by Paul Charles
Kennedy turned and walked around the space. It seemed somewhat small for the size of the house, but the majestic red-brick chimney stack stole a good deal of the area. Kennedy figured that if the floor space downstairs was anything to go by, the stack must be in the middle of the house. This obviously meant that there must be a mirror image space on the other side of the stack. He walked over to where the red brick joined the recently painted triangle of white tongue and groove wood at the front. He could find no doorway, and he pushed the wood somewhat self-consciously in the hope that another push-latch might be hidden behind.
“Ah, here it is,” King announced proudly from the other side of the chimney as she opened a door in the wood panelling and the smell of dust, age, and a draught of cool air hit them. The door was no bigger than four foot by two foot six. Once King found a light switch on the inside of the wall to the left, they discovered that this area probably hadn’t changed since the house was originally built. There were no floorboards, just pieces of plywood haphazardly picking out a path way across the rafters to a large water tank in the middle. Where the back edge of the roof hit the rafters, more plywood was visible, this time forming a platform upon which various bits of discarded furniture and bric-a-brac rested in their last stop before the inevitable dump.
Disappointed but content that there was nothing further to be discovered, they retreated and found Jean Claude still waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. He appeared to be preoccupied by his image in the mirror-door.
“The house is more like a hotel,” Kennedy began when they reached the front door of the house, Jean Claude having peeled off on the first floor, no doubt trying to ensure the SOCO team did not damage his precious ward.
“Sorry?” King asked earnestly.
“There doesn’t seem to be any of the owner’s personality invested anywhere in the premises. It’s like…” and Kennedy paused to put his thoughts into words, “… a show house, which has been dressed for potential purchasers to come along and buy it.”
“Yes, yes,” King replied enthusiastically, “and the wife will say, ‘It’s got potential, but we’re going to need to rip out the kitchen completely and fit a new one, and all the bathroom furniture needs to be dumped and replaced.’”
“Perhaps,” Kennedy smiled.
“And the husband,” King continued, “will pretty much ignore her until he discovers a room he likes, and then he’ll say, ‘Okay, just as long as I can have this room and do it out for myself.’”
“Right,” Kennedy replied. “Can I assume you and your Ashley are flat hunting?”
“That’s the problem working with detectives.”
Chapter Eight
When was the last time you saw Miss Dean?” Kennedy asked Detective Sergeant James Irvine.
He had borrowed his favourite bagman, who was now acting as his favourite driver, and they were making their way down to Marylebone to interview Nealey Dean.
Nealey Dean’s name had jumped out at Kennedy for three reasons when Jean Claude had first mentioned her. The first was that she was an accomplished actress whose popularity was on the rise, thanks mainly to a series of entertaining cocoa adverts she was currently appearing in. The main hook of the adverts was that her new boyfriend was a bit of an old fuddy-duddy, and whereby she was loosening him up a bit by dumping his carpet slippers, cardigans, stuffed owls, antique ornaments, and what-have-you, he had successfully turned her on to the joys of cocoa. Allegedly, cocoa was now enjoying somewhat of a renaissance, thanks to the popularity of the adverts.
The second reason was that Miss Dean had been a witness on the case ann rea had christened the Sweetwater Case; the case which, in fact, had hastened the demise of Kennedy and ann rea’s relationship.
The third, and perhaps most important, reason was that she was an acquaintance of James Irvine. In fact they had met on the Sweetwater Case and had continued to keep in contact with each other.
Kennedy liked to have a truth reference while working on his various cases. When you start out on a new investigation, invariably you are walking blind into a totally new world. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, but a chance nonetheless, that every single person involved had something to hide, maybe even together, and so they were going to lie to you. So, he would always try and seek out someone in a victim’s group of people that he or one of his colleagues knew, someone, anyone, he could use as a truth reference; someone who could save him a lot of time.
“Ach, you know,” Irvine replied.
“I don’t know, James,” Kennedy replied, slightly amused by his detective sergeant.
