A Case Of Murder (Kendall Book 6)

by John Holt

  “I’m so glad that you like it,” said Catherine.

  The two women continued to walk on. Mollie was awestruck with everything she saw. She was constantly asking what this flower was, or the name of that plant. “Who is the gardener?” she asked, although she thought that she already knew the answer.

  Catherine smiled. “That will be me,” she answered. “Anthony doesn’t know one flower from the other.”

  “Neither does Kendall,” said Mollie, looking back at the house, and she started to laugh. “He has a couple of window boxes with a few plants, some red ones, and some blue ones. But he hasn’t a clue about their names, mind you neither do I. All I know is whether I like them or not.”

  “Well that’s a start at least,” said Catherine. “I was like that once, about twenty years ago. That’s when we first came here.” She paused for a moment. “The house had been empty for about two years. This was all overgrown with thistles and nettles. Bracken everywhere. It took three weeks to clear the site, and then another two months to get the basic shape we wanted. Then the planting started.”

  “Well, it certainly looks lovely,” said Mollie. “I would love a garden like this.” She paused and looked back at the house. “And I love your cottage. You don’t get houses like that in Florida.”

  Catherine smiled. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you the summer house.”

  * * *

  “How about another drink?” asked Mallory, as Kendall made himself comfortable. “Another sherry, or perhaps you’d prefer a whiskey.”

  Kendall nodded. “A whiskey would be good,” he said. “And just a little water.”

  Mallory walked over to the corner of the room, and started to prepare the drinks. A few moments later he returned with the drinks and handed the whiskey to Kendall. “Now where were we before lunch?” he asked.

  “We were talking about O’Rourke,” Kendall reminded him.

  “That’s right we were,” Mallory replied. “And I was saying that O’Rourke was utterly convinced of Charters’ guilt.”

  Kendall heaved a sigh and took a drink. “But we don’t know why he is so convinced do we?” he said. “What does he know that the rest of us don’t?”

  “No we don’t know his reasons,” agreed Mallory. “But I think there’s something personal. For some reason he doesn’t like Charters, never has, but I don’t know why.”

  Kendall took another drink. “What about those two fishermen?” he asked.

  “Fishermen?” replied Mallory. “What fishermen?”

  “The two men who came in just before the ceilidh the other night,” explained Kendall. “They sat in the corner, remember, but they never stayed long.”

  Mallory thought for a few moments. He suddenly started to smile. “I know who you mean,” he replied. “They’re no more fishermen than I am.” He shook his head. “I don’t know them really. That is I don’t know their names, but they have an ocean going boat, the Sally Mae, based in Kinsale, a few miles south of here. I think they do day trips you know, whale watching, or maybe trips around the islands. There are hundreds around here you know.”

  Kendall said nothing.

  “Maybe that’s something that might be of interest to you,” suggested Mallory.

  Kendall started to laugh and shook his head. “I’ve already been got at by that guy Lynch,” replied Kendall. “He keeps offering similar trips.”

  “And,” Mallory continued.

  “Can’t think of anything worse,” Kendall replied. “To me the sea is just a waste of good land.”

  Mallory nodded and smiled. “I’m inclined to agree with you,” he replied. “The sea was meant for the fish, and man was meant for the land. And neither the twain shall meet.” Mallory drained his glass and stood up. “Can I get you another?”

  Kendall nodded, drained his glass and handed it to Mallory. “So getting back to those two men, do you know what they think about the murder?”

  Mallory was fixing the drinks. He turned to face Kendall and shook his head. “Haven’t a clue,” he replied. “I haven’t had much to do with them I’m afraid.” He walked back to his seat, and handed the drink to Kendall. “But I doubt if they have any thoughts about it. At least they never have much to say about anything. The only person they ever speak to is O’Rourke, and I expect that is just to order their drinks.”

  Kendall thought back to the night of the Ceilidh. They had been deep in conversation with O’Rourke, until they had noticed him looking over at them. It seemed that they had a lot more to say than just order a pint of Guinness, or whatever their chosen poison was.

  “Why do you think O’Rourke told me that they were fishermen?” asked Kendall.

  Mallory shrugged. “Who knows,” he replied. “That’s O’Rourke for you. Either he thought they were fishermen, or, more likely, he really didn’t think it was that important.”

  “Maybe,” said Kendall, unconvinced.

  Mallory paused for a moment and took a drink. “And what about you, Tom?” he asked. “Do you think it was important?”

  Kendall hesitated for a moment then shrugged. “To be honest with you, I don’t really know,” he replied. “Probably not, but it’s certainly strange. I hate secrecy.”

  Mallory was about to say something, when the lounge door suddenly opened, and the two women came in. “It’s just started to rain again,” said Catherine. “How about some tea?”

  Mollie looked at Kendall and shook her head. “I think we really ought to be getting back.”

  Kendall stood up and looked over at the clock on the mantle. It was ten minutes after six. “I guess you’re right. I don’t want to outstay my welcome.”

  Mallory stood up, shaking his head. “It was no trouble, we were delighted to see you,” he said. “Time passes so quickly, especially when you are enjoying yourself.”

