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

by Paul Charles

  Kennedy felt restless as he headed back to his office at North Bridge House. He hated these limbo periods, unable to proceed with the case until Dr Taylor’s report arrived on his desk. If indeed there was a case at all. Perhaps Detective Constable Milligan’s initial observation was correct, maybe it was a simple suicide after all. But from the little information he had gleaned, Kennedy doubted it. Dr Berry had a lot to live for: a successful career, an obviously caring wife, a son at an age when everything is new and exciting, an age when his adventures gives as much joy to his parents as to himself.

  The detective inspector turned on the old value radio in his office – sometimes the cackle helped him to think. Not today. After a few minutes he made the radio silent again. Returning to his desk, he tried to involve himself in some paperwork but he couldn’t progress beyond merely picking up a pen and holding it in his hand.

  Kennedy’s problem was that if there was suspicious circumstances in the case (and he certainly thought there were) then the longer he waited, the more difficult the case would be to solve. It was not unlike a long-distance race. In the early stages it didn’t matter what your position was or how fast you ran, so long as you kept moving and in sight of the leaders. You always had a chance of catching up later, when the leaders had tired or drained themselves in their war of wills against each other. But the longer you stood still, as Kennedy felt he was doing just then, the further the leaders ran away from you and the harder they were to catch.

  Then again, in a long-distance race, you at least knew which way you were supposed to be going. In the case of Dr Berry (if indeed there was to be a case of Dr Berry) he had no notion in the world of the direction he should be taking.

  Kennedy was forced to admit that he was achieving little in the office, and so decided to walk the half-mile around the corner to Cumberland Basin and see how Detective Sergeant James Irvine and his team were progressing.

  At the top of Parkway – on the junction with Prince Albert Road – stands a telephone kiosk. It is of the newer design, obviously copied from a small seaside guest house shower, and it had recently replaced the magnificent red box that Kennedy had such happy memories of. He thought fondly of the hours he had spent in such red sanctuaries. When still a schoolboy, he would talk to girlfriends for hours and then become truly sad when the money ran out – unless, of course, the girlfriend at the other end had a phone in her house and could ring him back. To him, telephone boxes, somewhere to take a girlfriend when it was raining, were very romantic places. You could turn down the light for a bit of privacy by screwing the bulb a few turns and Bob’s your uncle. Mind you, if you did have an uncle called Bob, and he happened to see you canoodling with your friend, you were assured of a good clip on the ear. Because, by the time you returned home, Uncle Bob would have broadcast exactly what you had been doing and with whom. Here, Christy – what were you doing in the telephone box with old man Derby’s daughter? Wallop!

  The appearance of these new shower units annoyed Kennedy each and every time he passed them. They were hideous, unattractive, characterless – one of the ever-growing pimples on the London landscape. He slowed as he passed this particular eye-sore, debating whether or not to kick the glass in. Hardly the actions of a detective inspector, he admitted to himself as he pulled opened the door and entered the glass-walled booth. He inserted a ten-pence piece and dialled.

  ‘Hello, Camden News Journal. How can I help you?’ answered the voice, adopting the kind of tone you might use with a backward child.

  ‘Could I have extension 1098, please?’ replied Kennedy.

  ‘Sorry, can you repeat it please? I didn’t get the last number.’

  ‘Usual problem, it’s my accent,’ Kennedy answered. ‘Eight, 1098.’ He said it slowly, with an emphasis on the eight, as in ‘ate’.

  ‘Putting you through.’

  Kennedy was thanking somebody – probably God – that he didn’t have to go through the usual indignity of, ‘You know, eight – the one between seven and nine,’ when his thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s voice.

  ‘Features.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Christy, that you?’ Her voice had quickly warmed from the official-sounding ‘Features’.

  ‘That’s right. How’ya doing?’

  ‘Great – you know, but busy. And you?’

  The office voice was returning. He felt such a stupid man whenever he talked to this woman. ‘Could we have a chat later?’ he asked.