Irvine had the reputation of being a bit of a ladies’ man, but having said that, he had four main characteristics in the romantic stakes: a) he was always falling in love, deeply, head-over-heels in love; b) just as often as he fell in love, he fell out of love; c) he never cheated; and d) he never told tales or swapped gossip on any of his ladies. He always seemed to fall for the flawed type. One of Irvine’s ex-girlfriends, Rose Butler, a staff nurse at the Royal Free Hospital, had confided in Kennedy that she thought James was only interested in relationships that couldn’t possibly work out. With Bella Forsythe, she certainly had a point. Dr Bella Forsythe was currently being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for murdering, not just once but a few times. In fact, it had been Kennedy, Irvine, and the team who had been responsible for her being apprehended.
Irvine cleared his throat in a very self-conscious way.
“James, I’m not looking for gossip here,” Kennedy said as they eventually managed to cross the busy Euston Road at the foot of Albany Street. “I just want to know how close youse are.”
Irvine took a large breath of air, loudly, and started, “Well, you know, sir, it’s at that stage where it could still go somewhere, but she’s very, very busy. She’s very busy with her career, and she has a very, very full social life.”
“Were you aware she knew this Patrick Mylan fellow?” Kennedy asked, thinking that Nealey Dean fitted nicely into Rose Butler’s view of Irvine’s attraction to unattainable relationships.
“Um, no, but then again I wouldn’t know most of her friends.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?” Kennedy persisted.
“Well, funny enough, she actually took me to the theatre last Wednesday.”
“Oh, what did youse go to see?”
“Some auld tosh that one of her mates was in,” Irvine started, and then, obviously thinking that he might be sounding ungrateful, he added by way of justification, “Nealey thought it was ‘hard work’ as well. But we went to this great place in Soho for a bite of supper afterwards. It was great to see her again.”
“How often do you see her?” Kennedy asked, thinking that from Irvine’s last phrase it couldn’t be very regular.
“Maybe once a week, when she’s around.”
“So that is quite serious, James?”
“Well, we’ll see; she’s a canny lass. I like her.”
And Kennedy knew that was as much as he was going to get. Which was fine, because they’d just arrived at the corner of Weymouth Street and Marylebone High Street.
Nealey Dean lived on the fourth floor of a refurbished mansion block.
The porter recognised Irvine immediately.
“Miss Dean is expecting you, Mr Irvine. She said I was to send you straight up when you arrived.”
“Frequent enough a visitor, I’d say,” Kennedy muttered under his breath as they entered the lift.
Her apartment door was already open, and a voice from inside called out, “Come on in, James.”
Kennedy’s brain raced through a few scenarios, all of them proving embarrassing for him.
Nealey Dean had the energy ann rea had had when Kennedy first met her. He wondered if his assumption that ann rea now had less energy had anything to do with the long, laborious process both of them had experienced as they broke up. On reflection, it seemed to Kennedy that they’d started to break up the moment after they’
d first slept together. If only he’d realised that at the time, he could have saved himself four or five years.
Nealey bounced up to Irvine and flung both her arms around his neck, giving him a semi-passionate kiss. Irvine didn’t try to shy away from the intimacy, but neither did he make a meal of it. Nealey acknowledged Kennedy’s presence and didn’t want to embarrass either him or Irvine, but both were definitely declaring that a relationship beyond friendship existed.
“Sorry, I just can’t keep my hands off him,” she giggled as she extended her hand to Kennedy. “I’ve heard so much about you, Detective Inspector Kennedy.”
“Oh, Christy is fine,” Kennedy replied, shocked at the strength of her grip and how vigorously she shook his hand. “It’s weird, I feel like I already know you.”
“Ah yes, as my agent is always telling me, ‘the ever diminishing power of telly.’”
