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

by Paul Charles

  ‘No, no – definitely not. That’s not something you could keep quiet around here. The bush telegraph beats in here and it beats very loud. No doubt he wouldn’t have had a problem if he’d tried; he was very handsome, lots of charm. A great man. But then again, you see, Christy, the great men don’t fool around because they’re all either married or gay, aren’t they?’

  Kennedy chuckled. ‘What about Dr Burgess – any dirt swept under his carpet?’

  ‘No, he’s too ambitious, too hungry to get on to even notice women. They say he’s due for promotion shortly and this is the beg step for him. He becomes the big fish. Next, I suppose, he’ll be looking for a bigger pond.’

  Rose paused before going on.

  ‘With Dr Burgess, the gossip’s all about the other side of the family?’ she said teasingly.

  ‘What do you mean, Rose?’

  ‘The wife, Amelia Burgess…’ she hesitated, perhaps baiting Kennedy.

  ‘Yes – and?’

  ‘Well, she’s a stunner – very beautiful and no-one has ever been able to work out what she saw in Dr Burgess to swear “till death us do part”.’

  Kennedy was puzzled and bemused.

  ‘Come on, Christy – he’s no Robert Redford. He’s not even James Irvine for that matter,’ she smiled, a hint of naughtiness creeping through, ‘and the doctor doesn’t even seem interested in his wife. Another possession or career move, if you ask me, Christy. Apparently, she’s been playing away from home. Very discreet, as you would expect from someone of her class, and no-one knows who it is.’

  ‘Is Dr Burgess aware of Amelia’s… erm… wanderings?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mind you, with him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was turning a blind eye to it, it might suit him and help make up for his own lack of interest, if you know what I mean.’ She winked and tipped her nose with her forefinger. ‘As long as she’s there to be on his arm when needed. Apparently, it’s been going on for quite some time.’

  ‘Various men or just the one?’

  ‘Well again, Christy, no-one really knows but it’s felt that it’s the one man and quite serious. This is, of course, all based on putting two and two together and getting the result you want.’

  ‘Hmm, interesting. I’m not sure it means anything in my case but it certainly is interesting,’ Kennedy conjectured.

  ‘Now, Christy, I’ve been ever so good with your questions so how’s about you returning the favour and telling me all about Sergeant Irvine. Is he spoken for?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Kennedy answered, more than slightly amused. ‘Want me to put in a word or something?’ he laughed.

  ‘No, I’m quite capable of asking a man out if I’m interested in him. I just hate to waste time on married men or men who are “playing the field”. I just wanted to make sure the coast was clear – he’s delicious.’

  She read the response on Kennedy’s face.

  ‘Ha, you think I’m wicked, now don’t you? But there are so few good men around, you can’t afford to hang about when one comes into the picture. It’s a jungle out there, Christy, particularly being a nurse. You know what nurses are meant to be?

  ‘No, what’s that, Rose?’

  ‘Now come on, Christy, you’re pulling my leg, or maybe you’re innocent enough to be telling the truth. Well, when you tell men – some men – you’re a nurse, normal, reasonable men turn into animals. Animals, there’s no other word for it. They seem to think that nurses are all wanton, frustrated nymphomaniacs. You should see their faces light up when you tell them that you’re a nurse. It’s got to the point where at parties I no longer tell strange men what I do for a living.’

  ‘So, what do you say you are, Rose, a nun?’

  ‘Now be off with you, Christy, and stop wasting any more of my time.’ Rose laughed as she stood up from the table and took her dirty dishes to the return hatch. ‘See you around,’ she smiled to Kennedy across the canteen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The following morning, Kennedy was attending the inquest into the death of Dr Edmund Berry. Twenty minutes had elapsed since he presented his evidence – his beliefs, his thoughts, his fears – and he awaited the verdict.

  Various other people, including Drs Taylor and Burgess, had also given evidence.

