by Paul Charles
Jan finished the call and went about her business, completely ignoring Kennedy until they both heard a door open in the treatment rooms section. Kennedy wasn’t completely sure, but he thought he could hear the sounds of Astral Weeks. He smiled.
A few seconds later, Miss Chada escorted an elderly woman through the reception area. She smiled and nodded to Kennedy as she offered the old woman up to the buzz of the courtyard.
“Ah Mr Kennedy,” she said as she turned back into the room again, “will you come though please? Thank you Jan.”
It was only when Sharenna turned to face Kennedy that he was hit by the full impact of her magic. He struggled to catch his breath. He could utter no word other than, “Hello,” and held out his hand towards her. He felt it was quite a bizarre act, considering just how close they’d been barely twenty-four hours ago.
She intentionally missed his hand, choosing instead to gently grip his arm and used it to direct him towards her particular treatment room.
“I knew it was you from the music,” Kennedy offered, wondering why he was whispering.
She squeezed his arm, leading him into her spotless white room, invited him to remove his shoes, as usual, and gently slid the door closed behind her.
“I’m sorry to come here to see you, I just didn’t know…”
“I’m glad you did, Christy,” she said quietly, patting for him to sit up on the side of her treatment table. She glided to the opposite side of the table and started to massage his neck and shoulders. “I was trying to work out how to see you. We don’t have another appointment in the book. Oh goodness you’re very tight. You’ve started work again?”
Kennedy nodded.
She was a pure magician when it came to hitting the right spots in his neck and shoulders. Kennedy felt his head dropping. She might well have the most amazing body Kennedy had ever seen in his life, but she was also an absolutely amazing genius as a masseuse, and her fingers quickly started to unlock the damaging fusions Kennedy knew would become more painful if left to their own devices.
“I had an enjoyable time with you,” she whispered a little bit stiffly during a particular noisy part of the music.
Kennedy started to turn towards her.
Her hands worked away on his neck, refusing to allow him to turn.
Perhaps we are being watched, Kennedy thought. She worked on for another five minutes and then broke the spell she’d been creating as she said, “I’m afraid that’s as much as I can fit in for now Mr Kennedy. Don’t forget to do the exercises I showed you. You need to take thirty minutes each day to help fix your own body. You’re only back at work a day. Already I can feel it in your shoulders.”
She returned her hands to his shoulders and showed him exactly where he was tightening up again. She helped him down from her table. She looked as if she were nodding a very discreet “no” to him as she did so.
Did she think he was going to try and kiss her? Were they being monitored? Kennedy clocked another pulsing red shadow on the ceiling like the one in the reception area. Luckily enough he saw the shadow before he’d actually looked straight at the camera and he was able to look away in time. In time for what? he wondered. What exactly was he feeling guilty about? What had he done wrong? Did he think ann rea was at the other end of the camera or something?
Outside the door to her room, Kennedy was putting his shoes back on again when she put her right hand into the pocket of her starched, snow-white, knee-length cotton gown.
“Thank you Mr Kennedy,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “Please have Jan put another appointment in the book.”
She smiled a little at him as she returned to her room, closing her door after her.
As Kennedy walked back towards reception, he closed his hand over the piece of folder paper in the palm of his hand, put his hand in the pocket of his dark blue windbreaker and left the note there.
“Yes,” Jan began when she saw him again, “Miss Chada said you’d a very bad weekend and that you might drop in today. How are you feeling now?”
“Oh, much better,” Kennedy admitted, passing his credit card over to Jan. “She’s very good, isn’t she?”
“I’ll tell you this in confidence,” she said quite quietly, sounding as if she and Kennedy were best mates, “she’s by far the best we’ve ever had in here. I try them all, you know. Get them to work on me so I know which patients to put with which masseuses, and Miss Chada really is the finest I’ve come across.”
“Can I book in my next session, please?”