Kennedy was still trying to fit Nealey’s cute voice to her body, but it seemed somewhat out of place. If bear cubs could speak, Kennedy imagined their voices would sound a lot like Nealey Dean’s. She had obviously just been doing her workout because she was wearing thick black tights and a black spray-on top, similar to the nothing-left-to-the-imagination outfit that ann rea had sometimes worn. Miss Dean also had a large snow-white towel around her neck, and her blonde hair awkwardly crunched up into a black Beatles baseball cap.
“James, will you do us up some coffee, please - you know where everything is - and I’ll go and have a quick shower,” she said as she ran out of her large, tidy living room.
As Irvine did as he was bid, Kennedy wandered around the living room. In one corner, Nealey had her office set-up. On a cork noticeboard were several business cards, a sheaf of paid bills, and a good few unframed photos. There was none of James Irvine but one with Nealey between two men, one of whom looked remarkably like the live version of the corpse he’d seen only a matter of an hour ago.
Nealey reappeared within five minutes, by which time Irvine was exiting the kitchen with a beautiful Quaker wooden tray bearing coffee for two, tea for one, and a few toasted cinnamon bagels.
“James, you’re a gem,” she declared, rubbing her hands together in glee. “I could get used to this.”
She was dressed in a large, baggy, light-blue Nike T-shirt and loose fitting, black cotton trousers with white stripes down the sides of each leg. Her cheeks were quite flushed, her face was make-up free, and her shoulder-length blonde hair would be fully dry in about ten minutes. Her dark brown eyebrows intrigued Kennedy.
“Miss Dean…” Kennedy started, but was quickly interrupted by the lady in question.
“Nealey, please.”
“Yes, sorry,” Kennedy continued as he milked and brown sugared his tea, “I don’t know if DS… if James mentioned the reason for our visit.”
She shook her head “no” energetically.
“We’ve reason to believe you may have known a gentleman by the name of Patrick Mylan.”
“Yes, I know Patrick,” she replied immediately, a bit of the energy draining from her sparkling brown eyes. She was sitting next to Irvine on her country cottage style sofa, and Kennedy was sitting on a matching easy chair to the right of her permanently disused fireplace.
She set down her cup on the tray, and took Irvine’s hand tightly in hers.
“Patrick … is he?… I hadn’t thought… ohmiGod, has something happened? I mean, when James said you wanted to come to see me, I figured it might be something to do with you researching the theatre… television even…oh-mi-God…” she babbled.
“I’m very sorry to have to advise you that Mr Mylan was found dead this morning,” Kennedy said, stopping her in her tracks.
“OH-MI-GOD!” she said, betraying her Cockney roots for the first time.
“Jeez, James, I’ll be scaring you off,” she said when she regained her composure.
“Sorry?” Irvine asked, but with his Scottish accent the word sounded very big and important.
“Well, I first met you when you came to interview me about someone I knew, and he turned out to be a… ohmiGod… and now poor Patrick. I’m sure neither of you would be here if there wasn’t something suspicious behind his death.”
Irvine just patted her hand, while Kennedy asked, “How well did you know Mr Mylan, Nealey?”
“How well can you know anyone?” she began, sounding somewhat evasive to Kennedy. “I mean, now I know he’s dead, it seems… like he will probably cut a bigger figure in my life. How did he die?”
“We think he might have committed suicide,” Irvine offered, much to Kennedy’s annoyance.
“Was there a note?” she asked, now turning to Irvine.
“We’re still investigating,” Kennedy cut in before Irvine had a chance to respond. “How long had you known him?”
“Woo, let’s see.” She swept her fingers through her hair, appearing to dishevel it, only for it to fall perfectly back into place. “Tim Dickens, who is a friend of mine, took me to a dinner party Patrick was throwing at his house. That must be nearly three years ago.”
“The songwriter?” Kennedy asked, now recognising the third person in the photograph he’d just been looking at.
“Yes, that Tim Dickens,” she replied as she smiled at Kennedy. “I can’t believe Patrick would take his own life.”
Kennedy and Irvine remained quiet, hoping she’d elaborate. Miss Dean looked more concerned than shocked.
