Last Boat To Camden Town (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 1)

by Paul Charles

  ‘I’m not sure he would agree with you. Let’s keep on searching. Everything we need is out here waiting for us to find it.’

  Kennedy contemplated the busy scene. Everyone was diligent in their own way and each alone with their thoughts. People would start to become talkative once the corpse was removed from the scene.

  Taylor pulled on a pair of polythene gloves before commencing his examination of the corpse. His first mental note was that the body had not been in the water for long: a matter of hours. No blood or bruising was noticeable to the naked eye. He sealed the hands and feet in plastic bags and beckoned to Kennedy. ‘I can’t do much more till I get it down to the mortuary. Do you want to search the clothes before we remove the body?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I’d better.’ Kennedy’s reluctance must have been obvious as he called Irvine over to assist in the gruesome task.

  Irvine and Kennedy knelt down on either side of the corpse before going through the pockets – the contents were placed in polythene bags. Kennedy was thankful that the eyes of the corpse were closed. In normal circumstances, the search would have helped to identify the body but, as Taylor had already solved that mystery, the collection of clues would hopefully shed light on Dr Berry’s last hours.

  ‘Not much here, sir,’ concluded Sergeant Irvine. The search had produced a couple of pens – one a cheap Biro and the other a Parker – as well as a wallet stuffed with credit cards, receipts and various bits of paper which would be better examined once they’d had a chance to dry out. Irvine counted Berry’s unspent money – two fifty-pound notes, seven twenty-pound notes, four ten-pound notes and a fiver – neatly folded in half and in ascending order.

  Various coins were also extracted from Berry’s pockets and Kennedy wondered if the deceased had had the same habit as himself of dumping his change into convenient large containers – every vase and bowl in his house and office was full of the stuff. He had never really worked out why he did it. Sometimes – for instance, early in the morning – it would be a pain to go into a newsagent with a ten-pound note for nothing more than the Guardian. When containers started overflowing with coins, he’d transfer the funds to a larger container with the intention of either bagging it for the bank or else dumping it in some charity collection box. Somehow, he never got round to doing either.

  Kennedy noticed that Berry wore sensible shoes – expensive-looking but extremely functional. The job could make you something of an expert on shoes and the like and Kennedy deduced that this pair was no more than four or five years old and wearing well – the time in the water had not deadened the spit-and-polish shine. Berry’s shoes were not unlike his own, and Kennedy wondered if he had purchased them from his own supplier – Ducker & Son of Oxford – but that would have been too much of a coincidence, he thought.

  Irvine was examining a four-inch square of fawn material which he’d found in Berry’s back pocket. ‘Bit small for a handkerchief,’ he muttered to no-one in particular.

  ‘It’s for cleaning his glasses,’ answered Kennedy.

  Sergeant Irvine was puzzled.

  ‘Look at the two marks on the bridge of his nose. Look – there and there. He’s a glasses man. And as spectacle-wearing people grow older, they become more fussy about keeping them clean – hence this little cloth. His specs may have come off when he hit the water. We might find them down below when the divers arrive.’

  Kennedy brought the gruesome search to a conclusion. ‘Nothing else of interest on the body. Have the wallet and its contents sent to my office when they’ve dried out, Sergeant. Now, do you think that location van has a brew going yet?’

  Kennedy turned to Taylor. ‘When you’ve … ah … sent the body on its way to the lab, will you join me for a cup of tea in the wagon and give me the SP on our corpse?’

  After indicating his approval of Kennedy’s suggestion, Taylor instructed the ambulance attendants to place the corpse in a body-bag and to deliver it to the mortuary at St Pancras All Saints Hospital.

  As the ambulance – or meat wagon, as it was affectionately known – took Edmund Berry on his penultimate journey, Kennedy made his way back up the embankment, over the bridge to the main road and disappeared into the site wagon, a large, while mobile-office-on-wheels affair.

  ‘That’s that,’ he said to himself sadly whilst he re-packed his box of mostly unused tricks. ‘Now for that tea.’