“Yes, of course, the usual forty minutes… let’s see,” Jan said, as she flicked through the pages of her appointment book. “Today and tomorrow are totally out, fully booked. This week… now, let’s see…you like to come in at lunchtime, don’t you?”
“If possible?”
“Let’s say Wednesday at one o’clock?”
“Okay,” Kennedy said making a mental note. “Maybe I should stick one in for the following week as well.”
Jan flicked on another seven pages. “Hmmm, I’ll have to get back to you on that. She’s got all next week blocked off for something.”
Kennedy wasn’t really paying attention to Jan; he was too preoccupied with the note burning a hole in his pocket.
Kennedy had five minutes before he was due to meet DS Irvine outside the Roundhouse. Once he’d turned out of the Market into Chalk Farm Road and the volume of pedestrians dropped by about 90 per cent, he removed the note from his pocket. It smelled of her distinct blend of aromas; the predominant one was clean. Clean, he chastised himself as he was nearly run over by a car pulling into the petrol station midway to the Roundhouse. What the hell does clean smell like? She didn’t have the scent of someone who smelled hygienically clean, that was most definitely something else; this was more soulful. He thought about this as he opened the four-fold note. Clean smells like Miss Chada. A bit of a cop-out, he accepted, but that really nailed it for him. Her scents were intoxicating, soulful, and clean.
Her handwriting was perfectly formed and neat, very neat.
Monday.
I’m happy you came to see me. I hoped you would. Ring me on 07972 147738 whenever you finish work and I’ll come and see you. S.
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie Littlewood’s eyes literally sparkled and shone through her sadness.
She greeted Irvine and Kennedy at the front door of the house she shared with her husband Roger in Well Walk, just off Hampstead Heath. From the outside, these houses had always looked to Kennedy as if they’d be tiny inside. Not so. The hundred-year-plus-old house was very cosy and cottage-like, but comfortably proportioned on the inside. Mrs Littlewood was obviously a house-proud woman. The house was very busy with antique furniture, ornaments, bric-a-brac, several photos of a much younger - and stunning in a period drama kind of way - Mrs Littlewood, and various-sized paintings absolutely everywhere. But for all the busyness of the house, there was not a speck of dust visible to the naked eye. Unlike Patrick Mylan’s “show” house, Roger and Maggie’s house was most certainly a home.
Maggie was dressed in her around-the-house clothes: a loose fitting, aqua training top and matching trousers. She’d big eyes in a smallish face. Her hair was white and permed, and her make-up enhanced her senior years rather than belittling them. She was immediately very mumsy and caring. She showed them straight through the house into the small back and even better groomed garden where Roger and she had obviously been enjoying afternoon tea and scones when Camden Town’s finest CID officers had come calling. Maggie introduced Kennedy and Irvine to Roger and then disappeared back into the house.
“It’s a sorry affair with poor Patrick, isn’t it? Have you any idea what happened?” Roger asked.
“We’re still looking into it,” Kennedy replied, studying him.
Kennedy reckoned he was honing in on his sixtieth year, if he hadn’t already recently said goodbye to it. He looked fit and slim, but the years had definitely taken their toll. His careful
ly combed hair was thinning and looked too reddish-black to be his natural colour. His face looked slightly drawn and pale. He was dressed in dark blue chinos, a white shirt, a red sleeveless jumper and brown moccasins. He was instantly likeable, very friendly and welcoming to Kennedy and Irvine.
“Roger, clear a bit of space for me on the table, pet,” Maggie ordered as she reappeared at the back door carrying a try laden with a fresh pot of tea and some more steaming hot scones.
“I feel I should say, you shouldn’t have bothered, but I’m very glad you did,” Kennedy said as he and Irvine rose to help Roger and Maggie. “I have to tell you, I’m extremely fond of tea and scones.”
“Aye, and you look like you could do with some fattening up. As my dear old mother would have said, you look like you enjoy your salads too much.”
“Maggie!” Roger protested.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it, Sergeant Irvine?” Maggie asked impishly.
