by Paul Charles
In Flynn’s defence he never offered those words, but he was wondering what exactly he should do next when her mobile phone pulsed into life.
Jane Kelly answered it on the third chime without apology.
She turned ghostly white. She put her hand over the mobile and tried to pass it over to Flynn.
‘It’s William Shears, will you speak to him, please?’ she whispered.
Flynn nodded “No” and raised a violently shaking forefinger to emphasise his hissed point. ‘I might scare him off. You need to talk to him.’
Reluctantly Jane did as bid by Flynn.
‘Hello… yes… yes… wait just a moment, please,’ and she signalled to Flynn that she needed a pen. Yes… yes, I will… Is Penny okay?’
She shook her head. ‘He cut me off.’ She flopped back into her uncomfortable seat.
‘OMG!’
‘What?’ Flynn said.
‘No, sorry… he said… He said…’
‘He said what Jane?’
‘He said they have a big problem and they need my help but that I must come alone.’
‘A problem or an accident? Did you get the impression something had happened to Penny?’
‘He didn’t say. He just said they had a big problem…’ she stopped mid-sentence, ‘You wouldn’t say something was a big problem if you’d just murdered someone, would you?’
They both left that sitting for a few seconds. On reflection, Flynn felt they maybe let it sit for a few seconds too long. Jane Kelly broke the silence.
‘Even if Penny had a bad accident you’d still say it was an “accident”. Unless he murders freque… I mean… unless he’s a serial killer. And unless he’s a sick serial killer, you wouldn’t ring up your victim’s friend and say someone had an accident when, in fact, you’d just murdered her, would you? You’d just never do that would you? You just wouldn’t refer to it as an accident would you?’
‘But he didn’t say accident,’ Flynn interrupted, ‘the word he used was “problem”, wasn’t it?’
‘OMG you don’t think he actually did murder her then, do you? I mean if it was an accident then why would you not just ring for an ambulance?’
Then silence.
‘If a problem arose, sergeant, what would you do?’
‘You’d ring a friend of the victim to come and help out wouldn’t you?’ Flynn replied, adopting the role of everyone’s favourite Uncle.
‘Victim! She’s a victim now, is she? Oh please, tell me that Penny isn’t dead?’
Flynn realised that he’d allowed her to rant on for long enough. He’s allowed her to continue, mainly because he was following her thought pattern. He also knew, if only for her own good, that he had to cut her off. He knew he needed to give her hope.
‘No, of course not, Jane. You’re one hundred percent correct; he’s not going to ring you if he’s just murdered her.’
Then another thought hit the desk-sergeant. This one he didn’t dare share with Miss Kelly. What exactly had Miss Pathe and Mr Shears been doing together since last Friday night?
‘But why…’ she screamed, breaking into Flynn’s thought, ‘why would he say he wanted me to come over… OMG! Maybe he also wants to murder me!’
Chapter Three
Two minutes later they were haring down Parkway together. Not in a marked squad car with sirens a-raging, lights a-flashing and guns a-blazing. No, anything but in fact. King had explained to Flynn that all officers and vehicles were already out on call after a body had been found in mysterious circumstances at a house on Albert Terrace. So Sgt Flynn and Miss Jane Kelly had hopped in to his snow-white, Ford Fiesta, Hertz hire-van. Flynn tried to distract Jane Kelly, telling her about the advantages of being a paid up member of Hertz’s loyalty club. When that clearly wasn’t working he tried another track of distraction.
‘So, have you ever been to Somers Town before?’ he asked, as he negotiated the easy left from Bayham Street at the Crowndale Road junction.
‘Are you sure we won’t need more police officers?’ she countered, completely ignoring him.
‘The buildings in Somers Town are very different from anywhere else in London,’ he in turn announced, as he nearly rear-ended a black cab.
‘What about a gun, please tell me you have a gun with you?” she pleaded, closing her eyes as Flynn chose to overtake yet another Black Cab, a double decker bus and a black limo, all on the inside.
