by Paul Charles
Kennedy didn’t know whether he’d been asked a question or not. It was certainly something he didn’t know the answer to.
His mind wandered to Sheila Berry and to her son, Sam, and to how much pain they had been dealt. Yet Kennedy felt that Norman Collins was convinced that Berry was the person responsible for the death of his sister. It was clear that, at this moment, Norman Collins would certainly not have any pity for Berry or for his family.
Kennedy also wondered if the man in front of him, with his prize pigeons, his gentle, caring, loving hands – could this man also have used those caring and loving hands to push Berry into the cold and muddy waters of the Regent’s Canal? A canal that was one hundred and twenty-eight and one-half miles away.
The motive was certainly there. The means were there. Few murderers are professionals and execute beautiful jobs. But as for the resolution – Kennedy was not so sure about that – about whether this man had the badness in him to end someone else’s life. Even with his belief that Berry’s mistake had caused his sister’s death, Kennedy didn’t know if Norman Collins had that darkness, that badness in him to kill. Kennedy was not convinced that Norman knew as much about the death of his sister as Bowles had admitted in London.
‘This one…’ Collins broke the silence between them. ‘This silver mealy was last year’s Penzance young birds’ winner. Twelve hundred and eight yards per minute – thirty-four yards per minute faster than the second bird. We’ve got great hopes for this one this year.’
Collins put the pigeon down.
‘But what does it matter? Our Susie used to telephone me after the races to see how the birds did. She was very supportive, you know. When the birds did well, she was real proud and excited and when they didn’t do well, she’d come up with all the reasons and excuses. She’d say, rest them up well and they’ll do great next time. She’d have these funny excuses, you know, like, “So the silver mealy decided to do a bit of window-shopping,” and, “Did it stop off in London on the way home?” Another time, she said, “I saw the silver mealy the last time I was up and she was fighting with her old man. You know – she probably just decided to stay out all night to get her own back on him”.’
Kennedy laughed and then said softly, ‘That’s why you have to keep your energies up. You have to keep Susie’s spirit alive.’
‘But what about our dad? You can’t live a life just for the memories and that’s all he has now. All his dreams for her will never be realised. He’s just waiting… it looks like he’s just waiting to die. And who’s responsible for that? Who answers for that, Inspector?’
Collins had picked up another pigeon. Its legs were placed between his first and second fingers so as to allow the thumb to hold the wings in whilst he examined the bird with his other hand. ‘Got to make sure that the eyes are clear and that the nose is white,’ he said, taking the wing with his free hand and fanning it out. ‘You have to make sure that no features are missing.’
They both examined the splendid wing. Kennedy was happy that no answer had really been sought for the last unanswered question. The dark clouds hovering above Norman Collins’ head seemed to drift slightly away as he became distracted with his pigeons. The outstretched bird’s wings revealed its magnificent feathers – functionally arranged by nature to create a light air-sealed propeller.
‘Pigeons! You do your best to care for them. Groom them, feed them, train them. Then you let them out into the open air and they lose your protection. Many things can hurt and harm them – telegraph wires, cats, hawks, guns, they can all end these harmless lives in a second. But no matter what you do for them, no matter how much you love them, there’s absolutely nothing that you can do to stop them getting hurt.’
Neither spoke for a period – it could have been thirty seconds, it could have been five or six minutes. Neither man was conscious of not speaking. The only sound was the cooing of the pigeons. Kennedy followed their antics as they chased one another around the loft. His thoughts drifted to ann rea.
‘We’d better be getting back into the house or she’ll be having that poor policeman helping her with the cleaning.’
‘Yes, yes,’ smiled Kennedy. ‘Just one final thing I need to ask before we go in. I need to know where you were late in the evening of Monday 1st February and early morning of Tuesday 2nd of February?’
Norman Collins smiled. ‘Well, I might as well tell you ‘cause it wouldn’t be hard to find out.’ He paused as he locked the pigeon grain away.
‘Well?’ Kennedy said softly, not wishing to distract him from anything he wished to say.
‘I was in London.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Am I about to hear a confession? Thought Kennedy.
Out loud he said to Collins: ‘You want to tell me about it?
‘Well, I caught the 6am train down to St Pancras on the morning of 2nd February.’
‘Oh,’ said Kennedy, moving slowly from foot to foot as his fingers started to flex.
‘I frequently do that when I’m training the pigeons. I get free rail passes and I take the pigeons down to London to release them and then they fly home. London is the furthest distance you can travel to from Derby in the shortest time. When pigeons are young, Inspector, you train them for races by taking them short distances away from the loft. To start with, just before feeding time on their first day’s training, you put them all in one of those baskets.’
Collins opened one of the cupboards in the loft to reveal various-sized basketwork containers with small windows around the perimeter.
‘You put the pigeons in through this single-size trapdoor in the top of the basket and you release them by this…’ he flipped open the basket, ‘…see, the whole of the top of the basket opens up. So, to start with, I take the pigeons across to the other side of those playing fields over there and release them. They’re hungry so they fly directly back here for the grub. After about two or three days of that, I double the distance, release them about two weeks away and the same thing, they fly back. Then I strap the basket to the back of my old bike and I’ll cycle a mile and let them off, then a mile in a different direction, gradually building the distance up to ten miles. That’s when I start to use the train. I take them all over the place and release them and they’ll fly home.’