“Ach sure, you know, I think a daily helping of porridge would work wonders,” Irvine ventured cautiously, as they all sat down at the table and Maggie served them the tea and scones.
Roger went to help himself to a scone only to receive a slap on the back of his hand from his wife.
“Roger, don’t you dare. You’ve already had three,” Maggie scolded with a degree of seriousness Roger knew not to ignore. She sat down again and grew quiet and serious. Roger obviously knew what was troubling her because he rubbed her back without making a big fuss over it. They were quiet for quite a few seconds as Irvine and Kennedy jammed and creamed up their scones.
Roger filled the silence with, “When my wife is quiet, I always feel it would be rude to interrupt her.”
“More like you’re after a bit of peace and quiet yourself, no doubt,” she said before returning to her thoughts again.
“These really are delicious,” Irvine said, his accent helping in no small way to make them really sound like they were delicious.
“Patrick loved my scones too,” Maggie said. “We’d often sit out here, enjoying our tea and scones, just the three of us, wouldn’t we, Roger?”
“Aye, Maggie,” Roger replied as he looked off to the right of the table, up at the big blue sky high above his hedge. So high up, Kennedy reckoned, that his wife wouldn’t see his tears.
“When did you see him last?” Irvine asked.
“Well, let’s see,” Maggie began, nodding as she spoke; Kennedy wondered was she conscious she did this. “We were around at his house just over a fortnight ago, Saturday night. He’d one of his groups around for ‘a wee bit of supper.’ That was how he always extended his invitations.”
“Who was there that night?”
“Who was there, Roger?” Maggie repeated Irvine’s question.
“Oh, the usual crowd,” Roger began expansively. His deep, distinctive voice would have been perfect to deliver a talking book. “The songwriter…”
“…Tim Dickens,” Maggie completed her husband’s sentence.
“The actress…” Roger began again.
“…lovely Nealey, Nealey Dean; she’s such a nice girl.”
Irvine sat up a bit in his seat at that point.
“And then Martin Friel with his wife Marianne, Tony Stevenson with his wife Valerie, and ourselves,” Roger said. “Martin, Tony, Maggie, and myself have known Patrick from the time we all worked together at Credit Suisse.”
“Patrick didn’t have a partner then?” Kennedy asked diplomatically.
“Please don’t get her started,” Roger said as Maggie tutted to the high blue sky.
“Oh, come on, pet, you wanted him to settle down with someone as well,” Maggie retorted.
“Well, Patrick was very generous to his friends, we all loved him, but I suppose the bottom line just was that he’d never met the right…”
“Roger, Patrick wasn’t really ready to settle down and you know it. As we all kept saying, you really have to want to meet someone before you do meet someone. He wasn’t at the right stage in his life for love. I think he’d really have preferred to wipe his bum with a brick than settle down.”
“Maggie!” Roger blurted in a half laugh. “We’re in mixed company - civilians and police officers.”
“Oh they’re all right. They know what I’m trying to say, don’t you, Inspector Kennedy?” Maggie asked, her head nodding slowly.
“I think I know what you’re saying; you’re saying he wasn’t really up for meeting anyone.”
“No, not quite,” Roger offered; “she was trying to say, Patrick would have run a million miles before getting involved in a serious relationship.”
“Right,” Kennedy and Irvine said simultaneously.
“Would you mind telling us how you all met?” Kennedy asked.
“We all joined Credit Suisse on the same day,” Roger said with a smile.
“That’s Tony, Martin, Patrick, Roger, and myself,” Maggie said, and added in a sweeter voice, “That was also the first time Roger and I met.”
“Actually, Martin came a bit later, didn’t he? He started off as a teacher.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Maggie said as if she hadn’t realised this fact for years.
“How long ago was that?” Kennedy asked.
“Twenty-three years ago in September,” Roger answered.
“That’s a long time,” Kennedy said.