‘They’re more early Dutch, the buildings that is, than anything else in London,’ he continued, as he actually took to the pavement for two and a half van-lengths outside the newsagents on Crowndale Road.
‘Are we meeting some of your colleagues down there?’
‘Did you know that these fine new double-decker buses, the ones with the spiral type windows on the back are actually manufactured in Ballymena, my hometown in Northern Ireland?’ Flynn said, as he overtook another Ballymena Bus, a UPS delivery Van, an Amazon Drone and a lorry with a skip, on Eversholt Street, just as easily as if he’d been in Jensen Button’s revolutionary Brawn Racing car.
That’s when he realised that he’d needed to distract himself with the Somers Town and Ballymena Buses rap in order to drive through his patch like a madman.
‘Do you have a tyre-iron in the back of this van,’ she screamed, proving that she’d need a distraction of her own. “Please tell me you at least have some kind of weapon.’
Flynn just about managed a screeching and skidding halt, directly outside a loft-type complex on Polygon Road.
‘Okay Jane, what flat number did he tell you?’
‘Four L,’ she shouted, ‘on the top floor. He said the door was open.’
It sounded like a trap to Flynn. He figured it most likely was a trap, as an image of his daughter flashed into his mind, an image which fuelled his resolve to a degree of hitherto uncharacteristic recklessness.
By the time they reached the third floor Jane Kelly was struggling more than Flynn. He put her lack of fitness down to the mental strain she’d been suffering since late on Friday.
Okay, when we get up there you wait outside,’ he ordered, in a whisper, ‘if anything happens that prohibits me from calling you into the flat, then don’t come in, run off and find a local bobby to help you.’
‘But what if you need help…’
One stern look from Flynn was all it took for Jane Kelly to nod agreement to his order.
After what seemed like ages, they were on the top floor and, at the end of the rabbit-warren, type corridor on their left, there was a large red door with “4L” painted in two foot high white letters.
The door was slightly ajar and Flynn turned to Miss Kelly, held his forefinger to his lips and pointed very definitely to the floor.
As Flynn nudged the door open slowly, he thought he heard a dog whimpering at an ear piercing level.
‘Don’t move!’ a male voice screamed. ‘Oh please don’t move.’
Flynn looked around the open-plan loft but couldn’t see anyone, thereby assuming no one could see him.
So who was telling him not to move?
He walked on gingerly.
‘Jane… is that you?’ a female voice half-whispered.
‘I told you not to move!’ the original male voice howled.
So perhaps the male voice had been referring to the girl, Penny Pathe, and not me, Flynn guessed.
‘This is Camden Town CID,’ Flynn announced loudly. Jane Kelly immediately ran into the room. The noise of her feet on the wooden floor sounded more like an entire troop from North Bridge House. Flynn hoped this accidental subterfuge worked on William Shears.
Flynn once again pointed to Miss Kelly and then several times to a spot on the floor below her, the way one does while trying to command a naughty dog to sit.
Just then there were more high-pitched, canine-like whines. Flynn realised, for the first time, just where the sounds were coming from.
The seemingly lower ceiling over the entrance door was not in fact a ceiling but a r
aised wooden raft complete with a step ladder, rising to what Flynn assessed was a makeshift bed space.
But what exactly had happened to Miss Penny Pathe up there that prevented her from coming down?
‘Penny Pathe,’ Flynn shouted, ‘is that you?’
‘Yes it’s me,’ a very pained voice replied.
‘OMG Penny! You’re okay aren’t you?’ Jane Kelly screamed, with equal amounts of joy and trepidation.
‘I’m coming up now,’ Flynn announced.
‘OK, stay there, stay exactly where you are,’ the male voice ordered again.
‘Billy, we need them to help us,’ Penny started, as both of them started to whine again.
‘I told you not to move,’ the male voice whimpered, this time in a painful plea.
Flynn had heard enough and bounded up the ladder as quickly as his feet and hands would carry him.