  Telephone silence for a time – seemingly too long a time to Kennedy and he was about to trot out the, ‘It’s okay – some other time, maybe,’ line when she ended the silence in a distinctly non-office voice. ‘Yes, Christy – that would be nice. See you in The Queens at eight. Okay?’

  ‘Great, excellent. I’ll leave you to it. Cheers.’

  ‘See you later, Christy.’

  Click, and she was gone.

  He kept the phone in his hand, listening to the purr of the dialling tone for some seconds, before setting it back in its cradle.

  ‘Bloody stupid boxes.’ Kennedy spoke the words to no-one in particular, but British Telecom in general.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Kennedy returned to Cumberland Basin, the team had come up with a big zero – absolutely nothing. Irvine was waiting for his okay to pack up and head back to the station.

  ‘Right so, Jimmy – you can do your famous Rowdy Yates impersonation with the “pack ‘em up and move ‘em out” call.’

  ‘Thank you, sir – although I’m not sure he would approve of the Sean Connery accent. But here we go.’

  When Irvine had given the order to saddle up, Kennedy put another question to him. ‘Where’s the Sailing Diamond and our two chaps?’

  ‘I let them go, sir, after we’d taken their statements. If they don’t work they don’t get paid.’

  Kennedy nodded his assent and Irvine posed a question of his own. ‘What do you think, sir? Suspicious circumstances or plain old suicide?’

  Kennedy mused for a few moments.

  ‘I don’t know… there’s nothing to be suspicious about, so that tends to make me suspicious. His wife is in a bad way so it’ll be tomorrow before I can have a proper chat with her. But they seem to have been a very tight family. Oh, could you check out his financial position for me when you return to the station?’

  ‘Yes, sir. What about his hospital? Should we start talking to the people up there?’

  Again Kennedy considered his options.

  ‘I think not. We should wait until we receive Taylor’s report, which he’s promised for first thing tomorrow morning. I’d like to wait till then before we start prodding around too much. I’d also like to try and find out how Berry got out here. Taxi? Bus? Car? Walked? Check with whoever was on duty in the hospital car-park. Find out where his car is. I’m assuming he has one somewhere.’

  Irvine dutifully noted Kennedy’s requirements as his boss extended the list.

  ‘Check with the staff on the floating food parlour over there and visit the houses on the other side of the bridge. See can anyone remember a person fitting Berry’s description around here late last night or early this morning. Have Milligan do the leg-work, he seems a bright lad.’

  Irvine shook his ballpoint pen to give the ink a jolt.

  ‘Oh, and tell Superintendent Castle where we’re up to on this. I’ll brief him in the morning once I’ve had a chance to appraise Dr Taylor’s report. In the meantime, I think I’ll wander back over to England’s Lane and see how Mrs Berry and the WPC are getting on.’

  Irvine hardly looked up as Kennedy departed the scene. His attention was directed at his notebook, as he made a point-check to ensure he’d taken it all in.

  Irvine admired Kennedy and he liked being “bag-man” on Kennedy’s cases. He found Kennedy easy to work with – never any tantrums. Kennedy believed in teamwork and always encouraged his team, not afraid of giving credit where credit was due, a pleasant change from some of the other
senior detectives who would claim each and every successful idea as their own.

  Being a Scotsman, Irvine appreciated Kennedy’s dry sense of humour. Occasionally they had a drink together but by and large Kennedy seemed to prefer to keep himself to himself when not on duty. This need – but not preoccupation – for privacy was probably what had earned Kennedy his “dark horse” reputation around the station.

  Good luck to him, Irvine thought. He much preferred that attitude to the “let’s get our hands dirty and much in with the peasants” approach of some of the other, more career-conscious senior officers.

  Chapter Eight

  They could just as easily have missed each other, thought Kennedy. It was about ninety minutes after he had left DS Irvine and he was sipping a cool glass of white wine in The Queens at the foot of Primrose Hill.

  On his way over, he had stopped off at the Berry home in England’s Lane to find that the sister, Doreen Clarke, had taken charge of the household. Sheila Berry was in bed, sedated and trying to gain comfort in deep sleep. Her son, Sam, and WPC Coles were playing, and for the time being he was content with his cars, years away from feeling the full impact of the loss of his father.

