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

by Paul Charles

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted the superintendent, ‘Accident, murder or suicide?’

  ‘Well, sir – I’m suspicious to say the least. I can’t feel comfortable with suicide. Firstly, there was no note found. Not every suicide leaves a note but Dr Berry cared for his family, his wife and his son. So if he did wish to end his own life then I’m sure he would have made arrangements, note and will. I’ve checked and he hasn’t made a will. Secondly, he apparently didn’t usually drink very much. On the rare occasion he did, it was always red wine. Yet, a large quantity of spirits were found in his body. He got his sugar-fix from chocolate as he had a very sweet tooth, one of those chocolate-coated peanut freaks apparently. A box of the same was found in his pocket, and it was confirmed by his wife.

  ‘Thirdly, he would not have walked to Cumberland Basin. He certainly didn’t drive there. No car keys were found in his pockets and DS Irvine tells me that his car is in its usual place in the hospital car-park. Either he took the bus – unlikely – or else someone must have driven him there or else taken him there by force. Fourthly, being a doctor, he could easily have found an easier way of taking his life. Jumping into a cold, dark and dirty canal at seven o’clock in the morning can’t top the list of how to take one’s life. Fifthly, if he did want to drown himself, I doubt if he’d have done it there: the water’s only four feet deep where he was found; he could have stood up in it.’

  ‘But surely he wouldn’t have known that until he jumped in, and your witness did hear a splash,’ interrupted the superintendent.

  ‘True and true – but we don’t know if the splash was actually him hitting the water though, sir.’

  ‘Heyee.’ The Super drew the air back through his teeth. ‘Do you have any hunches, Kennedy?’

  Kennedy paused for a few seconds, trying to form his words.

  ‘It’s just that he seemed to be part of a very stable family life, I think. That’s all I know. I have a feeling that he did not or would not commit suicide. His wife… his son… I don’t think he would have left them this way.

  Superintendent Castle could see that Kennedy was troubled over this. He needed the meeting to end; he was late for his next and more important appointment. So, though he wasn’t sure this was anything more than a suicide, he gave Kennedy his blessing to carry on.

  ‘Okay. Spend some time on this and see what you can come up with. Keep me posted. The inquest is set for Friday so let’s have an update before then, my son.’

  The Superintendent stood up and put on the jacket that hung on the back of his chair. The meeting had ended.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Dr Burgess will see you now,’ the young nurse announced. She wore a blue and white uniform, starched to crispness, and had pinned upon her chest the nurse’s medal – the upside-down fob watch.

  ‘A terrible thing this, Inspector.’ Dr Spencer Burgess greeted Kennedy by shaking his head, before closing the door behind him and guiding him to the visitor’s chair, all in one fine, orchestrated movement.

  From the exterior, the hospital looked as grand and elegant as the St Pancras British Rail mainline station. A magnificent building, putting to shame a lot of the newer ones in its shadow. But inside All Saints Hospital, everything was antiseptic clean, if a tad tatty. Trying to fit too many people into too small a space created a shoe-box effect.

  Dr Burgess obviously had some influence and importance in the hospital power-structure. He had what appeared to add up to a total of three shoe-boxes – one for his receptionist/secretary and the remaining two converted into one space to act as his office and consulting room.

  The walls were covered with diplomas, certificates and pictures. Burgess had two large bookcases along the partition wall and they were packed to bursting with journals, textbooks and papers. At a quick glance, Kennedy noticed that more than a few of the books referred to eyes – obviously, his field of work.

  His desk, a grand affair, was placed close to one of the large windows. Unfortunately, this majestic arched window could only be fully appreciated from outside the building. Internally, what once had been one very large floor had now been made into three – the result of being that the window in Dr Burgess’ room stretched from floor to ceiling, where one could see the beginning of the arch.

