A Pleasure to do Death With You
Page 1
A Pleasure to
Do Death With You
A DI Christy Kennedy Mystery
by Paul Charles
Dufour Editions
First published in the United States of America, 2012
by Dufour Editions Inc., Chester Springs, Pennsylvania 19425
© Paul Charles, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Except for public figures, all characters in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone else living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover photo by Jay Graham - jaygraham.com
Lay Down Beside Me
Words and Music by Don Williams
Copyright © 1973 UNIVERSAL - SONGS OF POLYGRAM INTERNATIONAL, INC.
Copyright Renewed - All Rights Reserved - Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
E-Book ISBN 978-0-8023-6013-7 (MOBI)
E-Book ISBN 978-0-8023-6014-4 (EPUB)
Thanks are certainly due and offered to:
My good friend Donald Miller who introduced me to
Half Moon Bay while we were returning to LA
after a gig in SFO many moons ago.
Niall McIvor for his patience while sharing his
knowledge on stocks and shares.
Terry Fitzgerald for the editing and to
Duncan May for showing Kennedy what it’s like
to drive on the other side of the road.
Steve MacDonogh for all your energy,
support and counsel; you’re sadly missed.
Lilo O’Carroll for your bravery and ability to carve
out a piece of California for the O’Carroll clan.
Police Chief Don O’Keefe for your time,
insights, valuable information and hospitality.
Christopher May for arriving with the cavalry just in time.
Andrew Charles M.M. for always being my
template for the good guys in the books.
Catherine
This book is dedicated to the memory of
Nuala McGinley
whose passion for knowledge I always found inspiring.
and Cora Charles
who taught me by example.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Part One
Primrose Hill
Chapter 1
Kennedy had been awake half the night trying to find a comfortable position for, at the very least, a catnap. His back was so brutally painful in some of the positions he’d tried that he’d have settled for a gnatnap. Why was his back giving him so much jip recently? It had been four years since his near-death brush with a suspect in the then dilapidated York & Albany which, thanks to a recent make-over from the Gordon Ramsey team, was now enjoying a new lease on life.
Kennedy, on the other hand, could find little in life to enjoy these days. When we’re fit and well we tend to take our health, and particularly our backs, for granted. He would have thought that a bad back would be the last ailment he’d suffer after being stabbed in the gut. At the time of the incident, both Kennedy’s GP and Dr Taylor had assured him there’d be no long-term side effects from his wound. Kennedy now accepted that perhaps listening to a pathologist - who, as part of a medical profession in general, enjoyed a 100 per cent death rate with their patients - might not have been the best idea. It had been ann rea who’d suggested he visit an osteopath and who then had even taken the trouble to source him a real magician in that field by the name of Miss Chada. The osteopath in question was always referred to as Miss Chada.
In the early days, Miss Chada’s magic fingers had worked wonders on his back, but recently, especially in the previous couple of weeks, Kennedy’s back had gotten, if anything, worse - and perhaps even the worst it had ever been.
Kennedy tossed and turned, trying in vain to find a comfortable position to relieve the lightning pain mainlining his spine. He pictured his movements in his mind’s eye. He imagined it was like a bizarre ballet, which was bringing tears to the eyes of the sole performer. He gingerly edged to the side of the bed and dropped his legs to the floor, hoping the momentum would help to right his torso, but all he got for his efforts was an even more excruciating bolt of pain in the small of his back and another thin coat of sweat.
He eventually managed to sit upright on his bed, temporarily incapable of further movement. Even turning his head slightly to his right to look at his clock brought tears to his eyes. Kennedy was now experiencing the pulsing of an oncoming headache. It felt as if someone were trying to carelessly drill from inside his crown out through the centre of his forehead, just above and between his eyebrows.
He couldn’t lie.
He couldn’t sit.
He couldn’t stand.
He could find no relief.