  Chapter Four

  Dr Taylor found Kennedy up in the site wagon, drinking his tea and surveying the scene from on high. They had an extensive view of Cumberland Basin and the Feng Shang Boat Restaurant to the left of the cul-de-sac of the Regent’s Canal.

  Cumberland Basin is the point where the Regent’s Canal, having run parallel to the zoo on one side and Prince Albert Road on the other, takes a left turn – assuming, that is, you’re walking towards the basin. This left turns the canal in the direction of Camden Lock, the vibrant heart of Camden Town. The canal walk had recently become very popular, largely because of the multitude of colours, from the lively shades of the boats, through the numerous greens and browns of the trees, to the blue sky with puffy smoke-like clouds.

  Kennedy was lost in his thoughts. Rather than disturb him, the doctor prepared his own cup of tea. The noise of the pouring tea soon caught Kennedy’s attention and brought him back to the present with a jolt. ‘I’ll have a refill, Doctor – if there’s another cup in the pot.’

  ‘There certainly is,’ replied Taylor generously. ‘Pass me your cup.’

  ‘Thanks. Milk and two sugars, please.’

  The tea ritual completed, they sat at either end of an ugly mustard sofa, the site wagon’s one attempt at comfort. But it was uncomfortably low, a matter of ten inches off the ground, and the other seating arrangements weren’t much better, various chairs and swivel seats, all too high.

  A couple of sits later, Kennedy became annoyed at the discomfort of the ridiculous sofa and dragged himself off, nearly spilling his precious tea in the process. He made his way back to the window. After contemplating the scene outside for a few moments, he quietly asked Taylor – whose large, generous frame was causing serious disturbance in the sofa – about the unfortunate Dr Berry. ‘How long has he been dead, Doctor?’

  Kennedy was half-expecting the usual, Well, it’s too early to tell but I’d say sometime within the last nine weeks – so he was more than surprised at Taylor’s response. ‘Well, judging by the degree to which the body has swollen, I’d say not too long – possibly three or six hours.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Kennedy replied, weighing up his information. ‘And would you say your colleague was still alive when he fell – or jumped or was pushed – into the water?’

  ‘Quite possibly. But I won’t know that until I open him up.’

  Kennedy’s stomach murmured a complaint at this statement. ‘The timing is interesting, doctor,’ began Kennedy, expelling from his mind the vision of the corpse being opened, ‘because that would mean that the splash heard by our young friend may well have been that of Dr Berry’s last swim, and so perhaps there was no foul play involved, perhaps it was just a simple suicide. There’s no sign of a struggle, no obvious bruising to the body…’

  ‘And I hear from young Milligan that no suicide note has yet turned up,’ interjected Taylor.

  ‘True enough, Doctor. I know it’s not a popularly held belief that every suicide leaves a note but I think that in the majority of cases some message is left – written or not. Anyway, I put the horse before the cart. How about if you tell me all you know about Dr Berry,’ suggested Kennedy.

  ‘Well, began Taylor, ‘as I said earlier, I’ve known him a little socially over the last couple of years – since he came to work at St Pancras. He was gaining a strong reputation for his research into skin diseases. Seemed to be well-liked by his colleagues. He kept himself in good shape, as you can see, and he dressed well – as you no doubt also noticed.’

  He paused to retrieve more information from his memory bank. ‘Although we wer
e both based at the same hospital, our departments are miles apart and we rarely bumped into each other. My contact with him has been mostly at friends’ parties and I believe I can remember him telling me that he liked to play golf. Oh, yes – I believe he might have been a cricket fan, too. In fact, now I remember us having the usual cricket-fan conversation about how the best way to enjoy cricket was to simultaneously watch it on TV and listen to the commentary on Radio 3.’

  ‘You didn’t know him well enough, I suppose, to ascertain his state of mind?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Inspector. He seemed to have a fine sense of humour, but who knows? Who can tell what anyone is really thinking or feeling at a party – we all put on a show,’ answered the doctor.

  ‘What about his family?’