  Burgess stiffly took his seat. A small man, he was immaculately ‘turned out’, as Kennedy’s mother would say. His hair was short with a knife-edge parting – not a single hair out of place. He had a top lip. He looked like a two-shirt-a-day man – this must have been his blue-shirt period. His tie was of the old-school variety.

  His desk echoed his personal fastidiousness. Pencils – well-sharpened – were lined up in a neat row, parallel to the right-hand side of his desk. In the middle of the desk, directly in front of the doctor, was a pile of papers demanding his immediate attention. To the left of the desk was a photograph of the doctor and a good-looking, mature model-type woman – presumably his wife. The photo showed Burgess in casual attire, or as casual as he could go. The photograph seemed to be positioned so that his guests could admire it as much as the doctor clearly did himself.

  He opened a drawer to his left and took out a clean crystal-glass ashtray containing a pack of Benson and Hedges, and offered one to Kennedy who, as a non-smoker, refused. The doctor lit-up. With the cigarette placed between his first and second fingers and using the thumb and first finger of the same hand, he removed the piece of tobacco that had lodged between his teeth.

  His impeccably manicured fingers moved the papers on this desk slightly to the left and then back to their original position. He was ready to begin.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ His voice appeared unused to speaking insignificant things. It had a commanding tone, probably cultivated, but used so often it appeared perfectly natural.

  Kennedy decided that he was in charge of the interview. He decided that he would conduct it – so he allowed the silence to hang between them. He raised his hand to his mouth, as if in thought, but to ensure that Burgess did not break the silence.

  Kennedy began. ‘Your wife, Doctor?’’ His eyes were fixed on the photograph.

  ‘What? Oh, yes… yes.’

  ‘Been married long?’ Kennedy asked quietly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Been married long?’ repeated Kennedy.

  ‘Twelve years – yes, twelve years last September,’ replied the Doctor, becoming slightly fidgety.

  Kennedy now took a left turn on Burgess. ‘How long have you known Dr Berry?’

  ‘Oh, now let me see. He came here as an SHO…’

  ‘An SHO, Doctor?’ interrupted Kennedy.

  ‘Sorry – a Senior House Officer,’ explained Burgess, labouring the words ever so slightly before continuing. ‘And he passed his exams to become a registrar so that would make it about… let’s see… just under four years.’

  ‘Did you know him well? Did you mix much socially?’

  ‘I knew him well professionally, Inspector, but we rarely met socially. We have – had – a different circle of friends.’

  ‘Had he any troubles you were aware of, Doctor?’

  ‘None that affected his work… except…’

  ‘Yes, Doctor?’ prompted Kennedy.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to tell you anything you won’t hear from other people; you may well have already heard about it.’

  Burgess appeared to hesitate.

  ‘Go on, Doctor?’ Kennedy said, a notch or two up in volume.

  ‘Well, Inspector – a short time ago Dr Berry was… well, he had a patient die on him in rather unexplained circumstances. The hospital is still carrying out an investigation, so none of us at this point in time really know what happened.’

  ‘You’re referring to the Susanne Collins death are you?’

  ‘Oh, you’re already aware of it. Well, I suppose that is your job. Yes, a terrible case. It’s dreadful when something like that happens. Sometimes you have to fight to win a patient and often the changes ar
e at best even – but when you lose a case which seemed pretty straightforward, it must be affecting. I do not think that anyone held Dr Berry responsible, and I am sure he acted in a proper and competent manner.’

  ‘Did Dr Berry drink a lot?’

  Burgess looked puzzled.

  ‘As in alcohol, Doctor?’ Kennedy clarified.

  ‘Well, I do believe he liked his wine – bit of a wine buff on the old French reds, I hear. But you should check with someone who knew him better.’

  ‘When did you last see Dr Berry?’

  ‘The late shift the night before last. He was due to relieve me the morning he died. He just didn’t show up. It wasn’t until much later in the day that we learnt what had happened. I was told the news when I awoke yesterday afternoon. You know, Inspector – we deal a lot with death in our work here, but when it happens to someone you know, someone you work with, it hits you in a different way. It’s kind of a permanent distraction – if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do,’ replied Kennedy, thinking that it was a different kind of distraction altogether for Sheila Berry.