“From the little I knew of Patrick, I wouldn’t have put him down as someone who’d even consider taking his own life.”
“Did you ever have a relationship with him?” Irvine asked.
“Steady on, James,” she offered curtly. “That question seems a tad inappropriate.
“I’m sorry, Nealey, I didn’t mean it in a personal way. I don’t as a rule do jealously on exes. I was asking you in a professional capacity.”
“I’m sorry, James. I mean, you’ve both just totally thrown me; I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that Patrick is dead.”
The room fell quiet.
“Okay,” she eventually said, slapping herself on her cheeks a couple of times, “right, right, background - you’ll be looking for background.”
“Yes, we’d be grateful for any information,” Kennedy agreed hopefully.
“Okay, I knew Tim Dickens, the singer/songwriter.” Nealey obviously noticed Irvine’s eyebrows rise at her use of the word “knew,” because she paused, didn’t quite, but nearly, rolled her eyes. “I mean, I know Tim, he’s a good friend, and occasionally I’ll be his plus-one, or he’ll be my plus-one at functions neither of us would want to go to alone.”
“How long have you known him?” Kennedy asked, putting the question he knew was on Irvine’s mind.
“Of course all of this was before I met James,” and again she paused, and this time she smiled sweetly at the DS. “I was introduced to Tim by a mutual friend. I think they dated, but I’m not quite sure. Anyway, this actress, Suzy, was away on location, and she rang me up and asked if I’d do her and Tim a big favour by attending an award ceremony with him. He absolutely hated them but had to go to this one because he was being honoured. I was happy to. I had a slight fear that maybe it was his sly way of asking me out on a date - you hear all of these stories of rock stars or actors seeing photos of young actresses and then either using their fame to seek out the actress in question’s telephone number and cold call her, or have their agent or a friend ring the actress on their behalf. But I really needn’t have worried. Anyway, that’s me, always looking at the other angle, but it was all cool. He was a true gent, a great storyteller, and absolutely good fun to be with, and even if he hadn’t been such good company, the column inches the following morning were well worth it. We became friends, good friends, nothing more,” and here she was addressing Irvine directly.
“And Mr Dickens introduced you to Patrick Mylan?” the relieved Irvine asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you always see Mr Mylan while in the
company of Mr Dickens?” Irvine pressed.
Kennedy felt Irvine just might be guilty of leading Miss Dean on to what he considered a safe path.
“Oh, no,” Nealey replied. “Patrick was a collector; he liked to collect things, and he liked to collect friends, and sometimes like all collectors he even forgot where pieces of his collection had come from. I remember one famous dinner party where he’d invited both Tim and me separately and seated us as though he was trying to fix us up. Tim had to remind him we already knew each other. He was crestfallen when he discovered his little bit of matchmaking had failed.”
“So, can we go back a wee bit, please?” Kennedy asked. “Initially you met Patrick Mylan when Tim Dickens brought you to his house for a dinner party. What I would like to know is how your own friendship with Mr Mylan started.”
“Okay, I see,” Nealey replied, running the long slender fingers of her right hand through her drying hair again, “you want to know how I got to know him well enough for him to invite me to dinner on my own?”
“Indeed,” Kennedy replied.
“People who regularly give dinner parties are a lot like directors; they both love to have a large cast of people they can draw on. Sometimes, just like directors, hosts will invite people they don’t even like, because of how it’s going to help the mix on that particular occasion. Great hosts, like great directors, will ensure that every person there will be there for a reason vital to the mix; someone from the pop world, from the theatre, from TV or the cinema, maybe a painter, an athlete, a politician, some people from the real world, and maybe even a character or two from the underworld. If the host picks their cast intelligently, it will be a successful evening. If he or she doesn’t get the mix right, the party will be as flat as a pancake. For instance, you can really only have one, possibly two at the most, celebrities. Then, perhaps most importantly, hosts and directors always need to ensure they have an audience present.”