  Kennedy was feeling the hardness of the wooden seats. He shifted his weight from his right to his left side, trying to find some comfort.

  ann rea was in the press box. Now that he was able to observe her from a distance, he felt he could fully appreciate her grace and beauty. That could be the problem of being up close to someone a lot, you tended to take their looks for granted. At this stage in his life, Kennedy was not sure how much liking someone had to do with how they looked.

  The coroner was rattling on and on but Kennedy had noticed that since he started to focus his attention on ann rea, his seat had become considerably more comfortable. She dressed sensibly, that was the word. Everything she wore looked great – her clothes suited her but were not loud. Nor did her clothes try to flatter her femininity. She wore a little make-up very effectively.

  Now, staring at her across the room, a lump rose in his throat. He felt increasingly attracted to her. Absurd though it may sound, he felt he could happily spend the rest of his life with her. That was a feeling he had only experienced once before in his life. He had been twenty-one and the relationship had turned out to be a total disaster. He had doubted that he would ever have that feeling again in his life, but here he was again, feeling the same about someone he had only just met and could not find a way to move off first-base with.

  He continued to gawk at her and ann rea seemed to become somewhat uncomfortable, as though she were aware of his thoughts. She avoided his eyes and became preoccupied with her notebook, but she did not relax again.

  The coroner’s voice, increasing in volume, brought Kennedy back to his senses and his current priority. ‘And so the events at Cumberland Basin on the morning of Tuesday 2nd February 1992 suggest to me that I must pronounce an open verdict and instruct Camden CID to continue their investigation into this matter.’

  So, Kennedy had convinced the coroner that there was a reasonable doubt as to the means of Berry’s death and he had sowed the seeds of doubt in Superintendent Castle’s mind. Now all he had to do was go out and find his case and prove it.

  The sad thing for Kennedy was that the inquest could just as easily have got it wrong and that the death could have been recorded as “accidental” or “death by his own hand” or “death by misadventure”. That was Kennedy’s main concern with the current judicial system. Whoever said that a coroner was always going to be correct? For that matter, who on earth ever said that a jury of twelve people were going to get it right each and every time?

  That’s why Kennedy liked his cases to be watertight; to be completely proven and finalised before they went to trial. Either a confession or a fully proven case, preferably both. He hated to depend on a clever lawyer winning – or losing.

  The proceedings at an end, Sheila Berry came over to him, dressed all in black, keeping her composure behind dark glasses.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I’m relieved that it wasn’t recorded as a suicide – but I’ll be even happier if you can find out exactly what happened.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Kennedy, leading her by the arm.

  They made their way outside and turned left, heading towards Camden Town.

  The silence was broken by Sheila Berry: ‘I can’t move on with my life until this part is concluded, completed. Does that make any sense to you?’

  ‘Yes, it makes a lot of sense.’

  For the first time he became aware of how stunning she looked – not beautiful, stunning. On the other occasions when Kennedy had seen her, she had been crying, and crying makes people look ugly. The more people cry the uglier they look.

  They walked for another few minutes in silence. It was very cold, with a lush blue sky.

  ‘I was wan
ting to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?’ Kennedy began, as hesitant as a new-born foal.

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s fine Inspector. What did you want to know?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering if your husband ever talked to you about the Collins case.’

  ‘We talked a bit about it, around the time it happened. He was pretty shaken up, you know. He couldn’t believe it; he kept saying that she shouldn’t have died. She just shouldn’t have died. He went through it in his mind over and over again, trying to figure out what had happened. Then he stopped talking about it altogether. I thought it better to keep it out of his mind so I didn’t ask him about it again.’

  They had reached Camden Town.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or tea or anything?’ Kennedy asked.

  Sheila Berry sensed that Kennedy wanted to take some more so she agreed. They went into Café Delancey. She had a cappuccino, he a tea, and she remembered how much Kennedy liked tea.

