A Pleasure to do Death With You

by Paul Charles

  “So, Patrick Mylan added you to his potential dinner party cast list?” Kennedy asked, trying to pick the pace up a bit.

  “In a word, yes, although he was more subtle than that. He’s a very charming man is Patrick. He was never in the thick of it; he just liked to set it all up, put these parties together and sit back and watch all of the interaction.”

  “He just rang you up then?” Kennedy pressed.

  “Well, no, he didn’t just ring me up. He had more class than that. He rang Tim and asked Tim if it would be okay to ring me. Tim rang me, and I asked Tim if Patrick intended it to be a date? Tim said no, I wasn’t his type.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Nealey didn’t reply. The smile drained from her face. She looked to Irvine as though she wanted him to save her. Irvine toyed with the pen in his notebook. So intent was he on her conversation that he was yet to put the pen to the virgin page.

  “Ah, I’m not totally comfortable here, Christy,” she whispered, in her cute voice, which made her sound very vulnerable.

  “Why so?” Kennedy asked.

  “Well, this is starting to border on gossip a bit, isn’t it?”

  “Nealey, at this stage we’re trying to build up a picture of the victim, what he was like. We need to find out about him and his friends and see what happened to him. If we discover what happened was not self-inflicted, then we’ll need to work out who did what to him and why. Somewhere in his life story, this information is waiting for us. And yes, bits of what we pick up will be gossip, but if we take an overview from the people who knew him, eventually a true picture will emerge.”

  “Thank you, Christy, that makes me feel a bit more comfortable. On the occasion in question, Tim told me I wasn’t Patrick’s type because a) I was too old for him and b) because I had a brain.”

  “How old are you, Nealey?” Kennedy asked.

  “I’m thirty-three.”

  “Tim didn’t mean that Patrick Mylan was into…” Irvine started hesitantly.

  “OhmiGod no,” she whispered. “You see, that’s exactly what I mean about gossip getting out of control. No, Patrick liked his girls to be early twenties, late teens at the youngest.”

  “And the brain bit?”

  Nealey squirmed a bit in her seat.

  “Okay, eventually I talked to Patrick about this. He was quite open about it, to his friends I mean. Well, at least to me, so… I suppose what I’m saying is that this bit is not gossip. He liked to be with girls just for the sex.”

  Now it was Irvine’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “No. I don’t believe he treated them badly, but I believe the limits of the relationship were clear to both sides. I say ‘I believe’ only because I’ve never really spoken to any of these girls. But it seems they knew what the relationships were about. When they were in his life, they were a part of his life. But there was a big part of his life, the social side, that they weren’t involved in. They didn’t live with him, but I believe they were taken care of.”

  “Were they like call girls?” Irvine asked.

  “OhmiGod no, James, they were not call girls. It was quite the opposite in fact. Patrick knew his needs, and he wanted to have someone available to satisfy his needs.”

  “You mean he was addicted to love?” Irvine enquired, trying desperately hard to put a good name on it.

  “No, James, I think he was addicted to sex, and I think he was addicted to sex because he’d never known love.”

  “Were there several of these ladies?”

  “No, Christy, as I tried to explain, it wasn’t like that.”

  “I see,” Kennedy replied, but wasn’t completely sure he did.

  “In the time that I’ve known him, three years, I’ve heard of only two girls…I’m…”

  “What?” Kennedy pushed when she couldn’t find the words she wanted.

  “I’m terrible, James knows this about me. I’m so intrigued about people and what makes them tick. It’s probably got a lot to do with my work, but I do love to meet all kinds of people. It’s never gotten me into trouble, but my father says that’s more to do with luck than judgement. Also, I’ll stick around probably longer than I should.

  I always think if I meet someone just one more time, they’ll reveal something they’ve never disclosed before, and I’ll solve the puzzle of their personality. But anyway, what was I saying? I told you a wee white lie just there. When I got to know Patrick a bit better and he told me about this, I pushed and pushed until he let me meet his current girl.”

