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

by Paul Charles

  They sat in their own silence for a few minutes.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, Kennedy awoke with his usual hunger for the day. He hoped it would be more productive than the one before – in more ways than one.

  The first three items on his agenda would hopefully ascertain how Dr Berry died, whether by his own devices or through foul play. These thoughts filled his mind as he made his way briskly over Primrose Hill and down towards Camden Town.

  The morning was sharp – he could see his breath before him, but at least it was dry. Kennedy never tired of the beauty of Primrose Hill, particularly on such early morning walks. The sky was a powerful blue and the green and brown colours of the hill combined to create his personal living picture-postcard. He felt very privileged to live where he did.

  Seagulls croaked noisily overhead. Stormy at sea, he thought. His normal route to the office took him past Cumberland Basin. This morning, there were no signs whatsoever that twenty-four hours earlier, a man had lost (or maybe taken) his life there. The show goes on with or without you. He reached North Bridge House at his regular time of seven-forty-five, but instead of entering the Camden CID building, he turned left and headed down Parkway.

  Parkway bridges the neo-classic elegance of Prince Albert Road (Regent’s Park) with the vibrant High Street (Camden Town). The buildings are less sober, and more colourful, the further down Parkway you travel. From the top of the road – the traffic lights outside the disused York and Albany pub – to the bottom – the traffic lights just before Camden Town tube station – you have a police station, a record company, six pubs, nine estate agents, two dry cleaners, a launderette, an off-licence, a late night club (the famous Jazz Café), a cinema, and a pet shop.

  Not to mention three hairdressers, two sportswear shops, one optometrist, a post office, a deli, a camera shop, one travel agent, a photo-studio with picture framers included and a toy shop – don’t forget the toy shop. A hobby store, a tile shop, one gents clothes store, a locksmith and a garage.

  And there’s a vacuum cleaner service centre, and talking about centres, there’s the Camden Career Centre and then there’s the International Wrist Watch Magazine headquarters, four Camden-type clothes shops, an art gallery, a florist, a photocopying and print shop, and a mysterious temple of hipness whose contents are unusable, unwearable and unaffordable.

  One bank, three newsagents – well, two-and-a-half really – the one at the top of the Parkway is seldom open and on the rare occasion he is open for business in the afternoon, he’s sold out of papers but he does a great line in ladies tights. Two sandwich shops, one bookie, one council centre for the homeless, one dole office, eleven office buildings, one concert ticket box office, two ugly parking-ticket machines, ten trees, a billboard site, one telephone kiosk, one double telephone unit open to the elements, eleven streetlights, three sets of traffic lights and one of the best bookstores in London. What more could a man, woman or policeperson ask for?

  Oh yes, and we mustn‘t forget the fourteen eating establishments, which count among their number The Salt and Pepper, Kennedy’s favourite café and his destination that particular morning.

  ‘The usual, guv?’ inquired the jovial proprietor.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Kennedy smiled.

  ‘Here or to go?’

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll take it here this morning, boss.’

  Kennedy made his way past the service counter into the comfortable seated area in the back, finding the corner seat – his favourite – available and waiting.

  Kennedy often popped into The Salt and Pepper for a cup of tea and a chat with witnesses, suspects, colleagues or friends. He actually had few friends, as he preferred just a few trusted people rather than a large group who couldn’t be anything more than acquaintances.

  Michael, the owner of The Salt and Pepper, made demon bacon sandwiches, semi-crisp with the fat removed and very hot in brown bread.

  Two rounds of the very same, along with a steaming hot cup of tea (two sugars and a good dollop of milk), were now placed in front of Kennedy and he was ready to tuck in. First he removed the envelope which had been dropped through his letter-box earlier that morning.

  The letter was from ann rea and it was the first letter that she had written to him. Actually, it was more of a note, but you had to be thankful for small mercies.

  Enclosed, the couple of features on Dr Berry I was telling you about. Hope they’re of use. You owe me a drink!