  ‘Oh, God – I had forgotten… someone will have to tell his wife. Poor woman, and they had a son, I believe. A young family starting out with everything in front of them and then this. We sometimes forget the real victims, Inspector.’

  Taylor’s voice had gradually faded until it was almost inaudible. Snapping out of his moroseness, he decided to escape the sofa – an operation that proved complex and difficult. ‘If you have no more questions, Inspector, I’ll get back to the mortuary and see what else I can find out for you.’

  ‘That’s fine, Doctor. I’ll speak to you later. Thanks a million,’ Kennedy said quietly, as he rinsed the completely drained cup and returned it to the tea-making area.

  Kennedy wandered around Cumberland Basin once more, looking down on the activity from the brim. The body had been removed and his eyes scored the site over and over again, not sure what he was looking for. Just searching for something – anything that would explain the death of Dr Edmund Berry.

  Chapter Five

  WPC Anne Coles found herself mesmerised by Detective Inspector Kennedy’s left hand as it continuously coiled and recoiled. They were on the doorstep of number 19 England’s Lane. Kennedy rang the doorbell for a second time, then silently stepped a pace back whilst continuing to flex his hand. The exercise reminded WPC Coles of someone passing a two-pence piece through their fingers, but in her detective inspector’s case, there was no coin – just the finger movement. The WPC stood five foot six inches tall. She had blonde hair – natural – which had to be carefully orchestrated to fit within the confines of her regulation headgear. She wore little make-up on duty and much off duty.

  The movement abruptly stops as a human sound was heard on the other side of the door – a female voice. ‘No, it’s not your Daddy – not yet. Go back to your toys, sweetheart.’

  The door opened fully, revealing a stunningly beautiful woman.

  ‘Mrs Berry?’ inquired Kennedy with his quiet Irish lilt.

  Kennedy noted how the woman’s eyes acknowledged him as a stranger and how the twinkle was replaced by panic when she registered the WPC’s uniform.

  Kennedy is aware of what would be going on in her head at that moment. Her brain will be attempting to unscramble her confused thoughts. The police – something’s wrong. It’s like an internal damage assessment. Then the defences kick in. I can take all that you can tell me because this is not going to be the worst thing in my life. My son is safe behind me in my house and my husband is safe at work – so, how bad can it be? I can take it. All this flashes through her head in a split second, and she attempts to be cool and collected.

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’ Her words stumble out, like unsuccessful punters emerging from the bookmaker’s shop.

  Mrs Berry’s world had been fine until she opened the door to let the wickedness and the cold of the outside world into the warmth and safety of her home. Her life is about to be destroyed in a way she never thought possible.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy of Camden CID,’ Kennedy flashed his ID, ‘and this is WPC Anne Coles. Could we come in please, Mrs Berry?’

  Mrs Berry is thinking – Okay, I’m in control – everything’s fine. Probably some robbery and they’re checking up. I can deal with that. What will Edmund think when he finds out the police were in the house today? He’d know who to handle this.

  ‘Yes, of course, do come in.’

  Kennedy was thinking how it was impossible to prepare someone for the news he was about to give to this poor, unfortunate woman. You could, of course, try to make them comfortable – have them feel at ease – but then when you do it, when you tell them the news in your own pathetic way, it still knocks them off their feet.

  Her eyes locked into Kennedy’s the way a preyed animal uses an optic shield. She searched his face, his body movements, for some kind of clue. Seconds that seemed like hours were passing and she didn’t know why the police were here – in her house, her place of safety.

  ‘I think you should sit down Mrs Berry and prepare yourself for a shock.’

  She does so. How bad can this be?

  ‘Has there been some kind of accident, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. A man we believe to be your husband has been found dead in the canal.’ There – he’d said it. He’d managed to speak the words and the reaction – surprisingly – was rather calm.