  “Oh,” Irvine muttered, as he looked ready to use his pen for the first time.

  “I mean, I pestered him on it. I just couldn’t figure out why a woman would stay with a man if he was making it clear that he was only with her for one thing and one thing only. I was beside myself to meet such a person. Obviously, as far as Chloe was concerned, I couldn’t let on that I knew the exact details of their relationship.”

  “Chloe?” Irvine inquired.

  “Yes, Chloe Simmons.”

  “And how did you meet?” Kennedy asked.

  “He invited me around for tea on an afternoon Chloe was scheduled to meet him. The plan was that we would overlap by five or ten minutes.”

  “And?” Kennedy prompted.

  “She was stunningly beautiful, very English, pale complexion and beautiful dark brown hair. I think she’d just turned twenty, she’d a good figure. Chloe was funnier than you’d think a beautiful woman should be, and we rabbited away for about half an hour before Patrick started to get twitchy. I wasn’t sure if he was scared we were going to become best mates, Chloe and I, or if he was in need of his fix, but he kept looking at his watch and nodding towards the door when he could catch my eye, so I left.”

  “Did you see her again?”

  “What did you learn about her?”

  Both questions were asked simultaneously, the first by Irvine.

  “No, never, James. I think Patrick was shocked by how well we got on together, so I don’t think anything would have been allowed to develop. We didn’t enjoy anything more than a surface kind of conversation, Christy. She seemed okay. I think she was aware of how stunning she looked, maybe more sensual than beautiful. She seemed to have a great sense of her own body. Her dress sense was very classic, nothing tarty, but you were aware what an amazing body she had.”

  Nealey must have noticed something in Irvine that twigged her interest. “What, James? You don’t think one woman can appreciate the beauty in another?”

  Kennedy liked her spirit; liked the way she was so animated when she talked. She was stylish, she had class, she had the beauty she described in Chloe Simmons, but she didn’t look fragile or flawed, which was often the case, Kennedy felt, in truly beautiful women. The detective also loved the way she was picking up on everything, even the unsaid, in the interview. He imagined it was just another example of her previously admitted inquisitiveness, her never-ending research of character traits and flaws.

  Kennedy also noted that Irvine had the good sense not to enter an argument he could never win.

  Chapter Nine

  As Kennedy and Irvine were interviewing Ms Nealey Dean, DC Dot King and DS Allaway took Mrs Cynthia Cox into the conservatory to interview her as soon as she arrived at Patrick Mylan’s house.

  Cox and Dot King immediately clashed. Although Cox gave off the appearance of being a mumsy type, King’s first impression was that this was just a cloak for the self-opinionated pain in the butt she really was. On top of which, she smoked like a chimney and insisted that the interview be conducted at the door to the conservatory, so she could hold the cigarette mostly behind her back and flick the ash outside.

  Mrs Cynthia Cox, complete with wedding ring, had a chubby face, a French bob of badly dyed, blonde hair and was quite glamorously dressed for a housekeeper. She seemed to be in her mid to late forties She wore a tight-fitting, blue, knee-length knitted skirt, a loose-fitting white blouse, and she carried a black micro handbag
- probably incapable of housing more than her pack of 20 Rothmans and her pink disposable lighter. Her bare legs and arms were tanned, but her face was white. King reckoned she was most probably divorced, living on a settlement and using the cash from house-cleaning as pin money.

  “Oh my goodness, Jean Claude will be very upset by all this business,” Cox offered unprompted.

  “And why would that be?” King replied, unconsciously echoing the hints of Southern Irish just about audible in Cox’s accent.

  “Oh... all these people in the house will drive him bonkers,” she replied. “I have to keep reminding him that it’s not his house.”

  “How long have you worked for Mr Mylan?” Allaway asked.

  The cleaning lady took another deep drag of her lipstick-smudged cigarette, smiling sweetly - and falsely, King thought - at Allaway, using her free hand to fan away the smoke from her face.