As his silver-haired head popped up over the mattress line, he saw a mass of some of the snowiest skin he’d ever seen.
It was difficult to figure out how all the different body parts fitted together; it seemed impossible to ascertain where one stopped and the other started. What he could see thought was that Penny Pathe and William Shears were two of the most beautiful specimens of the human form that he’d ever the pleasure of looking at. Even though both had tears streaming down their faces, they looked like two of Michelangelo’s favoured models, frozen in a pose so erotic even the master would never have taken the results out of his studio.
Desk Sgt Timothy Flynn had been around his uncle’s farm and farm animals enough to know exactly what had happened to Penny and William. While embarking upon joint amorous intent, their privates had become enjoined to the extent that the more they struggled to separate, the more they were permanently entwined.
Flynn put his farmyard experience to great use in helping them disengage without any further discomfort or embarrassment.
Flynn didn’t wait for or need a full explanation. He figured only Miss Kelly was due one. But all in all she seemed primarily relieved that her best friend, now protected by a blanket, was safe and well. Yes Jane Kelly, once she knew her friend was okay, didn’t appear as mortified as the desk-sergeant guessed she might have been.
As he return to North Bridge House in his trusted Hertz Club van, strictly within the speed limits this time of course, Flynn figured that the two lonely hearts had obviously been getting on a lot better than Penny Pathe had claimed to her best friend. Perhaps during their early Monday morning encore they had become entangled. A brief thought to his own daughter was all it took to get the image of the couple’s adventure out of his mind.
Chapter Four
‘You seem very pleased with yourself,’ was fresh-faced, WDC Dot King’s greeting as he walked back into North Bridge House, ‘did you manage to help her out?’
‘Well maybe it was more a case of helping someone else out,” Flynn replied, unable to avert an advancing blush.
THE END
SPECIAL BONUS GIFT
Now that you’ve been gently initiated into the world of Camden Town CID we’d like you to get to know the central figure at the heart of Paul Charles’ North London crime books….
Last Boat To Camden Town is the 1st of 10 critically acclaimed novels featuring Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy – we’ve included the first 10 chapters here for you to enjoy.
LAST BOAT TO CAMDEN TOWN
By
Paul Charles
Chapter One
‘Shit, not six already!’ hissed Martin Shaw as he flung his arm out from under the bed covers. He groped at the open space in the general direction of the loud disturbance – the ringing alarm clock – in a desperate bid to silence it. Missing the snooze button (only just) he sent it tumbling to the floor and rolling out of reach (only just). ‘These mornings are arriving earlier and earlier,’ he complained to the clock.
‘Not true, your nights are leaving later and later,’ murmured his companion, using all her concentration to remain in some sort of sleepy humour. ‘Stop making such a racket before you wake me up completely.’
‘Sorry,’ Martin whispered, ‘but it’s no fun getting up at this time.’
‘Just shut up and get out!’
Leaving her to another few hours’ peaceful slumber, he grabbed his clothes and quietly exited the bedroom. After offering his face to a brief cat-lick, he scrubbed his teeth until blood flowed from his gums, the ice-cold water he used for rinsing his mouth shocking the last remaining sleep from his head.
No time for breakfast or newspaper or any such early morning civility. All such luxuries would have to wait another three hours until the longboat, the Sailing Diamond, came to a halt at the terminus of the first of its five daily trips.
Darkness still protected Camden Town as Martin left his flat in Arlington Road, his half-way house these last five years. He jogged up Parkway, passing the newsagents, breakfast shops, dry cleaners, estate agents (lots of estate agents), pet shop, banks, pubs and cafes – all silently working their way up through the gears of the morning – before crossing in front of the police station that was once a monastery and heading up Prince Albert Road, leaving the whisper of Parkway behind him.
He slowed to a walk as he passed the floating restaurant moored alongside Water Meeting Bridge which spanned the Regent’s Canal, his place of work. Taking a left towards the zoo and then a quick right down a steep embankment, he passed through the gate leading to a little wooden hut in Cumberland Basin.
