A Pleasure to do Death With You

by Paul Charles

  They got back to the cabin shortly after eight o’clock. Kennedy opted for a dander to walk off the wine. Grace was “bushed” from the night before and retired immediately. Kennedy strolled down to the corral and stroked a couple of horses though the fence. The friskiest horse was pure white and reminded him of Silver, the Lone Ranger’s trusty steed. Kennedy reckoned his fascination with America had probably started with watching the Lone Ranger on television back home in Portrush.

  The cabin and the chief’s house now in the distance, Kennedy walked on to make sure he had at least a chance of sleeping the whole way through the night. He barely made it back to the cabin. He could quite easily have lain down on the earth, curled up, and gone to sleep. He was so tired his eyes stung as if someone had rubbed them with sandpaper.

  As he walked up the incline towards the house and cabin compound, he saw someone leaning into Grace’s Mustang. At first he though it was Grace; but then, hearing Kennedy’s footsteps, the person stepped back from the vehicle. The shape was too full-figured for Grace or her dad. The light was fading and Kennedy’s eyes refused to focus for him, but, from the body language, it appeared that the man was behaving as if he were doing something he shouldn’t have been.

  “Hello?” Kennedy called out.

  The figure ignored Kennedy. A bad sign.

  Kennedy quickened his step. As he drew closer, he realised the figure was definitely that of a middle-aged, overweight male, unshaven, dressed in a denim shirt, jacket, and jeans and a reversed green baseball hat. The mystery man continued to futter around in the back seat of Grace’s car, but when he was still about fifty feet away, Kennedy broke into a run. The man turned on his heels and ran as well.

  As Kennedy sped up, he saw that the intruder had something in his right hand. He recognised it was a file, the Steve Scott case file he’d been examining during the day. Kennedy figured he’d easily catch the overweight man, but then what? Kennedy was a visitor; he couldn’t just go around beating people up, no matter how strangely they were behaving. From about three feet away, he took two more large strides. Using his right foot, he clipped the stranger’s right ankle, which in turn caught on his left foot, and the intruder clumsily tripped himself up. Kennedy came on him too fast, and he too tripped and fell over. The file and contents scattered out around them both.

  The stranger uttered several profanities as he scampered to his feet. Kennedy was going for the file as he noticed a flat-back truck race towards them both. In the nick of time, and only just, he managed to roll quickly three times to the right and out of the line of the truck. The stranger, huffing, puffing, and swearing, hopped on to the back of the truck. As it roared away, its grubby white-walled wheels spun up a cloud of dust that covered the entire yard.

  Kennedy was winded but not seriously hurt. As he was coming to his senses, he became aware of a vision in white emerging from the cloud of dust.

  “Inspector! Inspector!” Grace Scott screamed, ignoring her modesty as her long T-shirt filled with wind and rose. In her excitement she was going too fast and collided with Kennedy, knocking him over again. “Well, smack my mamma,” she said as she regained her composure and her modesty. “What the heck was that all about?”

  “Someone was trying to steal the file on Steve’s case,” Kennedy told her, averting his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she started brushing Kennedy down. She turned him away from her and nudged him to lead the way back into the unlit cabin. “Okay, Inspector,” she said once inside, very slowly and deliberately, “I need you to promise not to look. I need you to stare at the floor.”

  Kennedy did as he was bid.

  “Damn and blast, I’ve only gone and ripped my T-shirt the whole way down the side. Of course it’s nothing you’ve never seen before, but I don’t know you well enough to share mine. But don’t be getting any ideas. I don’t mean that when I get to know you better, I’ll share… oh shit, help! I didn’t mean I wouldn’t, or for that matter that I would… Shit, if Ed sees us like this, you’re done for, Inspector. God, shut up, Grace. Right, I’m stopping talking now. This is me not talking, well… about to not talk. Oh God, I can’t believe the state I’m in with you, and I barely know you. Well we did sleep together. I’m digging myself into this hole deeper and deeper, aren’t I?”

  “Ah, that would be a yes,” Kennedy replied, still in the dark but highly amused.

  “Shit, shut up Grace,” she ordered herself again. “Right, eyes closed Inspector. I’m going to my room.”

  In a few minutes she came running back into the main room of the cabin.

  “Can I open my eyes?” Kennedy asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She had pulled on a grey sweatshirt with the Grateful Dead skull on the front, and she was still zipping up her jeans, which were so tight she had to hop from foot to foot to accomplish her task.

  “Are you okay, Inspector?” she said, rushing over to him and using a master switch to turn on all the lamps in the room.

  “I’m fine, Grace, just winded; the only thing that’s injured is my pride.”

  “What happened out there?”

  Kennedy recounted his nocturnal adventure, and then for the first time since the strangers had sped off, he realised he still had the file, with its pages untidily spread within, clasped in a vice-like grip in his right hand.