  ‘Ha! There must be some kind of mix-up, some kind of mistake. My husband is a doctor – he’s at the hospital. He’s on lates this week and is due back in a couple of hours. There’s obviously been a terrible mistake – it can’t be him.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s very unlikely that there’s been a mistake. A colleague of your husband has already informally identified the body. I’m sorry …’

  A young boy runs into the room. Mrs Berry picks him up and holds him close to her – either to give or to receive comfort. Probably both. Perhaps, instinctively, to protect her sole remaining dependent. The boy reacts to his mother’s infectious panic and starts to bawl with full force. This, in turn, intensifies his mother’s fear. Mrs Berry suspends her disbelief and lets it all go.

  It starts with a growl from deep inside of her and builds slowly. The animal-like whine the noise has become sounds not unlike the word “No” – an evil sound, a sound that can be affected only by death, the wail of a banshee.

  The longer the whine continues, the fiercer the son’s sobs become. The son is too young to know exactly what is happening, but something beyond him – way beyond him – is controlling him. Instinct.

  Kennedy stands still, a stranger in the house, observing – a spectator, not a participant. He feels helpless, impotent, feeble and incapable – but mostly helpless. The doctor’s wretched wife – liquid streaming from her eyes and nose – has now totally broken down. She nearly drops her son but the WPC is there in a flash and rescues him in her arms and tries to quieten and comfort him.

  Kennedy signals the WPC with his eyes to take the son to another room, whilst he supports the wailing mother and guides her to the sofa. He holds her tight, trying to give her some of his warmth, his support, his strength, his pity. Her face is a mess and she accepts his offer of a bundle of tissues to attend to her nose and eyes. The flow of tears is uncontrollable. She is unable to catch her breath for long enough to say anything. Several times she tries to regain control of herself, to try to say something. But it’s useless, the sobbing will not subside.

  Kennedy feels his own eyes filling up. It was beyond sadness – it was emptiness. He forces himself to take stock of the room so as to divert his feelings and his thoughts.

  The room has been carefully and lovingly put together with an obvious feminine touch. Two alcoves – one either side of the fireplace – are packed with books. Kennedy strains his eyes to try and pick out authors and titles – Peter Carey, Garrison Keillor, lots of Seamus Heaney and Larry McMurty.

  Resting on the fireplace is a Dutch clock with family pictures on either side. In one, Dr Berry is showing off his wife and child to the camera. The son has definitely taken after his father – same rounded eyes – not unlike Paul McCartney, thinks Kennedy. These pictures of happiness will henceforth afford the v
iewers nothing but pain.

  Mrs Berry takes deep breaths, trying to control the sobbing. She’s trying to form words but still finds it impossible.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s all that Kennedy can find to say.

  The doctor’s wife again fights for words. Her main preoccupation now is thirst; her throat feels very, very dry. And she feels guilty for thinking such a mundane thought at that moment in her life.

  ‘He’ll never… he’ll never be able to see what his son… what his son becomes… he really loved… he loved that boy…’

  Again she is unable to control the tears.

  Kennedy holds her tight once more. ‘Is there anyone we could call… is there anyone you want with you?’ Kennedy whispers as he rocks her back and forth.

  No answer – more tears.

  Just when he thinks she is finding some peace, she starts up again. It’s beyond her control.

  Sometime later – it might have been minutes, it might have been hours – when the sobbing had subsided, she gathers all her strength and manages to utter, quietly and quickly, ‘My sister… my sister, Doreen. Could you ring her please – the number’s in the book by the phone – she’ll come. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do… how to handle this. What will I do? Sam – where’s Sam?

  Assuming Sam is her son’s name, Kennedy reassures her. ‘He’s with the WPC – Anne Coles. They’re next door. Sam will be fine with Anne.’

  Kennedy removes his arm from around Mrs Berry. ‘I’ll ring your sister and make you a strong cup of tea at the same time. Okay?’

  ‘Inspector, how did it happen?’

  Kennedy explains the approximate circumstances in which Dr Berry’s body has been found, and concludes: ‘We have to conduct tests to establish the exact cause of death.’

  She nods. ‘To think, he’ll never see his son grow up…’

  Chapter Six