  They both thought their thoughts for a few moments.

  It was Kennedy who interrupted their silence: ‘Well, Dr Burgess – I’ll let you get on with your job and I with mine.’

  Burgess rose stiffly from his chair. Kennedy thought he noticed a flash of pain in his eyes. ‘You all right, Doctor?’

  ‘It’s just my back, Inspector – I’ve put it out again. I’ll have the osteopath do some work on it for me later – loosen it up a bit.’

  They walked towards the door. Kennedy opened it but as he was about to leave the room he turned back to face Burgess. ‘Doctor – do you think that Dr Berry was the type of person who would commit suicide by jumping into a dirty, cold canal?’

  ‘Inspector – we never really know what the people around us are capable of. We only know what the people around us want us to think that they are capable of. In short, nothing would surprise me, nothing at all.’

  ‘Sorry, Doctor – that’s not what I meant. What I mean was, if someone like the doctor – or any doctor for that matter – wanted to take their life, wouldn’t there be a million easier ways to do it with medicine?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so – but then again, someone in such a state probably would not think as logically as you do, Inspector.’

  They parted, the picture none the clearer for either of them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Kennedy, your problem is that you dream too much. Hello in there,’ ann rea said, waving her hand in front of his eyes. ‘Is anyone there? Can you come back to the real world please?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Sorry, ann rea,’ murmured Kennedy snapping out of his thoughts. ‘I was miles away, I really was.’

  They were sitting in The Queens, later that same day.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Christy?’ ann rea said with genuine tenderness. She usually addressed him as Kennedy but now, she used his Christian name.

  ‘I just can’t get a fix on this Berry thing at all. I feel foul play was involved. But that’s the problem, I’ve nothing more to go on than a feeling. I have several hunches but not one scrap of proof to suggest anything other than the fact that he had a few drinks too many, was out walking along the canal in the early hours of the morning, stumbled, and ended up in the water. You know, it doesn’t even have to be a suicide or a murder, it could be something as simple as an accident. It could, ann rea – it could,’ he said, trying to convince himself as much as her.

  She smiled. ‘Ah, but you don’t think so, do you?’ Before he could answer, she added, ‘It’s getting too busy in here. Let’s go for a walk. Fancy that Kennedy?’

  His mood brightened. He enjoyed being in her company. It felt natural, comfortable – maybe too comfortable. At times, that was his biggest fear – that she would end up treating him as a mate, as a brother-type figure. And that would be it, they would be doomed to being “just good friends”. Kennedy often wondered at that – how could good friends be just good friends? A bit of a contradiction in terms, he thought.

  Once that “mates” kind of a relationship started, it would be hard if not impossible, to move it over into the romantic area – and that was exactly the direction Kennedy wanted his relationship with ann rea to develop. But the sad thing was that he just did not have a clue what he should be doing to achieve this. At least their relationship was fun, so Kennedy’s only plan was to hang around and see where they ended up.

  They joined the buzz on the street. It was one of those nights when the streets around Primrose Hill come alive: not with hundreds of people but with just enough to provide an atmosphere of people with purpose.

  An old man, maybe with a military background, is walking his dog, his left hand attempting to cope with the leash and with a newspaper-cone full of chips. His other hand is used to select his chips singularly, and the hot air in his mouth creates puffs of steam each time his mouth accepts a new one. He talks to his dog between bites.

  Three young teenagers – two of them male, each trying to impress the lone female – display their Kids-On-The-Block, New York-style dress-sense (or lack of it) and are attempting the famous “walk with attitude”. This doesn’t quite come off for one of the males, who keeps tripping over his trousers. But better tripping on his trousers than tripping, full-stop, thinks Kennedy.