  Kennedy hung around for about an hour, chatting with Doreen. He promised to return in the morning when he would talk with Sheila.

  He had half an hour to kill and decided not to eat in case dinner was on the cards, so that was how he found himself sitting in The Queens, sipping wine, thinking about their first meeting. It had been at Heathrow Airport. Kennedy had been aware of her three times in a matter of two days. Which was opportune because his mother used to say that he should not talk to a woman until he had met her three times and had been formally introduced.

  The first occasion had been in the book department of W. H. Smith’s, in the departures area. He thought immediately that she was stunning, and as far as Kennedy could tell, she was wearing no make-up. Short, black hair, but not boyish short, more like a Beatle-cut from the era of A Hard Day’s Night. She wore a quiet black suit with a white shirt and carried an overcoat over one arm. Her other hand held a book and she periodically pushed a brown leather shoulder bag back into position so that she could browse. He couldn’t quite make out the title; he squinted in a wasted effort to identify the book but quickly gave up in case anyone thought he was staring.

  Kennedy walked to the other end of the bookshop to position himself for a better look at her. She had such gorgeous eyes which broke into a wonderful, brief smile whenever someone excused themselves to pick up a book she was blocking.

  He sometimes felt that this was the only way for true love. You see someone for a glimpse, a split second, and their body-power overcomes you to a point of total distraction. In that second, you find true love. You have no arguments, no fights, no jealousies, no guilts, no sorrows, no games, no hate: that love is perfection. It’s only when you have to deal with the weakness of human nature that it starts to crumble.

  The second time was when their eyes locked in the arrivals hall at Dublin Airport. Again, a second – a split second – and she was gone. But that hint of a smile burned into his mind’s eye.

  The third time was when she took the seat next to him on the return flight the following day. Technically this was the third time, although he was not sure such a statement would hold up in court. But once they were both seated comfortably, he formally introduced himself. He was not altogether certain this was what his mother had meant but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Kennedy always felt awkward on these occasions but there was something about her that gave him the confidence to try and make the connection.

  ‘I saw you in the bookstore yesterday at Heathrow – did you find anything worth buying?’ Well, it was a start.

  ‘No,’ she half-laughed. ‘I don’t know why I browse in airport bookstores, I rarely find anything I want to read.’

  He didn’t know what else to say; it was one of those occasions when you’re so busy trying to think of something that won’t sound stupid that you end up wordless.

  She seemed at her ease. ‘It’s just that I have this problem walking past bookstores, I love them. I could, and do, spend hours in them.’

  ‘Same here. And at airports it at least kills time,’ he replied, not even thinking of what he was saying. It seemed a suitable moment to introduce himself. ‘I’m… erm… Christy Kennedy.’

  He offered his hand.

  ‘I’m ann rea,’ she answered.

  They shook hands.

  ‘I know that name. Yes – small a, small r. You write for Camden News Journal, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  And the smile in her eyes lit up Kennedy’s heart. Kennedy could picture it now, as he waited for her in The Queens.

  They had talked about her work, and she explained the lower-case business. ‘If I’m honest, it’s probably to gain attention. I got the idea from kd lang. Apparently she nicked it from ee cummings.’

  They talked about music, their likes and dislikes. Up to that point, Kennedy had never heard of kd lang. He had since listened to, and been inspired by, ‘Crying’, a duet kd had performed with Roy Orbison.

  The flight and conversation ended at about the same time. Kennedy really wanted to find a way to continue, to make the connection. He couldn’t find a convenient way to do so. ann rea had been friendly and jovial, to a point. Kennedy thought she was comfortable communicating with strangers, totally at her ease. He didn’t want to appear to hassle her to he left her packing her gear on the plane with a quiet, ‘Nice to meet you. Goodbye.’

  The Queens was filling up. He looked at his watch – seven forty-five. It would be another fifteen minutes before he saw ann rea again.