“Don’t remind us,” Roger laughed.
“So when did youse leave?” Irvine asked.
“I left first,” Maggie volunteered. “Roger and I got together after three years.”
“I was already married,” Roger offered. “It was a bit difficult for a while.”
“He separated from his first wife in 1990. We married in 1991, and John, our first son, was born in 1992. I was pregnant with John when I left Credit Suisse. Patrick left the following year. Tony and Martin left somewhere around 1999, and Roger stayed on until he retired three years ago.”
“I admired Patrick, Tony, and Martin for going it alone, but I’ve always been a company man…”
“Please don’t say you had to stay because you had a family,” Maggie said, without a hint of bitterness.
“No, no, never,” Roger laughed. “I’ve always admitted I thrive best as a company man.”
“Yes, pet, you have, and we’ve had a great life because of it,” Maggie said, looking back at their lovely house. “Goodness, can you imagine what they must all have been going through this year though?”
“Ah, it had to happen; the whole thing got out of control,” Roger said, “but not before they took good care of themselves though.”
“Where had Patrick come from?” Kennedy asked, looking at Maggie.
“You mean his family? They’ve all been dead since before we met him. His mother died when he was young. His father might have left, it’s all a bit confusing, and Patrick didn’t like talking about it. They were from a place called Sligo in the west of Ireland,” Maggie replied. “He was brought up by an aunt and uncle on his mother’s side.”
“Right,” Kennedy said, encouraging more.
“Patrick finished school when he was fifteen and came straight over to London. He worked on the roads. Then he got a job in a hotel down in Bayswater. He did very well there. Put himself through night classes, studied to become an accountant. Worked for NatWest for a few years, didn’t like it, left, and joined Credit Suisse which, as I say, is how we all met up.”
“His aunt and uncle?” Kennedy asked.
“They were very old when he left Ireland,” Maggie continued. “They died a few years later. The only reason he even found out is that he’d send them regular letters with cheques, and then one day he received a pile of unopened return-to-sender letters with his cheques uncashed. Apparently his own parents were very old when they had him. He was an only child. He did a bit of research on his family a good few years back but couldn’t turn up anything beyond what he already knew.”
“It’s a very sad story, isn’t it?” R
oger said.
“I think that’s been his big problem,” Maggie started back up again. “He’d really never known the love of a parent, of a brother, a sister. He told me his uncle really just treated him the same way he treated the other farm hands. If you’ve never been loved as a child, how could you possibly know how to love someone in your adult years?”
“Well…” Roger started, drawing the word out.
“I know you think it poppycock, pet,” Maggie said, putting her hand on his arm as a signal to stop, “but it makes sense to me. I think Patrick was a perfect example of what lack of love has done.”
“Were there any disastrous relationships?” Kennedy asked.
“No, I don’t believe so. Oh, of course he’d enjoy female companionship,” Maggie said, looking more at her husband than Kennedy. “Look, pet, be a love and take the stuff from the table in to the kitchen; I fear rain isn’t too far away. Maybe the nice sergeant here would help you in with it?”
Both did as they were bid, and when they’d gone indoors with their first load, she continued to Kennedy, “Let me show you around the garden.” When Kennedy didn’t show much enthusiasm about leaving his teacup and final untouched scone behind, she continued, “I need to be out of earshot of Roger. He thinks I have a blind spot when it comes to Patrick.
“You see, Inspector Kennedy, Patrick used to pay for the company of his ladies, if you see what I mean,” she continued as they sauntered around her small garden.
“You mean call girls?” Kennedy asked, thinking it sounded nicer than hookers or prostitutes.
“In a way, but not really. He was too careful for that. Look, I know I’m not making much sense, but Patrick was a dear friend to Roger and me. I’m having a difficult time believing he committed suicide. So I’m treading a difficult line here because, on the one hand I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but at the same time, I’m trying to be helpful to you in your investigation so you can find out what happened to our dear friend.”