  Two old dears, out for what might be their nightly walk along their regular route. They dress Norma Batty-style – humble but clear – and have obviously been together for so long, they no longer need to talk to each other. They may even be sisters.

  There are several double-parked cars, the owners in buying fish and chips from the family-run fish and chip shop. If the car owners are not after fish and chips then they’re probably picking up some booze from one of the two off-licences. The one on the same side of the road as the fish and chip shop does excellent fresh pasta, as Kennedy advises ann rea.

  Even the launderette seems to have a vibe going. It is full of customers who are not really dressed properly for public appearance but who possibly feel that going to the launderette is not really going out in public. The inhabitants of this establishment usually keep to their own space, getting on with the job in hand, perhaps thinking, if I don’t look at other people’s clothes they won’t look at mine, and mine are a bit dirty. At the moment ann rea and Kennedy pass, they are sharing a joke that neither of the two walkers would want to be party to.

  Odette’s is packed, warm and expensive. Two people, a couple in their early thirties, are leaving, their faces aglow from wine and good food. It crosses Kennedy’s mind that later, in the privacy of one of their homes, their bodies will be aglow with passion. He envies them.

  ann rea points to some graffiti at the bottom of two posters on the window of what used to be the Fiat showroom. There are two posters, side by side, both with photographs – not David Bailey shots, mind you. The first bears the legend Vote Labour, the other demands a vote for the Tories. Underneath some wag had written, “Vote for neither – you’ll only encourage them.”

  To the right of Odette’s is Primrose Hill Books, the London bookstore with the largest number of local authors, and next to that, the Polish café which seems to specialise in customers with thick skin. At this minute, it’s closed and two of the sombre staff are cleaning up.

  Across the street, Kennedy spots the local rare-books dealer and songwriter, Niatat Armikit. Legend has it that she lives somewhere around Primrose Hill. Kennedy tries hard not to stare because he knows it’s rude and must be happening to her all the time, but it is hard not to stare – she’s so naturally beautiful. ann rea tells Kennedy that she’s interviewed Niatat on quite a few occasions and has always found her polite, intelligent and funny: quite unusual for music business interviewees.

  ann rea linked her arm through Kennedy’s and guided him off towards the hill. ‘Come on, Kennedy – let’s see what we can see from the top of Primrose Hill.’

&n
bsp; ‘Good idea,’ answered Kennedy, realising where he had been mentally and snapping out of it. That’s the problem with spending too much time with oneself, he was thinking – you become too used to being sad or even finding a solace with sadness. To the outside world, you may look dark or depressed but inside you’re dealing with it. He turned to ann rea: ‘I’m poor company, I know.’

  I wouldn’t say so, Kennedy. You’re just more used to being on your own.’

  ‘Ha, now there’s a thing,’ he chuckled.

  ‘What, the truth?’

  ‘No. Those two over there.’ He nodded over to their right at a couple leaning against a tree, who were inside each other’s overcoats and drinking from each other’s mouths.

  ann rea dug Kennedy in the ribs and pulled him up the hill.

  If outside The Queens they had been seen a “street” buzz, then up here they saw a “city” buzz. A clear night on the top of Primrose Hill gives you a sense of the London which is missing from both street level and daytime.

  ‘I’ve been checking into the Collins story – both Norman Collins – Susanne Collins’ brother – and William Jackson – her boyfriend – have been doing quite a bit of stirring on this. Supposedly, they’re threatening to sue the hospital for millions and apparently they were originally trying to bring criminal charges against Dr Berry.’

  ‘Have you spoken to either of them yet, Kennedy?’ enquired ann rea.

  ‘No, not yet. Norman Collins lives in Derby and William Jackson is on compassionate leave from school and is “out of town” or lost. No-one seems to know where he is. DS Irvine is trying to track him down now.’ He thought for a moment and then continued. ‘You think there might be something in it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Kennedy. That’s your job – but surely the unexplained death of a loved one must provide some kind of motive?’