  “Well, I’ve been the lady of the house here through two owners now,” Cox began proudly. “I started back when Carlton Davidson, an antique dealer, and his family lived here.”

  “Do you know what Patrick Mylan did professionally?”

  “Well, they say he was one of these new breed of investors, but I’m afraid that doesn’t mean anything to me. My father, he was a labourer, born and bred. He worked hard all his life on a farm, and you knew how he earned his money. He’d bring home his pay packet every Friday night to my mother, and you knew where you stood, didn’t you? But investing, taking advantage of other people’s misfortune, now that’s no way to make a living, is it?”

  “How did you find him?” King asked, thinking Cox was perfectly well balanced; she’d a chip on each shoulder.

  “He was usually in here or in his office.”

  “No, not where, but how?” King continued. “I mean, how was he to work for?”

  “He was a good boss because he was never late with his cash... with his cheques. Mind you, that might have more to do with Jean Claude than Paddy.”

  She laughed, more of a snigger than a laugh.

  “Sorry?” King felt obliged to ask.

  “No, it’s just he hated to be called Paddy. I mean, he was a Paddy, just like the rest of us from the auld sod, but he felt he was better than that. He’d get into a fit if anyone ever referred to him that way. Jean Claude says he refused to have dealings with anyone who ever called him Paddy. He says the boss walked away from a lot of money over the years because of this.”

  “Saturday last,” King started as casually as she knew how, “what were you doing in the afternoon, say between four o’clock and eight o’clock?”

  “Oh that’s easy. Saturday is my golden day off. I’m not beholden to anybody, well not unless overtime’s involved,” Cox sniggered. “I slept in - a wee bit too much red wine the night before - so I was running behind all day: late breakfast, later lunch. I’d say I started lunch around three o’clock. Left my house about four-thirty and went for a trawl around Camden Markets. I can get lost in there for hours. I just love their antique stalls, and you can still pick stuff up for a reasonable price. I had a coffee and a doughnut; you know, there is this great doughnut stall on the way into the market. I find them impossible to resist.” She went to pat her stomach but wisely thought better of it and continued, “Did a bit more browsing, had a quick look in at the opticians, just across Chalk Farm Road from the doughnut stall. Too expensive, much too expensive. Then I went to Baroque for an aperitif and then eventually to Belgo at seven forty-five for dinner. I’m afraid it was another late night.”

  King felt this woman could probably tell her a lot about Patrick Mylan, but she needed to find a way in. She needed to put her at her ease; to unlock the gossip Cox looked like she was raring to get off her chest.

  “Tell me this, Cynthia,” she began, trying another approach, “do you think Mr Mylan committed suicide.”

  “I think he was perverted yes, but suicidal no.”

  Chapter Ten

  Kennedy knew he needed to have another chat with Nealey Dean, but he knew it was equally important he do so without James Irvine sitting nervously looking and listening over his shoulder. So Kennedy and Irvine bade their farewells and set the dials on their Ford Monster for North Bridge House, Camden Town, and the home of Camden Town CID.

  By the time they reached the grand building, the oldest in the area and originally a monastery, most of the team had also returned, leaving only the SOCO officers remaining at Patrick Mylan’s house.

  There was a message awaiting Kennedy when he reached his office. Superintendent Thomas Castle wanted a word with him.

  “So,” Castle began, inviting Kennedy to take the chair in front of him, “what’s the story with this Mylan fellow?”

  “Well, it seems like it was set up to look like a suicide…”

  “But you’re not convinced?” Castle interrupted.

  “Well, the body was positioned for maximum public humiliation.”

  “But surely if someone is going to take his own life, he’s not concerned about what state he will be found in?”

  “I’m not sure I agree, sir,” Kennedy began, knowing he was working on nothing other than a hunch, based mostly on the fact that Kennedy felt the garters for Mylan’s socks had been a plant and that the belt around his neck was not Mylan’s usual belt. “When people take their own lives, they usually believe it’s the only thing to do. Mylan, it appears, was well balanced; there is no medication visible in his bathroom. There were also quite a few signs that he was very vain: he had hair transplants, and we found several vanity products to enhance his looks in his bathroom. There was no note left…”

  “But we know that fewer than half of suicide victims leave a note,” Castle interjected.