  Catherine nodded in agreement. “You must come again,” she said.

  All four walked into the hallway. Mallory opened the entrance door. “So we’ll see you in the morning then,” he said. “We’ll pick you up at your hotel at nine thirty. That’ll give us plenty of time for sightseeing, oh, and shopping.”

  “Look forward to it,” said Kendall.

  “By the way, I’ll probably see you in O’Rourke later,” said Mallory. “Probably around about nine thirty.”

  “See you then,” said Kendall, raising a hand and waving.

  * * *

  “So what did you think of that?” Mollie asked on their way back to the hotel.

  Kendall shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m not entirely sure. Nice enough I suppose, but maybe a little too friendly. Delighted to see you, we’ll pick you up at your hotel at nine thirty. That’ll give us plenty of time. A bit overdone I think. Anyone would think we were long lost cousins, or I had just won the lottery.”

  “They’re just nice people, that’s all.” said Mollie. “You’re just not used to nice people.”

  Kendall sighed. “It’s not that at all,” he replied.

  “Normal Irish hospitality I would say,” suggested Mollie.

  Kendall smiled and shook his head. “He’s English.”

  “So he’s English, he can still be nice can’t he?” said Mollie.

  “But why is he being so helpful, so nice,” said Kendall. “What’s in it for him? What’s his angle?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t have an angle,” said Mollie. “Not everyone is as cynical as you.”

  “Cynic? Me?” Kendall replied looking down. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “It’s easy,” Mollie replied.

  “Everyone has an angle,” said Kendall. “No one does nothing for nothing, believe me.”

  “They’re just nice people, that’s all,” Mollie repeated. “Not everyone is miserable like you.”

  “Me, miserable, come on, I just wondered why, that’s all,” Kendall replied. “Quite natural I would have thought, sign of an enquiring mind. I merely wondered why they were being so kind. Not a c
rime to ask questions is it?”

  “Alright so you’ve asked the question,” said Mollie. “It’s probably just their way. They’re probably helpful like that to everyone I guess.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” said Kendall. “Take my word for it.”

  “Well what is it then?” replied Mollie. “You can’t think that they’re involved in some way surely.”

  Kendall shook his head, and sighed once again. “I don’t know what I think .... not yet.”

  “Come on you must have some thoughts,” Mollie insisted.

  “Well if you insist, maybe Mallory is the real murderer, and he just wants to keep a close eye on what we get up to,” Kendall replied and then started to laugh.

  “Don’t joke,” Mollie said angrily.

  Kendall sighed. “Whose joking, he could be you know, it’s possible.”

  “Anyone of them could be the murderer,” said Mollie. “O’Rourke, the boat guy, Lynch, or Quinn. Any of them.”

  “Right, anyone of them could be the murderer,” agreed Kendall.

  “Except Mulligan,” suggested Mollie.

  “Except Mulligan,” agreed Kendall. “He doesn’t even know what day of the week it is.”

  Mollie made a face at Kendall. “Well I’m looking forward to going shopping with Catherine anyway.” She paused for a few moments. “I’ve just had a thought,” she said eventually.

  Kendall looked at her. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “Maybe Mallory is the guy who had been working with Charters,” she suggested. “It makes sense to me. I mean both being English you know.”

  Kendall shook his head. “He could be I guess, but I had thought that it was Lynch.”

  “Well maybe we should just ask him,” suggested Mollie.

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  Silence Him

  Alex Peterson looked down to the street below. The sky had clouded over, and it had just started raining again. People were scurrying by, trying to dodge the rain, trying to finish their shopping, or making their way to the train, or bus to take them home. With lunch time over, many were hurrying back to work; back to their offices, or their shop counters, or their depot, or maybe back to the factory floor.

  Look at them, he murmured. Just like so many ants, crawling along. He placed his hand on to the window pane, as though covering the people below. He then started to rub the glass, hard, from side to side, as though he were squashing the people, the ants.

  He smiled and slowly nodded his head. Not so long ago, he had been one of those ants, hurrying back to work. In his case it was back to the machine shop, in a small town, just a few miles outside of Kiev. From seven thirty in the morning, until seven at night, constantly turning those levers, and pressing those buttons. Producing an endless stream of metal components that dropped on to the conveyor belt.

  He could almost smell the lubricating oil that kept the machines operating. And the smell of burning from the furnaces that produced the raw steel; and the smell of the sweat of his fellow workers hurrying to produce their quota for the day. He remembered the daily accidents that occurred because of the lack of safety facilities. Cuts, bruises, and even death. He remembered the constant noise. The humming of machinery; the incessant clanking of the steam press; the banging; the hammering; metal hitting metal; the sound of drilling; the loud voices trying to be heard; the sirens and alarm bells that would sound when the machines needed attention. He hated it. He hated the heat; he hated the smell; he hated the grime, and the noise. He hated the stale air that he was forced to breath. He hated the fumes that ate into his lungs causing him to choke. He hated everything about it.

  He remembered what that same factory had done to his father some years earlier. How it had affected his health. How the heavy work and long hours had made him old before his time. And how eventually he became too ill to keep working. And how at the age of forty-nine he had died. He remembered too how it had taken its toll on his mother.