It was only twelve-fifty a.m., but because he’d registered every single second since he went to bed at ten-thirty, it felt like it must be at least seven o’clock in the morning. He found himself trying to become preoccupied with the creaks and groans of his house; trying to figure out the source of the late night sounds. He focused on whether he was hearing a window rattle in the window-frame or was it a car having trouble finding a gear low enough to climb the nearby steep Primrose Hill Road. Somehow he had to find a way through sixteen hours of agony until his scheduled appointment with Miss Chada. The visit would surely bring him some respite, but then the price he had to pay, travelling to and from Unlocked, her Camden
Market treatment room, might not make it as worthwhile as he’d been dreaming it would be since his last visit five days ago. He hobbled down the stairs grasping the banister for dear life. One floor took a full seven minutes to negotiate. He considered leaving immediately for Camden Market in the hope that, at his current speed, he’d make the less than a mile journey in the remaining fifteen hours and fifty-three minutes.
He went into his first floor sitting room - his book and television room - and all of a sudden he had a great idea. If he just lay down on the floor, maybe face down, surely the solid support of the floor would ease his pain.
Big mistake.
That position was even worse, if worse were possible. It took him five minutes of agonising manoeuvres to turn face up. It was certainly more difficult to get up than it had been to lie down, and he found himself involuntarily crying out in pain. He took to huffing and puffing deep breaths, like a mother in precious labour, and eventually made his way on to the sofa. From the previous evening, he already had his sofa piled with cushions, so he was able to find a suitable, straight-upright position, which afforded him a little respite from the pain.
He tried to read the book he’d started a week earlier, but he was still only forty pages into Ray Davies’ X Ray, and he was desperate for a clear mind to finish it off. Now was definitely not that time. He replaced the book, picking up the remote to flick on first the TV and then, when he couldn’t find anything to distract him, the DVD. Another flick of the remote, and the flickering shadows and unsympathetic sounds disappeared. He closed his eyes.
He’d found the magic relieving position: heels and knees tightly together, upper torso straight to the perpendicular, maybe a little curved, giving the spine its preferred “S” shape, head slightly bowed and eyes closed. He opened one eye. Another sharp twinge in the small of his back was enough to convince him he shouldn’t risk a second.
Peace at last.
How typical it was of ann rea that she would find Miss Chada for him. He thought of how atypically she’d reacted at the end of his last case when a friend of hers was involved. ann rea had accused Kennedy of being a policeman first and her lover-cum-friend second. She told him she couldn’t forgive him. Ever! She’d ordered him off her barge and out of her life.
Kennedy had hoped that when she calmed down they’d be fine.
Maybe not as good as they’d been, but with a bit of work they might be fine. Surely she’d have to see that Kennedy couldn’t be held responsible for what other people did? Maybe she was just so traumatised by what her friend had done that she needed someone to blame, and Kennedy was there, right there, dead centre, in the firing line.
Kennedy had been wrong. They hadn’t spoken since that fateful night. Clearly she hadn’t just been over-reacting at the time. He’d rung her several times in her Camden News Journal offices and left messages, all of which were ignored. She hid behind the answering machine on her barge, a barge he frequently walked past in the vain hope of bumping into her.
He admitted to himself that he’d hoped she would at least ring him and tell him it was difficult to do this thing; difficult to break up with him. Kennedy wasn’t used to breaking up and was ill equipped to deal with it.
He thought about how they’d met, how long it had taken them to get together. How absolutely blissful and spiritual their lovemaking had always been. He thought of how important and influential she had become in his life. He focused once again on the fact that it had been so typical of ann rea to have found Miss Chada when he needed help.
Mind you, he’d happily have swapped his original back complaint for his current one. Either his back was getting worse, or Miss Chada was not as effective as she had been at the beginning. Kennedy was convinced Miss Chada was aware of this fact.
She even seemed to Kennedy to be feeling sorry for him. Over the last couple of months, she appeared to be veering ever so slightly from their clinical relationship. She’d started to be very nice to him, smiling at him in a caring way, maybe even flirting with him more than a little, or so it appeared to Kennedy. Of course his feelings might have something to do with the fact that he was missing physical contact with ann rea.
Miss Chada - Kennedy didn’t even know her first name. She was a brown-skinned woman, probably in her late twenties, thirty at the most. She was slim and trim (but not thin), with healthy long, straight, black hair. Not a speck of make-up was needed or ever used, and she had large, sad, brown eyes that drank you and your soul in, in one gulp. She was the type of woman who always looked alone but, at the same time, she seemed to enjoy her own company very much. She was not really the kind of person who’d start up a conversation off her own bat, and if someone tried to engage her, Kennedy reckoned, all they’d get would be monosyllabic responses. When Kennedy was lying face down on her special leather table and he wasn’t preoccupied with the ache in his back, he’d think how bizarre it was for him to be lying in a state of near undress while in the company of a stunningly beautiful woman. And to top that, the arrangement had been set up by his (albeit ex) girlfriend.