  Talk to you later.

  ann rea.

  He had already read the note earlier. Written with a fountain pen, the handwriting was smooth. No “regards”’, “cheers” or “love” before her name. He considered this for a time as he stared at the note.

  ‘She must have been up early,’ he said quietly to the cup of tea, he raised to his lips. He reckoned ann rea must have gone into her office at dawn, found the articles, photocopied them and driven around to deliver them. What a woman.

  He took some comfort that, for ann rea to go to all that trouble, she must have some goodwill for him. ‘A little, perhaps,’ he said to himself as he tucked into the sandwiches.

  Munching happily, Kennedy read the first of the articles.

  STRANGE DEATH OF LOCAL TEACHER

  Local teacher, Susanne Collins of Primrose Hill Primary School, died late Friday – 22nd January – in St Pancras All Saints Hospital. Ms Collins (28), who lived in Camden Town, had taught at Primrose Hill Primary School for five years. She was admitted to the hospital on Wednesday 20th January at lunchtime for what was described as ‘routine treatment for a common ailment.’

  Underneath the single-column article was a photo of a smiling, vibrant Ms Collins. But why was it included? There was no mention of Dr Berry. Kennedy took a large swig of tea and read on. He soon had his answer. The larger article, again accompanied by the same picture, was dated a week later, the Camden News Journal being a weekly newspaper.

  MYSTERY DEEPENS IN ‘PRIME-OF-LIFE TEACHER’ DEATH

  Mystery surrounds the circumstances under which much-loved local teacher, Ms Susanne Collins (28) died at St Pancras All Saints Hospital on Friday 22nd January. Ms Collins was a popular teacher at Primrose Hill Primary School.

  Ms Collins was supervising the children in the playground on Wednesday lunchtime when witnesses report that her legs buckled from under her and she fell to the ground. She was taken immediately to St Pancras All Saints Hospital, where she was placed under observation.

  Two days later, her condition deteriorated and she was rushed to the operating theatre where she died during an operation to treat a blood clot. Dr Edmund Berry, the senior hospital doctor treating her, issued the following statement on behalf of the Hospital Trust:

  ‘It is too early to say what happened. We are carrying out a full investigation into the matter and will make public our findings at the earliest opportunity.’

  William Jackson, Ms Collins’ boyfriend and teaching colleague, was said to be ‘”devastated”. A friend said, ‘We just can’t believe it. One day she’s seemingly in perfect health, then she’s admitted to hospital and, two days later, she’s dead.’

  Ms Susanne Collins is survived by her father, Mr Tom Collins and a brother, Mr Norman Collins, who live at the family home in Derby.

  End of article.

  End of story?

  Although it was slim pickings, Kennedy decided that he’d check on any further developments when he visited the hospital later to interview Dr Berry’s colleagues about his own demise. But if those two cuttings were all the Camden News Journal had on him, Dr Berry couldn’t have led a very wayward existence. But there again, it’s usually the quiet ones…

  He washed down the last bite of the bacon sandwich with the final mouthful of tea – perfect when both food and drink run out simultaneously. Kennedy paid the bill and walked back up Parkway to his office at North Bridge House. He was intrigued as to what information the autopsy of Dr Berry would now offer up.

/>   Chapter Ten

  North Bridge House was built on the site of the very first settlement in Camden. It was originally a monastery in the days when the monks tended their pigs up on Primrose Hill. Through the years, it had successfully served several purposes before becoming the home of the then newly formed Camden CID, in 1967. Prior to that, it had been a private school and Kennedy had often felt he’d inherited the headmaster’s study.

  As he entered his office, Kennedy switched on his valve radio and after a short delay, Capital Gold came through oud and clear. It was either that, Radio 4 or GLR, depending on Kennedy’s needs and his moods. He always thought of his office more as a thinking room, and it was very homely, especially by police standards. Bit by bit, Kennedy had very quietly replaced the standard police furniture with snug pieces he’d found in Camden’s second-hand shops. It really was surprising what you could pick up for next to nothing.