  Following the plane journey, their next meeting had been six weeks later, in The Queens. Kennedy had been sharing a reared ring with DS Irvine. He enjoyed these occasions with Irvine, who didn’t need to consume vast quantities of alcohol to be entertaining company. The detective sergeant had hundreds of stories and an amusing delivery.

  ‘So, did you listen to kd lang yet? The voice had enquired from behind him.

  Kennedy didn’t require visual confirmation – he knew immediately that it was ann rea. He turned and smiled his rare smile. ‘Yes, I did, actually. I love her duet with Roy Orbison – what’s the song called… “Crying”. Yes, that’s it, “Crying”.’

  He offered her his hand to shake. She took it but used it to pull him towards her to kiss him on the cheek. This kiss warmed his soul and he became embarrassed as he felt a flush rise in his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘this is my colleague, James Irvine.’ Irvine and ann rea shook hands.

  ‘What are you doing in The Queens? A bit off your path isn’t it?’ Kennedy enquired.

  ‘I’m doing an interview in the studios in Mayfair Mews – just along the street a bit. You know what it’s like, any sign of a break in the work and they all pile down to the pub. But they seem to be going back now so I’d better leave, too,’ smiled ann rea.

  ‘Ah,’ was all Kennedy could manage.

  ‘Good to see you again, Christy.’

  By now, Kennedy liked ann rea; he liked her a lot. He found himself thinking about her more and more and longed for their next chance meeting. When that didn’t happen, he took the plunge and rang her to invite her out for dinner.

  ann rea made Kennedy feel comfortable and at ease, but always excited, even when he really wanted to be nervous. The next time, it was she who contacted Kennedy and again they went to dinner. Since then, they’d been out together several times and were in the process of becoming good friends.

  Kennedy wished for more but didn’t want to rush it. There seemed to be no other men in her life and in the meantime, they enjoyed each other’s company.

  Kennedy was brought back to the present by the third chime of eight resounding from the pub clock, just as ann rea made her entrance. They greeted each other with a peck on the cheek.

  ‘The us
ual, ann rea?’

  ‘Yes please, I’m dying for one; could you fetch me a Ballygowan as well. I don’t want to quench my thirst with wine. Ta, Christy.’

  The landlady – the colourful Mrs Emily Tilsey – served Kennedy.

  ‘Two dry white wines and a Ballygowan please, Mrs T. How’s Hugh – don’t see him around tonight?’

  ‘He’s fine. Pigeon night tonight – best place for him,’ she said as she poured the two glasses of wine. ‘Keeps him out from under my feet. That’ll be three twenty, Christy.’

  Carrying the two wines in one hand and the Ballygowan in the other, he returned to ann rea. She did take his breath away – clichés were only clichés because sometimes they were true. He treasured her company. At this point in their relationship they supposedly didn’t mean a lot to each other so he was always very careful not to be too forward with his affections.

  ann rea had obviously just spent a day working hard, but she glowed rather than wilted. He asked himself, How was it they had met at this point in their lives? How come one so special was not already spoken for? These thoughts filled his head as he sat down beside her. He would have been completely happy just to stare at her and listen to her. He didn’t want to appear to be a complete idiot so he decided he’d better say something – anything – but before he got a chance, she spoke first.

  ‘Are you okay? You sounded so low and so sad when you rang today.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ began Kennedy, remembering the events of the day. ‘We fished this poor sod out of the canal this morning, over at Cumberland Basin. It looks like – but doesn’t feel like – a simple suicide, and I’d just been to break the news to his widow. I still can’t get used to that part of the work, no matter how many times I do it.’

  He searched for the right words.

  ‘I can never do it well, I can’t easily deal with death. I know you’re meant to be detached and unemotional about it but when you inform the relatives and you see the mental explosion taking place… ah, there are no words for it. But no matter how bad I feel, I know that her pain is a million times worse and that nothing – absolutely nothing – can be done to help her. There’s no escaping that pain, there’s no way round it. She just has to go through it herself, the poor woman.’