  Peterson vowed there and then that a similar fate was not going to happen to him.

  * * *

  Peterson shook his head, turned away from the window, and made his way back to his desk. Never again he had vowed as he left the Ukraine. Never again would he work for anyone. Never again would he be subservient. Never again would he be ordered around by others. In Ireland things would be different, a lot different – illegal maybe, but certainly a lot more profitable. Here, he would give the orders; here people would do his bidding, he would be in command, he would be boss. He looked back at the window and started to laugh.

  * * *

  Apart from the miserable weather, the day had actually started well for him. The latest shipment had arrived safe and sound, without a hitch, intact, and was now being distributed. Nothing had gone wrong, not this time. By the end of the day the whole consignment would have reached its destination, and another large deposit would soon be on its way to Peterson’s bank in Switzerland. Peterson was feeling pleased with himself. Very pleased. And then came the telephone call.

  * * *

  Peterson slammed the handset down, hard. That had not gone well. He was breathing hard, and sweating. His supplier was still angry, and still un-sure of Peterson’s abilities. Any trust that might have been no longer existed. The loss of several shipments had clearly done a lot of damage. Was he still in control or what? Was he still calling the shots? Peterson needed to re-assert himself, to re-establish the trust. Peterson had tried hard to placate him. He had explained that the problem had been resolved, and that there should be no more trouble. There really was nothing more to worry about.

  * * *

  “The problem has been eliminated,” Peterson said, trying to sound calm, and in control.

  “The problem has been eliminated,” the supplier repeated disdainfully. Clearly he was far from being satisfied. “I’m well aware of what has been done. So you have had someone terminated, and that is meant to solve everything, is that correct?” he replied. “Makes everything fine again, yes. Everything is as it should be, right. Nothing more to worry about, is that what you think?” There was a pause. “Peterson, you are a fool. All that you have succeeded in doing is to invite investigation by the authorities. Investigations that could have a serious impact on our activities.”

  This was something that Peterson could handle. He had an answer for that. He started to relax a little, and a smile spread across his face. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he started to explain. “The local police already have someone in custody. There’s nothing to connect back to me, or you.”

  “I’ve read the news reports, Peterson. So they have someone in custody, so what,” the voice replied with derision. “They can release him at any time they like. Anytime they realise that he is innocent, or that they decide that they don’t have enough evidence to convict him. Or he gets himself a clever solicitor.” There was a short pause. “No Peterson just think about it,” the voice continued. “You won’t be completely safe until the person is convicted and put away, and put away for a long, long, time. Understand?”

  “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, you don’t understand,” Peterson protested. “He has been charged, so the police must feel that they have enough evidence, yes. He goes to trial in a few months’ time. He doesn’t have a prayer. The evidence is stacked against him. He will be found guilty, and no mistake. You don’t have to worry about that. We are home free and clear.”

  “How can you be so sure of a conviction?” asked the voice, still not convinced.

  “The first grade material that the police happened to find in his home, that’s how. That’s more than enough to convict him,” explained Peterson. “Can’t fail.”

  There was silence for a few moments, apart from the sound of heavy breathing, and the thump of Peterson’s heart. “How much did the police find?”

  Peterson thought for a few moments. “Two bags, weighing a kilogram each.”

  “Two bags did you say,” the voice
screamed. “Two.” There was silence for a moment. “And have you recovered the rest of the missing shipments yet?”

  “We’ll find them, don’t you worry,” insisted Peterson, although not entirely sure how they would be retrieved. Or indeed where they actually were. Peterson shook his head. Abel Nadir had known where the packages were, he had stolen them hadn’t he. But Abel Nadir wasn’t going to say where he had hidden them was he. Abel Nadir wasn’t going to say anything, any more. Abel Nadir was dead.

  “Peterson,” said the voice coldly. “The longer the merchandise is missing, the more chance it will be found, but not by you. The more chance that it will fall into the wrong hands, and we don’t want that, do we?”

  “I’ve got people looking even now,” Peterson added, trying to sound confident. “They’ll find it.”

  There was a long period of silence. “Peterson,” the voice came back calmly and slowly. “Do you know anything about a certain Mr. Tom Kendall?”

  Peterson shook his head, puzzled. “No,” he replied. “I don’t think so, should I?”

  “You should indeed,” the voice replied. “Mr. Kendall is a private detective, and comes all the way from America, Florida to be exact.”

  Peterson was still puzzled. “Still means nothing to me.”

  “Peterson, make it your business to find out everything there is to know about Mr. Kendall, because he has been asked by Scotland Yard no less, to investigate a certain death that occurred in Carrick Cove, and the alleged involvement of a certain Brian Charters. Even now he is asking a lot of questions, and probing where he shouldn’t, if you understand what I am saying.”

  “I’ll see to it straight away,” Peterson stammered.

  “Make sure that you do.”

  “You can rely on me,” said Peterson, although not sounding very convincing.

  “One more thing,” the voice continued. “There is a troublesome old man who thinks he knows something. A Mr. Mulligan, possibly you know him.”