  Kennedy didn’t mind the time and elbow-grease he expended doing up the bits of furniture. His dad was a carpenter and he had learnt a few tricks of the trade while growing up. He was usually working on some piece or other – a chair, a table, a desk, a wooden ornament – anything, just as long as there was something there to work with. He found it extremely therapeutic, and a great way to focus the mind. He loved the aroma of wood shavings, glue, varnish, paints, missing only the smell of his father’s sweat from childhood. Kennedy remembered fondly the hours he had spent with his dad in his workshop. His father would patiently answer his numerous questions, some about the job in hand, others about the worries of life. Many of the realities he had learnt from his father in those long-gone days had stood him in good stead since.

  The ambience the furniture created in his office was helped by the fact that all the walls were panelled with a rich walnut wood. Kennedy could hardly believe that in some of the other offices they had stripped the wood from the walls or slapped a coat of paint over the top. To the amusement of his colleagues, Kennedy had spent a great deal of time restoring the wood in his room. He felt his father would be proud of him. Funny, that no matter what age you are – from six to sixty – you feel the need to impress your parents.

  The wall behind his desk supported the usual noticeboard with memos, schedules, rosters, awards, promotions, even a few wanted posters. To the left of his desk was another noticeboard, for his case-in-progress notes. It was old, covered in green felt with a large Guinness is Good for You logo carved into the frame. Here, Kennedy pinned all the details, photographs, clues, hunches, maps and sometimes even bluffs, in case his superior – Superintendent Castle – wanted to check up on his work while he was out.

  While engrossed in a case, Kennedy had a habit of swinging his forties-style wooden swivel chair slightly to the left, tilting back, and resting his feet on the corner of the desk, while cogitating the contents of his case-board.

  He removed the remnants of his previous case, and placed them in a box marked with the case title. Kennedy was a collector-creature and could not bear to throw anything away. He wondered aloud what the current case would become known as. Or would it, in fact, fit DC Ian Milligan’s “simple suicide” theory? There was no-one to answer his question because there was no-one to hear it.

  Dr Taylor knocked on Kennedy’s office door, disturbing his thoughts.

  ‘Ah, do come in. You’re early. Join me for a cup of tea? I’ve a pot brewing.’

  ‘Yes – oh, yes please,’ the doctor replied. Kennedy was the only senior police officer the doctor knew who made his own tea, and very palatable it was, too.

  Both men settled comfortably into their seats and sipped their tea.

  Kennedy spoke first: ‘Well, Doctor, what do you have for me?’

  ‘Dr Berry died by drowning – pure and simple drowning. Water in his lungs. I would say that by the lack of swelling of the body and by its slight discolouration, he would have drowned sometime between seven and eight yesterday morning. It’s hard to be more accurate due to the fact that the low temperature of the canal water would have reduced the body temperature quicker than normal. The alcohol level in his blood was high – as in, very high. Our Dr Berry had consumed vast amounts of spirits in his last few hours alive. I would go so far as to say a dangerous amount of spirits.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Kennedy, interrupting for the first time.

  When Taylor was convinced that Kennedy had no other observations to add, he continued: ‘Berry’s last meal would have been around six o’clock the previous night. He ate a good full mean: steak, potatoes – still in their skins – peas, carrots and green beans. I’d say he liked brown sauce with his steak.’

  ‘How on earth do you know all that?’ smiled Kennedy.

  ‘The contents of his stomach – he didn’t have time to digest his food properly.’ Now it was Taylor’s turn to smile – all experts enjoy their “magic tricks”, where their particular science affords them knowledge which could be amusing or enlightening to the layman.

