by Paul Charles
Last Boat To Camden Town
This edition first published 2016 by Fahrenheit Press
www.Fahrenheit-Press.com
Copyright © Paul Charles 2016
The right of Paul Charles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
F 4 E
Last Boat To Camden Town
By
Paul Charles
An Inspector Christy Kennedy Mystery
Fahrenheit Press
This book is dedicated to the memory of Russell and Leslie Charles
Chapter One
‘Shit, not six already!’ hissed Martin Shaw as he flung his arm out from under the bed covers. He groped at the open space in the general direction of the loud disturbance – the ringing alarm clock – in a desperate bid to silence it. Missing the snooze button (only just) he sent it tumbling to the floor and rolling out of reach (only just). ‘These mornings are arriving earlier and earlier,’ he complained to the clock.
‘Not true, your nights are leaving later and later,’ murmured his companion, using all her concentration to remain in some sort of sleepy humour. ‘Stop making such a racket before you wake me up completely.’
‘Sorry,’ Martin whispered, ‘but it’s no fun getting up at this time.’
‘Just shut up and get out!’
Leaving her to another few hours’ peaceful slumber, he grabbed his clothes and quietly exited the bedroom. After offering his face to a brief cat-lick, he scrubbed his teeth until blood flowed from his gums, the ice-cold water he used for rinsing his mouth shocking the last remaining sleep from his head.
No time for breakfast or newspaper or any such early morning civility. All such luxuries would have to wait another three hours until the longboat, the Sailing Diamond, came to a halt at the terminus of the first of its five daily trips.
Darkness still protected Camden Town as Martin left his flat in Arlington Road, his half-way house these last five years. He jogged up Parkway, passing the newsagents, breakfast shops, dry cleaners, estate agents (lots of estate agents), pet shop, banks, pubs and cafes – all silently working their way up through the gears of the morning – before crossing in front of the police station that was once a monastery and heading up Prince Albert Road, leaving the whisper of Parkway behind him.
He slowed to a walk as he passed the floating restaurant moored alongside Water Meeting Bridge which spanned the Regent’s Canal, his place of work. Taking a left towards the zoo and then a quick right down a steep embankment, he passed through the gate leading to a little wooden hut in Cumberland Basin.
Junior, as usual, was already aboard, readying the longboat for the trip to the passenger pick-up point at Little Venice, a thirty-minute journey up the canal. Junior had been called Junior all his forty-three years on the planet. Junior’s dad was also called Junior. Martin had long since given up trying to work out how complicated life must have been in the early years, when both Juniors lived in the one house. When the name ‘Junior’ was called, did Junior Senior or Junior Junior come running?
‘Ah come on, Martin – get yer finger out. I don’t wannabe late,’ Junior said, smiling with the relief Martin knew was based on the fact that they would be at the pick-up point on time.
‘Yeah, yea, don’t get your what’s-its in a twist.’
Martin and Junior were used to each other’s ways, and so silently go on with their jobs, readying the boat for its first voyage of the day. The Sailing Diamond, ninety-six years old and colourfully painted with bright blues, yellows and greens, looked as if it could have been owned by a circus. The name came from the time when it was the jewel in the crown of the second fleet of longboats built at the turn of the century by Thomas Pickford of City Basin. Originally horse-drawn, the boat was used then to cart materials to various craftsmen and dealers on the canal’s eight-and-a-half-mile length. During the Second World War it transported munitions. Eventually, like its fellow longboats, it lost the battle to the London railway system and ceased to be a useful force on the canal.
For the twenty years between the end of the war and the rebirth of Britain in the Sixties, the Sailing Diamond was in dry dock at Kentish Town. Another twenty years passed and, after many coats of paint, it became the property of turner Marinas – the present owner and employers of Junior and Martin. The boat, fifty-four feet long, could seat thirty-eight people but was rarely worked to capacity.
Martin readied the seats by wiping off the morning dew and replacing the multi-coloured cushions. Meanwhile, Junior primed the engine, bringing it up to tip-top condition for the day’s efforts. After a while they were ready to cast off. Martin climbed on to the bank, released the ties and hopped back aboard. Junior engaged the engine and the slowly departed Cumberland Basin.
Martin had just resumed his work when he heard a loud splash to the aft – the blunt end. His first thought was that Junior had fallen overboard. The cushions scattered over the floor as he scrambled to the rear of the boat, doing his best not to panic. Looking up at the wheelhouse, he could see Junior – oblivious to Martin’s concern – his pipe and the engine involved in some kind of unconscious smoke-raising competition.
‘What the hell was that?’ Martin shouted.
Junior was alarmed by Martin’s worried look. ‘What was what?’
‘The splash. Shit, I thought you’d fallen overboard!’
Junior evidently had not the slightest idea what Martin was raving on about.
Martin stared into the boat’s wake, it’s “signature”, created by the disturbance in the river of the powerful propeller. ‘About a minute ago, just after we’d cast off – I could have sworn something fell overboard.’