  ‘A good cup of tea here is it, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s okay, not the best. The Salt and Pepper does a better cup. The milk here is a bit too creamy. They probably have it for the coffee or else it’s that horrible long-life milk. Mind you, they do a great rosti potato in here.’

  ‘The cappuccino is superb – lots of cinnamon. I like that,’ she said quietly.

  He leant across the table. ‘What I’m going to ask next may appear hurtful. I don’t mean it to be but you must understand that I have to try and rule out certain avenues of enquiry, so that we can get on with what’s relevant. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine, it’s okay. I really want to help. I’ll do anything to find out what really happened to Eddie.’ She braced herself for this question.

  ‘Well… er… did he ever… did you ever think that Dr Berry was seeing another woman?’ he eventually announced, his voice barely audible.

  ‘No! Definitely not!’ she blurted. After a pause, she continued, ‘God, it must appear terribly naïve to make such a rash statement. You see, Inspector, we were rather close, Eddie and I.’ Now it was her turn to talk quietly. ‘We enjoyed a gloriously intimate relationship and that’s one of the things I miss the most.’ She blushed.

  ‘I don’t mean to open up…’

  ‘No, it’s fine, Detective Inspector. It’s good to talk about it. I don’t mean to use you as a priest.’

  They both smiled.

  ‘But it seems natural – here, talking to you about it. That in a way seems kind of weird – talking to a policeman about my love-life with my husband. But I don’t feel bad about it. I hope it doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable?’

  All Kennedy could do was grunt. Sheila Berry didn’t know whether to take this as a “yes” grunt or a “no” grunt, so she continued: ‘Anyway, we had an honest and exciting sexual relationship. I think I would have known when he was with me – you know, in that way – if he had been with someone else. We had both talked quite a bit when we first met about keeping each other happy, about not taking each other for granted. That probably sounds silly to you now.’

  Kennedy indicated that it didn’t.

  ‘We were both looking forward to growing old together and enjoying ourselves a lot while doing so. I remember before I met Eddie, when I was between boyfriends, how I would be out and I would see these attractive couples together and I would think to myself, Why are these people out on the street? Don’t they realise how lucky they are to have each other? They should be in the privacy of their homes, doing naughty things to each other. But then, when I did find a boyfriend and after the newness and the novelty wore off, I didn’t think that anymore. You think enough is enough already, let’s get out and walk around for a while. With Eddie, it was different: we never tired of each other. The last time we made love was as exciting as the first time. No, Inspector, we were close, enough to realise if either of us had been playing around.’

  She downed the dregs of her cappuccino and began to look somewhat uncomfortable, so Kennedy paid the bill and they headed off towards Camden High Street.

  ‘Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me. I suppose all this talking about Eddie and thinking about Eddie in that way unnerved me a bit. I’d like to go home now if you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, not at all, no problem. We’ll pick up a cab down here by the corner.’

  ‘You’re… you’re a good man,’ she said quietly.

  Kennedy took a few steps before answering, ‘No,’ he paused, ‘but I am a good detective.’

  Sheila Berry smiled and they continued their walk down into the bustle of the High Street.

  ‘Look, there’s a cab.’

  Kennedy raised his arm to hail the passing taxi. He informed the driver of Sheila Berry’s address and just as he was about to make his goodbyes, she said: ‘One funny thing, it probably means nothing, but I found out from our solicitor, John Chappell, that Eddie had made an appointment to see him for the afternoon of the day he died. He didn’t tell John what he wanted to see him about, just said that it was something he didn’t want to discuss on the phone.’

  She looked as if she were expecting Kennedy to know what this meant.

  ‘Goodbye and thank you,’ Kennedy said as she got in and he closed the door.

  He walked back to North Bridge House, making a note of the name John Chappell in his notebook. Not a major lead by any means, but another person to talk to, another lead to follow, and one of these leads would eventually take him somewhere. Of that, he had no doubt.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Capital Gold was beaming out “Dedicated Follower of Fashion” by The Kinks as Kennedy’s internal buzzer went off, ruining the mood.