Junior, as usual, was already aboard, readying the longboat for the trip to the passenger pick-up point at Little Venice, a thirty-minute journey up the canal. Junior had been called Junior all his forty-three years on the planet. Junior’s dad was also called Junior. Martin had long since given up trying to work out how complicated life must have been in the early years, when both Juniors lived in the one house. When the name ‘Junior’ was called, did Junior Senior or Junior Junior come running?
‘Ah come on, Martin – get yer finger out. I don’t wannabe late,’ Junior said, smiling with the relief Martin knew was based on the fact that they would be at the pick-up point on time.
‘Yeah, yea, don’t get your what’s-its in a twist.’
Martin and Junior were used to each other’s ways, and so silently go on with their jobs, readying the boat for its first voyage of the day. The Sailing Diamond, ninety-six years old and colourfully painted with bright blues, yellows and greens, looked as if it could have been owned by a circus. The name came from the time when it was the jewel in the crown of the second fleet of longboats built at the turn of the century by Thomas Pickford of City Basin. Originally horse-drawn, the boat was used then to cart materials to various craftsmen and dealers on the canal’s eight-and-a-half-mile length. During the Second World War it transported munitions. Eventually, like its fellow longboats, it lost the battle to the London railway system and ceased to be a useful force on the canal.
For the twenty years between the end of the war and the rebirth of Britain in the Sixties, the Sailing Diamond was in dry dock at Kentish Town. Another twenty years passed and, after many coats of paint, it became the property of turner Marinas – the present owner and employers of Junior and Martin. The boat, fifty-four feet long, could seat thirty-eight people but was rarely worked to capacity.
Martin readied the seats by wiping off the morning dew and replacing the multi-coloured cushions. Meanwhile, Junior primed the engine, bringing it up to tip-top condition for the day’s efforts. After a while they were ready to cast off. Martin climbed on to the bank, released the ties and hopped back aboard. Junior engaged the engine and the slowly departed Cumberland Basin.
Martin had just resumed his work when he heard a loud splash to the aft – the blunt end. His first thought was that Junior had fallen overboard. The cushions scattered over the floor as he scrambled to the rear of the boat, doing his best not to panic. Looking up at the wheelhouse, he could see Junior – oblivious to Martin’s concern – his pi
pe and the engine involved in some kind of unconscious smoke-raising competition.
‘What the hell was that?’ Martin shouted.
Junior was alarmed by Martin’s worried look. ‘What was what?’
‘The splash. Shit, I thought you’d fallen overboard!’
Junior evidently had not the slightest idea what Martin was raving on about.
Martin stared into the boat’s wake, it’s “signature”, created by the disturbance in the river of the powerful propeller. ‘About a minute ago, just after we’d cast off – I could have sworn something fell overboard.’
His eyes scoured the grey water unsuccessfully. He saw – or thought he saw – air bubbles rising to the surface but they were now too far away for him to be certain. ‘You’re sure nothing fell off, Junior? I can’t believe you didn’t hear that splash.’
‘Nothing – no, nothing. Jesus Martin, I can’t hear anything up here with all the racket from the engine. Anyway, how many times have I told you not to come to work without breakfast? The hunger obviously makes you hallucinate.’
Martin was bewildered, then unsure, then lost. ‘Ah well, I’d better get a move on. We’re nearly there.’
The smoke from Junior’s pipe, entwined with the plume of diesel fumes from the engine, slowly sank towards the water in an arc tracing their journey.
Chapter Two
All eyes were glued to his hand. It hung down by his left leg, as left hands have a habit of doing, and continuously, slowly and systematically, opened and closed. Stretching the fingers to their extreme and then, starting with the smallest digit, he recoiled each finger and finally the thumb into a fist. He repeated the process and seemed to take most relief – or pleasure – when he was stretching his fingers to their apex.