His eyes scoured the grey water unsuccessfully. He saw – or thought he saw – air bubbles rising to the surface but they were now too far away for him to be certain. ‘You’re sure nothing fell off, Junior? I can’t believe you didn’t hear that splash.’
‘Nothing – no, nothing. Jesus Martin, I can’t hear anything up here with all the racket from the engine. Anyway, how many times have I told you not to come to work without breakfast? The hunger obviously makes you hallucinate.’
Martin was bewildered, then unsure, then lost. ‘Ah well, I’d better get a move on. We’re nearly there.’
The smoke from Junior’s pipe, entwined with the plume of diesel fumes from the engine, slowly sank towards the water in an arc tracing their journey.
Chapter Two
All eyes were glued to his hand. It hung down by his left leg, as left hands have a habit of doing, and continuously, slowly and systematically, opened and closed. Stretching the fingers to their extreme and then, starting with the smallest digit, he recoiled each finger and finally the thumb into a fist. He repeated the process and seemed to take most relief – or pleasure – when he was stretching his fingers to their apex.
‘What have we got here, then?’ the owner of the stretching hand inquired.
‘Well, sir,’ began the young detective constable nervously, ‘it seems like a suicide.’
His inquisitor’s face gently creased into a well-worn smile. ‘No that’s not the way we do it.’
Because of the smile, it was not taken as a reproach. Instead, the DC was now eager for the warm, soft voice to advise him further.
> ‘First we work out, as best we can, what happened. We’ll need assistance to fully ascertain this. We have – as you can see – a full team of experts here and there’s a lot more waiting in the wings. The second thing we do is to find out the name of the deceased and as much about them as we can. Next we find out why whatever happened, happened to this person. Okay? What, Who and Why.’
He paused for a few seconds while his eyes survey the scene unfolding before and around him, his left hand flexing again.
‘Then, and only then, detective constable, will we be in a position to know what really happened. When we reach that point we have a chance of figuring out the perpetrator of any crime that may have been committed.’ Satisfied that this was now properly understood, Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy beckoned to his young assistant to accompany him down the grass slope towards the river. ‘And perhaps now, you can help me solve a simpler mystery by telling me your name?
‘Detective Constable Ian Milligan, sir.’
‘You’ve just transferred from Wimbledon, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, arrived today. It’s my first day in CID.’
‘Wimbledon – a-ha, I see.’
Kennedy could keep the chat up no longer. He had delayed for as long as possible the inevitable – the inspection of the dead body. Eighteen years on the force and the sight of a corpse still made his stomach churn. He had even thrown up on more than one occasion. Kennedy had never been able to fully understand his feelings. He wasn’t exactly squeamish – at least, no more than the next guy. But then the next guy doesn’t usually get to peer into the face of a body that has been robbed of life. Kennedy would choke with sadness as he contemplated the sad remains of somebody’s father, somebody’s son, somebody’s mother – a person with dreams unfulfilled.
What he now saw before him on the bank of the canal was a well-dressed, well-fed male – probably aged in his late twenties. The body looked as if it had not long been in the water – hours, not days, he reckoned. Kennedy was happy about that much. The colder the corpse, the harder the hunt – that was his motto.
“Who found the body, Milligan?’ Kennedy asked quietly, as he forced himself to further scrutinise the lifeless carcass.
‘A longboat worker – Mr Martin Shaw, sir. That’s him over there – the one wearing the Black Pogues T-shirt, sir.’
‘I’d like to speak to him first. And make sure this area is kept clear until the pathologist has had a chance to examine the body.’ Kennedy’s voice betrayed his emotions – his words hardly audible to DC Milligan, who strained to catch his superior’s order.
‘Yes sir,’ he replied, relaxing a little on realising that the detective inspector was, at the very least, human and, what’s more, probably from the same planet as himself – something you didn’t find too often in today’s Metropolitan police force.
For himself, Kennedy was glad that his stomach had at least stopped shouting at him, the volume dropping to a mere mutter, though it would take some time before it quietened altogether.
‘So then, Mr Shaw – who are the Black Pogues?’ he asked the long-boatman. Kennedy had found over the years that witnesses remember more when they’re relaxed and it was his practice to begin the conversation by talking about anything other than the facts of the case.
‘What?’ Martin replied in disbelief.
‘This shirt of yours – my DC told me it has to do with the Black Pogues.’
‘They’re more like the green Pogues. They’re a group who would like to be Irish.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Kennedy replied, though not fully comprehending. ‘My DC also tells me that you’re the one who discovered the body. Would you mind telling me about it?’
Martin was totally thrown by that – quiet and polite are not the usual attributes of senior police officers.
‘Early this morning, just as we were casting off for the first trip, I heard this really loud splash. It had been on my mind all morning so when we took a break I decided to try and see what had caused it. It had seemed to come from near our moorings and if it was a bag of rubbish – as is often the case around here – I didn’t want it getting jammed up in our propeller. The canal is only four feet deep over there.’ Martin pointed to the moorings about twenty yards back up the bank from where the corpse lay.