  ‘Yes?’ The slightest note of exasperation crept into his voice.

  ‘Sir, it’s DS Irvine here.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve located William Jackson, sir. He’s apparently back at his flat. Do you want us to bring him in?’

  ‘No, Jimmy. Let’s you and I drive around there and have a chat with him at home, okay?’

  ‘Okay, sir – I’ll bring the car around to the front. See you there in five minutes?’ Irvine couldn’t work out why the DI seemed to be so impatient – perhaps there was someone with him in the room.

  ‘All right, five minutes.’

  The phone clicked dead, but too late – The Kinks’ finest record had ended. Actually, Kennedy was not altogether sure if The Kinks’ best record was “Dedicated Follower of Fashion” or “Waterloo Sunset”. But what did it matter? Both were great songs and great records, which was certainly not always the case. Shrugging and hauling himself to his feet, Kennedy unhooked his Crombie coat and his long, black scarf from behind the door and headed off to meet Irvine.

  William Jackson lived in a tree-filled square, busy with children about their street games. It was a flat at the top of a white terraced house in Camden Square.

  As Irvine rang the doorbell, he noticed Kennedy’s fingers twitching.

  ‘Hello, who’s there?’ an unsure voice answered.

  ‘Mr Jackson?’ Kennedy inquired.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy and Detective Sergeant James Irvine here. We’re from Camden CID and we’d like to have a word with you.’

  ‘Oh… oh, yes – I’ll buzz you in. Come on it; all the way to the top flat,’ said the distorting speaker fixed to the wall.

  A few flights and a little oxygen-debt later, the two policemen came face to face with William Jackson outside his opened door. Both flashed their ID cards, as if following an unheard cue. William Jackson looked at the cards but didn’t really see them. Kennedy reflected that most people wouldn’t know a police warrant card from a library card but they should make it their business to know.

  Jackson looked younger than he probably was, the way Gary Lineker and Tom Cruise do. Jackson’s chin hosted a seven-day stubble. He was dressed in black, baggy trousers and a grey, baggy, unmarked sweatshirt. He wore Chinese flip-flops instead of shoe
s. All his movements were tentative, in the way a young animal makes its first steps beyond the protection of its parents.

  ‘Come in,’ he announced, and as they did so he closed the door behind them.

  The flat was a throwback to the crash-pads of the sixties – red-ballooned light-shades and dark walls. But instead of the Roundhouse, Moody Blues, Jimi Hendrix and Cream posters, the walls sported billsheets proclaiming The Clash, The Buzzcocks and The Undertones.

  There were no proper seats, just bean-bags and cushions. A black-and-white TV with an indoor aerial supported the standard-issue record-player – no cassettes, no CD-player. Our friend Jackson was a vinyl-junkie – half of one wall, from floor to ceiling, was lined with records.

  Judging by the hum from the speakers, he had obviously been playing a record when the two policemen had rung his doorbell. Jackson must have killed the noise by lifting the needle but Kennedy couldn’t make out what the record was, as it spun around and around the turntable.

  ‘We’re investigating the sudden death of Edmund Berry and we have a few questions to ask you,’ said Kennedy, finding it impossible to find words that would have put Jackson at his ease before starting questioning.

  William Jackson merely nodded.

  ‘We believe you were the boyfriend of Susanne Collins?’

  No answer, just a flicker of remembrance, a pain he wished he could forget

  ‘We…’

  ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with Berry’s death, do you?’ A little realisation setting in.

  ‘We’re just trying to find out what happened.’

  ‘Who’s trying to find out what happened to Susanne? Hey – tell me that, will you?’ Jackson was becoming hyper, speaking like a boxer being interviewed at the conclusion of a successful fight. ‘She never harmed anyone,’ he continued. ‘She didn’t hurt anyone, she didn’t deserve to die.’

  He was now pacing the distance between himself and the detectives, muttering incoherently.