  ‘One other thing worth mentioning, Detective Inspector,’ the doctor continued, consulting his notes. ‘Dr Berry had a contusion under his arms which ran across the front of his chest. It may have been caused when they pulled him out of the water. The hooks could have pulled his clothes up under his arms and left a mark from the weight of his body.’

  ‘No other contusions to report?’ queried Kennedy.

  ‘Nothing else. He was essentially in perfect health,’ Taylor concluded, ruling out one possible reason for suicide.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kennedy was pinning sheets of paper to his noticeboard. Edmund Berry. Drowned. Very drunk. Chest marked. 7-8am.

  Cumberland Basin.

  After staring at the sheets of paper, he buzzed WPC Anne Coles on the intercom, and asked her to be his driver for the morning.

  Kennedy rode up front in the car with the WPC, unusual for a detective inspector. He seemed disturbed by the peacefulness of Primrose Hill as they drove past it on their way to the Berry residence on England’s Lane.

  WPC Coles did not have a chance to share Kennedy’s thoughts, as he remained quiet until they reached the house. His fingers were agitated again as she rang the doorbell for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  Doreen Clarke opened the door and immediately invited them into the house. Outside, the sky was overcast with darkening clouds. Inside, it felt as though the sun had gone down forever. Either Doreen had lost her battle to keep her sister’s ebbing spirits afloat or else, and perhaps just as likely, she too was feeling the loss of an important and vital life.

  The two adults in the house were obviously doing their best to conceal their heartaches from Sam, who was getting on with his life of innocence. Kennedy wondered what memories of his father he would treasure and carry in his subconscious to later life. Would those memories curse him, strengthen him, help him, hinder him or preoccupy him? Kennedy supposed it would all depend on the strength, love and stability his mother could give to him over the coming years.

  He wondered would she dedicate her life entirely to her son, which would probably be wrong for both of them, or would she, after a time, also pick up the pieces of her own life and find another man? He was equally sure that these were the last thoughts in her mind at this moment.

  Kennedy spoke to Doreen. ‘How is she today?’ His voice, in its usual quietness, seemed to suit the atmosphere of the house perfectly.

  ‘Up and down, Inspector.’

  Kennedy gently interrupted her. ‘Call me Christy, please.’ He felt that formalities were definitely out of place on such on occasion.

  Doreen continued. ‘She’ll be just about to lift her spirits and then a word, or a sentence, or a thought, will remind her of him. She’ll realise what has happened and start crying again. She’ll be talking to you and will say something about Eddie and you can see in her eyes that she’s doing a “fast-forward”, realising he’s dead – and then she’ll lose it completely. I just don’t know what to do, Inspector, er… Christy,’ Doreen sighed.
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  WPC Coles was touched by Kennedy’s comforting presence. He didn’t need to say much – it was his air, his body language – very supportive, very strong, non-threatening. She felt that either the DI was very used to dealing with these situations or he was feeling somewhat hurt inside himself.

  ‘Just being here is enough for her at this point, Doreen. There really is nothing else anyone can do to help. There is no help. But the fact that you are here for her and for her son is more important than you will ever imagine. You have to keep your energy and strength up. She’ll cling to your strength. That strength and the passage of time will pull her through this.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry Insp– Christy. I just want to help, you know? But I feel so… so helpless,’ she replied, yet she seemed to have taken strength from Kennedy’s words and was soon inquiring would either of them like a cup of tea.

  ‘Now you’re talking!’ said Kennedy, rubbing his hands together in a bid to lighten things up a little. As Doreen made her way to the kitchen he followed asking, ‘Do you think that Sheila will feel up to talking to me later?’

  ‘I think so, sir… er, Christy.’ She found it difficult to address a policeman by his Christian name. ‘She was saying earlier that she wanted to find out exactly what had happened. I think she hopes it will help her come to terms with Eddie’s death.’

  A few minutes later the tea was ready.

  ‘Shall I set the table?’ Doreen inquired.

  ‘No, no – not at all,’ he smiled. ‘Just a wee cup of tea in our hands.’