‘How do they do that? How do they know how to fly home?’ Kennedy inquired.
‘Ah, that’s a good one, that’s a good question, Inspector, and the real answer is that no-one knows. Oh, there are lots of theories about magnetic guides, about the pigeons picking up on landmarks, that’s why a lot of pigeon-fanciers will paint their lofts with bright stripes and so on, so that the pigeon can pick it out as an easy landmark in the rest of the drab countryside. Whatever, they always find their way home and they always do it in pretty quick time. The silver mealy for instance – that race I was telling you about was from a place in France, just over four hundred and sixty miles away and the silver mealy averaged twelve hundred and eight yards per minute for that journey. That’s an average speed of just over forty-one miles per hour.’
Kennedy was taking it all in, though he silently communicated that he still needed an answer to his first question.
‘Okay, Inspector – on the morning of 2nd February, I arrived at St Pancras at 7.50am, let the pigeons off in Regent’s Park at about eight twenty and caught the nine o’clock back to Derby, arriving at ten forty-three. I came straight from the station to here and found that the pigeons were already home. The missus made me some lunch and I clocked in at work at one o’clock.’
‘Bit of a rush, wasn’t it?’ suggested Kennedy.
‘No, not really – I don’t mind travelling by train, particularly during off-peak periods when the carriages aren’t packed.’ Norman Collins smiled and opened the loft door. ‘Shall we join the others, Inspector?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kennedy returned to London on the seven o’clock train. He could almost as easily have caught the six o’clock but he
figured that it would have been packed with commuters returning from work. Business-hour trains seemed to have become the singles bars of the nineties – he wanted to avoid all that peacock preening. He used the extra hour to pick up a railway timetable, a railway cup of tea (contrary to legend, Kennedy had tasted worse) and two of Mr Kipling’s apple pies. Kennedy concurred that Mr Kipling did in fact make exceedingly good cakes.
As he walked through his front door, the grandfather clock in his hallway began chiming nine o’clock. Kennedy wondered how the rest of his team had fared in his absence. The answer to that question would have to wait until morning.
Dialling ann rea’s number, he realised that he now knew her well enough to call her up without needing a specific reason.
‘Hello.’
‘Kennedy.’ She seemed happy that he’d phoned.
‘How’ya doing?’
‘Fine, Kennedy. Where have you been all day? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘I was in Derby.’
‘Seeing who?’
‘Seeing Susanne Collins’ brother, Norman.’
‘Learn anything?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He thought for a few moments, their ears sharing the same crackle – British Telecom’s contribution to the technological revolution of the nineties. ‘So, what were you ringing me for then?’
I was going to invite you around here tonight for dinner, but it’s too late now,’ replied ann rea.
‘Oh,’ he muttered, the disappointment evident in his voice.
‘You had your chance, Kennedy. I’ve already eaten, and besides, I’m comfy in bed engrossed in Garrison Keillor’s new book. I’m meant to be reviewing it for next week’s Journal.’
‘Oh, well, sorry about that,’ said Kennedy dejectedly, blasting Mr Kipling under his breath.
‘Come on, Kennedy, there’ll be other opportunities.’
‘There will?’
‘Sure. You and I are going to be friends.’
That reminded Kennedy of his childhood.
‘Kennedy? Hello? Are you still there,’ ann rea said, chasing away the silence.
‘Yes, sorry. It’s funny, when you said, “We’re going to be friends”, it reminded me of when I was a boy. At that age, you could be that direct with people. You’re not scared of coming right out and saying, Will you be my friend? And that was it – if you both agreed, you’d be friends. The older you become, the less you deal with things in that direct, honest manner.’
‘So, are you going to be my friend, Kennedy?’ she said with more than a hint of mocking coyness.
‘Yes,’ he answered, with absolute certainty.
‘Good, that’s settled then,’ she replied.
‘Is that all we’re going to be, ann rea?’
‘Hmm, you’re just going to have to wait and find out, aren’t you, Kennedy,’ she laughed. ‘In the meantime, I’m curling up with Garrison Keillor. Goodnight Kennedy.’
‘Goodnight, ann rea.’
Kennedy wasn’t sure if he’d managed to speak the words before she’d disconnected. He felt strangely fulfilled, enlightened. The odd thing was that the more he thought about it, the better he felt about being her friend.
His lasting thought that night was that if they were to become lovers then perhaps they wouldn’t be lovers forever, but they’d certainly be friends forever – or, at least, friends for life.
Chapter Thirty
Detective Sergeant Irvine’s intercom was buzzing when he walked into his office the next morning at seven forty-five. ‘James – it’s Kennedy. Could you round up the posse for a meeting in my room in, say… thirty minutes, eight fifteen, okay?’
‘Righto, sir.’
‘Oh, and one other thing – let’s pretend we’re American and have the desk sergeant rustle up tea, coffee and doughnuts for the whole tea,’ added Kennedy.