  “Agreed, but the point I’m trying to make is that I believe the victim would have been very conscious of how he would look when he was discovered.”

  “Could it have been an accident? A thrill-seeking device that went badly wrong?”

  “Perhaps, but Taylor reckons death through autoerotic asphyxiation happens mostly to younger, more inexperienced practitioners.”

  “You mean that by the time they get to Mylan’s age, they know what they are doing?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But you’re not ruling out an accident? I mean, at this stage you’re not convinced either way?”

  “Well, no,” Kennedy replied hesitantly, “I’m not sure whether it was a suicide or an accident or an act of ill intent. I’d like to find out more about Mylan’s background.”

  “Okay,” Castle said, agreeing with Kennedy’s approach and knowing where the conversation had been going since it started.

  Kennedy suspected he was being indulged. He felt that if he had been in better health then, at the very least, he most certainly would have had to put up a better argument to be allowed to continue this particular investigation.

  “And Kennedy,” Castle added, with a genuine smile in his eyes, as Kennedy headed for the door, “we’ve missed you. I missed you. You’re looking good again, slimmer and fitter. Welcome back.”

  Castle’s attention to a file on his desk was a signal to Kennedy that they were done.

  “Thanks, sir,” Kennedy replied as he closed the door behind him.

  ***

  “Did the SOCO guys find anything?” Kennedy enquired of DC Dot King as his team gathered in his office five minutes later.

  “Nothing so far, sir,” she began unhappily, looking at the blank pages in her notebook. “They’ve bagged a lot of stuff and removed it for closer examination though. They’ll give us a shout if they discover anything.”

  “Okay,” Kennedy said, strolling over to the “Guinness Is Good for You” noticeboard in the corner of his wood-walled office. He started writing names on a sheet of white foolscap paper and pinning it to his noticeboard.

  “Okay,” he repeated when he’d finished his task, “here is the list of people we need to talk to.”

  1. Tony Stevenson

&nbs
p; 2. Martin Friel

  3. Cynthia Cox

  4. Nealey Dean

  5. Tim Dickens

  6. Roger & Maggie Littlewood

  7. His solicitor and or accountant

  8. Miss Chloe Simmons

  “Yes,” King agreed, “I think Cynthia Cox has got a bit of information up her sleeve, but she was never going to spill it to me. I think she might open up to DS Irvine though.”

  Kennedy wrote Irvine’s name down on the Cynthia Cox entry, happy that King had given him the perfect opportunity to interview Nealey Dean again, but this time with King and without Irvine.

  “They’re all friends or business associates of Patrick Mylan’s, and we need to speak to them. We need to build a good picture of him and his life as soon as possible. I’m not sure how long the honeymoon period of my return will last with the super.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DS James Irvine and DC Dot King met as arranged outside Tim Dickens’ double-fronted, three-storey house in Leinster Mews, London W2. As King rang the doorbell, Irvine imagined it was probably one of several of Dickens’ London rendezvous points. The songwriter’s PA, the efficient and apparently friendly Alice Robbins, greeted them. The mews house, so spotless it looked as if it had been maid-cleaned every day, looked unlived in. There was lots of wood, glass, clean white walls, and Japanese opaque sliding screens. The house’s only clue to its owner was the presence of a Yamaha Baby Grand piano in the first-floor, open-plan living room. The piano was guarded regally by a dark Gibson L100 vintage guitar resting in a stand to the right of the piano’s keyboard.

  Before she left them, the PA handed King and Irvine two small bottles of Perrier water; she didn’t offer them a choice and she didn’t ask whether or not they even wanted the water in the first place. Irvine reckoned it saved her the fuss of making them tea or coffee. King couldn’t resist lifting the keyboard lid of the piano and attempting her party piece, “Our House.”