‘Okay, just stop there for a second.’ It was something Kennedy did quite often, making time and space to digest facts, being careful not to misread the way someone said something, in case it veered him off in the wrong direction.
He stared at the water. It looked so harmless, yet it possessed the ability to end your very existence. You could try and pick it up and it would innocently fall through your fingers.
‘So you wanted to make sure whatever it may have been that caused the loud splash was not going to interfere with your propeller. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Exactly. I used a pole to poke around in the water. It’s much too dirty to see anything. I’d all but given up. I’d worked my way up the bank to here, when I struck something solid. At first I thought it was a sack ‘cos I could feel it give. But it seemed either too heavy for a rubbish-bag, or else I thought it might have been stuck to something. So I called to Junior and he fetched a pole as well and we heaved and pulled at it. Eventually it gave way and we dragged it towards us. When the head first emerged from the water we both let go of our poles and fell back on to the bank. I ran up over the bridge to the main road to ring for the police and saw that copper walking along…’ Martin was pointing in the direction of the uniformed officer, currently engaged in crowd-control ‘…he radioed for help and we hauled the body out. I’ve been shaking ever since.’
‘Have you any tea-making facilities on the boat, Martin?’
‘Yes – yes, of course,’ came the quavering reply.
‘Good. It’s my experience in these matters that there is nothing as good for the shakes as a strong cup of tea – with lots of sugar.’
This was all a bit new for Martin. ‘Okay, sir – sure. Why not?’
‘And do one for me while you’re at it. Cheers.’
Chapter Three
Christy Kennedy was sitting on the longboat, sipping a cup of tea – one of his favourite occupations. Junior’s recollection of the morning’s events tallied pretty much with Martin’s, excepting that he had not, it seemed, heard any splash.
Kennedy was thinking that he should make a trip on the boat himself to see if the noise of the engine was indeed loud enough to drown out a disturbance as loud as a body falling – or jumping – into the water. He was also considering asking for another cup of tea, when he recognised the voice of a new arrival. ‘I know those tartan tones. Are you to be my bagman, Sergeant Irvine?’ Kennedy asked the smartly-dressed detective walking down the tow-path towards him.
Detective Sergeant James Irvine straightened his bow tie before answering, ‘Indeed I am, sir. Sorry to be a bit late. I’ve been otherwise engaged up on Primrose Hill all morning.’
‘And what’s been going on up there?’
‘Some nutter was sniping at dogs from the high-rise flats. He killed four of the pets before we managed to disarm him.’
‘What was ringing his bell, then?’ Kennedy asked, not sure whether he should be amused or angry.
‘Apparently, he was fed up going out for a walk on the hill every morning and ending up with dog-shit on his shoes.’
‘Maybe it’s the owners he should have been after, not the dogs. Anyway, can you put together a system for this? DC Milligan seems to have most of the facts at his fingertips. He’ll fill you in. I’m going for a walk.’
Kennedy put his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered around the scene of the incident. He reminded himself that it was still the scene of an ‘incident’ and not yet the scene of a crime; perhaps that would come later. That was his job – to find out exactly what had happened.
Irvine’s task would be to organise the whole shebang. By the time he’d arrived, the team was already in place.
The first job was to seal off the area, using blue and while police tape. The photographer was busy snapping the corpse from as many angles as he could think of. When it looked like he was done, Irvine summoned the pathologist. ‘All right, Dr Taylor, you’re on.’
‘A bit theatrical, old dear,’ replied the good doctor.
‘Just trying to make you feel at home, old bean. But don’t get too comfortable, DI Kennedy will soon be over, wanting to know every last detail.’
As he carried his bag of tricks over to the corpse, Taylor muttered something about it not being an exact science but that he’d have a go. ‘Good God!’ he bellowed as he knelt down beside the body.
Everyone on the scene turned to look – Irvine and Kennedy quickly made their way to his side. ‘Something bothering you?’ asked Kennedy, cool as ever.
‘It’s Eddie Berry!’ whispered Taylor.
‘You know him?’ Irvine had a gift for asking the obvious.
‘Good grief, yes.’ The doctor searched for a breath that was failing him, and stood up to clear his head. He looked as if he was about to collapse. ‘Just give me a moment, please.’
‘Want some tea? Or something stronger?’ asked Kennedy.
‘Goodness, no – not while I’m on duty, Inspector. No, I’m okay, really. It was just such a shock. This man is a medical acquaintance of mine. Edmund Berry. He’s a resident at St Pancras All Saints Hospital. Just give me a few seconds and I’ll get on with it.’
Kennedy felt it best to leave Taylor to his own devices and inquired from Irvine if anything had yet been turned up by the uniformed lads.
‘No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary, just yet. But then – as ever – we don’t know what we’re looking for. But a bit of luck with Dr Taylor knowing the corpse.’
