by Paul Charles
End of story?
Although it was slim pickings, Kennedy decided that he’d check on any further developments when he visited the hospital later to interview Dr Berry’s colleagues about his own demise. But if those two cuttings were all the Camden News Journal had on him, Dr Berry couldn’t have led a very wayward existence. But there again, it’s usually the quiet ones…
He washed down the last bite of the bacon sandwich with the final mouthful of tea – perfect when both food and drink run out simultaneously. Kennedy paid the bill and walked back up Parkway to his office at North Bridge House. He was intrigued as to what information the autopsy of Dr Berry would now offer up.
Chapter Ten
North Bridge House was built on the site of the very first settlement in Camden. It was originally a monastery in the days when the monks tended their pigs up on Primrose Hill. Through the years, it had successfully served several purposes before becoming the home of the then newly formed Camden CID, in 1967. Prior to that, it had been a private school and Kennedy had often felt he’d inherited the headmaster’s study.
As he entered his office, Kennedy switched on his valve radio and after a short delay, Capital Gold came through oud and clear. It was either that, Radio 4 or GLR, depending on Kennedy’s needs and his moods. He always thought of his office more as a thinking room, and it was very homely, especially by police standards. Bit by bit, Kennedy had very quietly replaced the standard police furniture with snug pieces he’d found in Camden’s second-hand shops. It really was surprising what you could pick up for next to nothing.
Kennedy didn’t mind the time and elbow-grease he expended doing up the bits of furniture. His dad was a carpenter and he had learnt a few tricks of the trade while growing up. He was usually working on some piece or other – a chair, a table, a desk, a wooden ornament – anything, just as long as there was something there to work with. He found it extremely therapeutic, and a great way to focus the mind. He loved the aroma of wood shavings, glue, varnish, paints, missing only the smell of his father’s sweat from childhood. Kennedy remembered fondly the hours he had spent with his dad in his workshop. His father would patiently answer his numerous questions, some about the job in hand, others about the worries of life. Many of the realities he had learnt from his father in those long-gone days had stood him in good stead since.
The ambience the furniture created in his office was helped by the fact that all the walls were panelled with a rich walnut wood. Kennedy could hardly believe that in some of the other offices they had stripped the wood from the walls or slapped a coat of paint over the top. To the amusement of his colleagues, Kennedy had spent a great deal of time restoring the wood in his room. He felt his father would be proud of him. Funny, that no matter what age you are – from six to sixty – you feel the need to impress your parents.
The wall behind his desk supported the usual noticeboard with memos, schedules, rosters, awards, promotions, even a few wanted posters. To the left of his desk was another noticeboard, for his case-in-progress notes. It was old, covered in green felt with a large Guinness is Good for You logo carved into the frame. Here, Kennedy pinned all the details, photographs, clues, hunches, maps and sometimes even bluffs, in case his superior – Superintendent Castle – wanted to check up on his work while he was out.
While engrossed in a case, Kennedy had a habit of swinging his forties-style wooden swivel chair slightly to the left, tilting back, and resting his feet on the corner of the desk, while cogitating the contents of his case-board.
He removed the remnants of his previous case, and placed them in a box marked with the case title. Kennedy was a collector-creature and could not bear to throw anything away. He wondered aloud what the current case would become known as. Or would it, in fact, fit DC Ian Milligan’s “simple suicide” theory? There was no-one to answer his question because there was no-one to hear it.
Dr Taylor knocked on Kennedy’s office door, disturbing his thoughts.
‘Ah, do come in. You’re early. Join me for a cup of tea? I’ve a pot brewing.’
‘Yes – oh, yes please,’ the doctor replied. Kennedy was the only senior police officer the doctor knew who made his own tea, and very palatable it was, too.
Both men settled comfortably into their seats and sipped their tea.
Kennedy spoke first: ‘Well, Doctor, what do you have for me?’
‘Dr Berry died by drowning – pure and simple drowning. Water in his lungs. I would say that by the lack of swelling of the body and by its slight discolouration, he would have drowned sometime between seven and eight yesterday morning. It’s hard to be more accurate due to the fact that the low temperature of the canal water would have reduced the body temperature quicker than normal. The alcohol level in his blood was high – as in, very high. Our Dr Berry had consumed vast amounts of spirits in his last few hours alive. I would go so far as to say a dangerous amount of spirits.’
‘Hmm,’ said Kennedy, interrupting for the first time.
When Taylor was convinced that Kennedy had no other observations to add, he continued: ‘Berry’s last meal would have been around six o’clock the previous night. He ate a good full mean: steak, potatoes – still in their skins – peas, carrots and green beans. I’d say he liked brown sauce with his steak.’
‘How on earth do you know all that?’ smiled Kennedy.
‘The contents of his stomach – he didn’t have time to digest his food properly.’ Now it was Taylor’s turn to smile – all experts enjoy their “magic tricks”, where their particular science affords them knowledge which could be amusing or enlightening to the layman.
‘One other thing worth mentioning, Detective Inspector,’ the doctor continued, consulting his notes. ‘Dr Berry had a contusion under his arms which ran across the front of his chest. It may have been caused when they pulled him out of the water. The hooks could have pulled his clothes up under his arms and left a mark from the weight of his body.’
‘No other contusions to report?’ queried Kennedy.
‘Nothing else. He was essentially in perfect health,’ Taylor concluded, ruling out one possible reason for suicide.
You can continue reading this Inspector Christy Kennedy Mystery by purchasing the book on Amazon…
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About the author
Paul Charles is an agent, promoter, author and fan of The Beatles, he was born in Magherafelt, Northern Ireland.
The Inspector Christy Kennedy Mysteries by Paul Charles, published by Fahrenheit Press
Last Boat To Camden Town
I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass
Fountain Of Sorrow
The Ballad Of Sean And Wilko
The Hissing of the Silent Lonely Room
I've Heard The Banshee Sing
The Justice Factory
Sweetwater
The Beautiful Sound of Silence
A Pleasure To Do Death With You
Also by Paul Charles and published by Fahrenheit Press
One Of Our Jeans Is Missing
Other Books from Paul Charles
Inspector Starrett Mysteries:
The Dust of Death
Family Life
St Ernan’s Blues
McCusker Mystery
Down On Cyprus Avenue
Other Fiction:
First of The True Believers.
The Last Dance
The Prince Of Heaven’s Eyes (A Novella)
The Lonesome Heart is Angry
Non-Fiction:
The Best Beatles Book Ever
Playing Live
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