‘You’ve got it, chief.’
He’s certainly in a good mood today, Irvine thought. But now he set himself the task, he couldn’t remember the last time Kennedy had been in a bad mood. Nonetheless, he’s certainly in a great mood today, Irvine concluded as he set off to carry out the colourful request.
Kennedy spent a few minutes updating his noticeboard. He pinned up the Derby-London timetable. He also added Norman Collins’ movements to his own case timetable.
Further study of the noticeboard offered up no great revelations to Kennedy. He wondered if any more of the missing links in the case would find their way up on to the board before the end of the meeting.
The team were all greatly amused by the supply of doughnuts. As they tucked in, Kennedy got the ball rolling: ‘Okay, let’s do an info-check and see if we – any of us – picked up anything yesterday that may be of use to this case. Right, DS Irvine – we’ll start with you. What did forensic tell us about the bridge?’
‘They think that your suspicions are well-founded, sir,’ revealed Irvine. ‘The paint in the hub of the last knob had recently been rubbed. They agree that this was caused by a rope with a lot of tension rubbing against it. They found some rope hairs embedded in the paint.’
‘Good start,’ said Kennedy. ‘I think we can assume that’s how Berry came to be on that bank – he was lowered over the side of the bridge by someone using a rope. Good. Okay, who’s next? – let’s keep this roll going,’ Kennedy encouraged.
Yuppie-cop Lundy was next to report. ‘We received good radio coverage yesterday evening on GLR. We’re getting more this morning. We had twenty-six calls, all of which are currently being checked. The usual freaks – the most unusual from a member of an organisation he calls The Workers’ League – they’re threatening to kill one doctor a month until the government publicly announce an end to their destruction of the NHS. I’ll keep you posted on anything that comes in that seems interesting, sir,’ reported Lundy proudly.
‘See that you do. And now, WPC Coles. Did you find out anything on your travels?’
‘Not really, sir – but from what I can gather, William Jackson is a bit of a wimp and it would seem that Susanne Collins had, in fact, ended whatever kind of relationship they’d had. Apparently, Jackson kept pestering Susanne to continue with him.’
‘Did his harassment turn physical at all?’ inquired Kennedy.
‘No, not at all, he was just being a drip, letting himself down in front of everyone and embarrassing her. It also seems that William Jackson is a pot-head.’
‘Really?’ laughed Kennedy. ‘I haven’t heard that term since the early seventies.’
‘Yes, he’s known to use hashish. Supposedly, he even smokes it in the staff common-room at school. Sometimes the headmaster comes in opening all the windows saying, “Weird smell in here, isn’t there? I must have the janitor check the drains”.’ Coles laughed.
‘So what did Trevor Davies have to say about William Jackson?’ Kennedy asked Irvine, once the laughter had begun to subside.
‘He claims he’s really sick of looking after Jackson. He also admitted that Jackson used drugs and that it had a habit of making him unstable. It seems that when Susanne Collins died in hospital, Jackson’s paranoia reached such a peak that he went on a pill-binge for days. Trevor Davies doesn’t like Jackson much. They met when they were both at college and he feels that if he doesn’t do something to help Jackson, no-one else will. I get the idea that Davies is worried that if Jackson does something stupid, he’ll be partially to blame because he didn’t help when he could.’
Several disbelieving eyebrows were raised around the room.
‘Davies reckoned that Jackson survived by laying his guilt trip on everyone around him. He did the same with Susanne Collins. He tried to latch on to her in a moment when she showed pity for him. Jackson has an ever-increasing circle of people trying to get away from him.’
‘Any more?’ asked Kennedy.
‘Yes, Davies says that Jackson hadn’t in fact disappeared at the time of Berry’s death but was blitzed out of his brains in his flat. Davies then spent some time wi
th him, weaning him off the pills, though Jackson was still smoking pot. After a while, Davies thought that Jackson was back on the rails again, so he left him. But when Jackson learnt that we’d been around the school asking questions, he freaked out again and was off on another binge. That was when you and I visited Jackson at his flat and came across Davies, sir.’
Kennedy nodded. ‘And is that the lot?’
‘Well, only that Davies also agreed that Susanne Collins really wanted to have nothing to do with Jackson. She just felt sorry for him. Jackson mistook this pity for something stronger and had high hopes of the two of them being together. But there never really was a scene going on between them.’
‘Did Davies say whether or not Jackson was aggressive or violent at any time?’ Kennedy quizzed.
‘No, I don’t think he did, sir, though he did describe Jackson as a wee.’
‘Right, that leaves you, DC Milligan from Wimbledon. And what did your day turn up?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Er… nothing, sir. Sorry.’
Nothing like getting to the point – an admirable quality, I know. But in this instance I had hoped for, shall we say, something,’ Kennedy replied.
‘Sorry, sir. I can tell you about their daily trip. Neither Junior nor Martin remember anything else about that morning. But I did check the one thing I thought was weird,’ Milligan continued, gaining in confidence.
‘And what was that?’ asked Kennedy, liking this young DC more and more for his directness, intuitiveness and seeming lack of ego.
