heavy weight seemed to be pulling at Constabel Nicolai's heart as he entered the house. He had seen it all before, it was no knew concept. At first glance, the bloodbath looked like a simmple killing. But nothing was missing. Roughly six hundred pounds sat in his pocket, not to mention the unbroken safe in the corner of the room.
              Nicolai looked at his partner, "It's a hit, silenced gun, nothing missing. Any information on old Arnie's life?"
              "No."
              "Dammit. Keep looking, there's got to be some thing to tell us what the hell hapened."
              As he always did, Nicolai began checking diligently, every crack in every room. Then he saw the note. With growing dread he began to read,
                                'Hello again Nicolai, it's been quite a while. I just want you to know the following, when you arrive in Hell you will be greeted by many, and, within years, I will show up. Enjoy."
              "Shit."

              The firemen spent hours taking apart the rubble left by what at first seemed to be the result of a ruptured gas line. They finished, and the captain documented everything that had happened. His final line included the three deaths, Arnold Albriet, Thomas Noone, and Constable Nicolai.