Kennedy found that if he concentrated on Miss Chada and her work, it was as if the countdown to his next vital visit with her had kicked off, and he took comfort from the fact that the treatment was coming, as it were. He accepted that this state was a bit like how much better some ailing people felt the second they took their medicine, even before the miraculous cure had been able to work its way through their bodies. Knowing that help was on the way sometimes was as effective as the help itself. His recovering state of mind allowed his thought process to dally somewhere around the perfect body sheathed in Miss Chada’s brilliantly white, starched uniform.
Kennedy dozed off at this point. He would pay dearly for the sleep by waking up the following morning at 8:43 with a severe crick in his neck. It was a price he was happy to pay.
Kennedy gradually came back to consciousness, alert enough not to make any drastic movements. Straightening up his head did cause considerable discomfort, but nowhere near the same degree as the previous evening. Kennedy had a theory that darkness always intensified one’s pain. It was at that point that he tried to get up from his sofa.
He wished he hadn’t. Another one of his late-night theories had come home to roost; the inactivity of the night also served to intensify the pain. He screeched out in agony.
He felt totally helpless and vulnerable, and he desperately needed to go to the toilet. The consequences if he didn’t accept the pain for this chore were just too embarrassing to consider.
There were tears streaming down his face eleven minutes later as he crawled out of his bathroom and rested flat on his face on the landing for a few minutes. He was disturbed some time later (it could have been seconds, it could have been half an hour) by the ring of the telephone. He gathered together all his energy and willpower and made it to the phone just as it stopped ringing.
It was a Saturday morning and he wasn’t due back at work until Monday morning, so it was unlikely to be North Bridge House on the phone looking for him. He thanked his lucky stars (Paul Newman and Barbara Parkins) that he wasn’t currently working on a case. Superintendent Thomas Castle, sympathetic to Kennedy’s back problems, was keeping his load light. Kennedy thought his superior might not be doing him any favours. He had too much time to think about things, like the thoughts he had been having about Miss Chada the previous evening. The phone rang again.
Bizarrely, it was Miss Chada. How was he feeling?
“I’ve had better nights,” he replied.
“Are you still okay for this afternoon?” she enquired.
“Yes, but I…”
“What is it Mr Kennedy?”
“Okay,” Kennedy began with a painful sigh, “I… my back, it’s got worse… much worse…”
“I can hear,” she sympathised. “Are you mobile?”
“Not very.”
“I can come to your home. You wish Mr Kennedy?”
“But I thought…” he started, remem
bering an earlier, typically short conversation of theirs.
“I think I know you well enough to trust you, Mr Kennedy,” she continued. It sounded like she was flicking through the pages of her diary. “Now find somewhere comfortable and supportive to sit. Place a hot water bottle in the small of your back. Soak in a hot bath. I’m booked up until after lunchtime. I can come to you at two-thirty.”
“Good,” Kennedy said, feeling a little better immediately. He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him or if she’d already hung up.
Kennedy returned to his sofa, catnapped there through a couple more hours, then crawled back to the bathroom, ran a hot bath and, very gingerly, managed to lower himself down into the steaming water. The relief he found when he settled down into the bath compensated for the pain he felt while doing so. He kept heating up the water from the hot tap until, a lot quicker than he expected, he heard the doorbell ring.
Chapter Two
It took Kennedy six minutes to flop out of his bath, towel himself as best he could, put on his bath robe, and hobble down, with the aid of his highly varnished banister, to the front door.
It took only five minutes for Miss Chada to help Kennedy into his ground-floor kitchen-cum-dining-cum-living area, sit him down straddle-like on her work chair, start to work on his neck and ease up his back pain.
Her fingers worked their magic so aggressively it was very clear she had neither time nor patience for his pain. She offered no sympathy to Kennedy, barely saying a word to him in fact. So focused was she on her task, it appeared as though she was exorcising his demons. Kennedy imagined how Lazarus must have felt.
After ten minutes intense work on his neck, Kennedy could feel the heat on his skin build up until he was sure it was scorched and most surely blistered.