  Grace fussed around Kennedy for a few minutes, examining him carefully to make sure he wasn’t injured. She seemed genuinely concerned. She was so close to him he could smell her hypnotic blend of scents.

  “This means we’re… you’re on to something,” she said, growing more excited by the second. “Don’t you see, someone saw us, obviously saw you today down at the bridge. A someone who must have something to hide.”

  She strode across the room to the drinks area and poured them each a generous glass of wine. She was now animated, charged, prowling bare-footed, her flowing ginger mane looking like a halo of fire.

  She’s morphed into a completely different woman. Kennedy felt she was giving off a sexual energy for the first time. Equally he knew it had nothing whatsoever to do with him. “Sometwo. There were two of them,” he offered: “the driver and the overweight chap with the green baseball cap who was hoaking around in the back seat of your car.”

  “Hoaking?”

  “Sorry, Ulster word for searching.”

  “Right. Two of them, but that is also good. Ed always says that if two people are involved in a murder, there is twice the chance of catching the culprits. What do you think? This is good, isn’t it? Can we talk about it or are you tired?”

  “I’m too wired to sleep at this particular moment,” Kennedy replied, as he took the glass of wine offered and followed her towards the empty fireplace. He was about to sit on the stool across from her, but she patted the cushion beside her in the ginormous sofa she’d just flopped into. It seemed to Kennedy that she was happy to live in that corner of the sofa when she was in the cabin. She had her little table for coffee, drinks, food, and the CD, television, and DVD remotes. In front of her and to the right of her side of the sofa, she had a magazine, a paper, and a book rack all within arm’s length. It reminded Kennedy of Nealey Dean’s quite similar set-up in her Marylebone apartment.

  “Inspector, I can’t believe it,” she began after a generous gulp of wine. “This really is the first sign, break, whatever, since Steve was murdered. There’s been absolutely zero before now. I know Ed loves me, but I’ve been so obsessed with this, I’m sure he has been thinking I’d lost it. The more people churned out the old cliché about Steve being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the more it drove me on.”

  Two large glasses of wine later, Kennedy’s eyes started to feel heavy again. He’d fully intended to go through Steve’s file again that night and see what the thieves had been after, but though the spirit had been willing, the flesh had been weak. They bid their goodnights and retired to their rooms.

  Just as Kennedy was starting to doze
off, while thinking of Grace and the last twenty-four hours, there was a knock on his door.

  “You still awake, Inspector?”

  “Barely,” Kennedy muttered.

  “Would you just hold me again tonight? Last night was so comforting. Today was a great day. I don’t want to cry again. I really…”

  “You’re very welcome,” Kennedy offered, and as he opened one eye he noticed she’d changed back into a long white T-shirt again. He held the cover up for her and she jumped in.

  This time she spooned Kennedy, and he felt she snuggled up much closer to him than on the previous night. He was thankful that his back was towards her, since this way no one but himself was going to be aware of the potentially embarrassing development.

  Chapter Fifty

  Kennedy woke to what sounded like loudly crackling flames either on the other side of the ceiling of his bedroom or just outside the window. He lay listening to the sound for a minute. If it was a fire, why hadn’t he smelled any smoke? Doctor Taylor had once informed him that one of the flaws of the human body was that we can’t smell when we’re sleeping. Apparently it would interfere with our sleep. Kennedy was sure the crackling was getting louder. He suddenly had a vision of the overweight, denim-clad man returning in the night to torch the cabin to ensure Steve Scott’s file was destroyed one way or another.

  Grace Scott was still sleeping peacefully, sleeping contentedly with her thumb securely in her mouth. Kennedy slowly and carefully slipped out of the bed, picked up his clothes and, as quietly as possible, opened the bedroom door. He quickly and carefully closed the door behind him.

  He pulled on his chinos, blue shirt, and socks. Now the sound was under the main roof. He was convinced the noise of the fire above was growing louder. He decided it was best not to open the main door in case the flames were contained just outside the door. There was no tell-tale smoke in the cabin, so, worst case scenario, he felt he could, if it was necessary, save Grace and avoid the wrath of Chief Ed Donohue.

  It was still only five-fifty, but it looked a lot darker than it had been the previous morning when they’d just been turning in. As he pulled the drapes open at the far end of the main room, he realised the fire that he was going to bravely save Grace from was in fact a furious cloudburst. The torrential rain was falling so heavily that he could barely see the corral at the foot of the meadow, let alone the tall trees that rose up with the hills at the far side. Rain or no rain, it was a glorious scene. Kennedy pulled over a chair in front of the panoramic window and just sat there contently. There was going to be no chance of being able to examine the banks of Pilarcitos Creek today either.

  Then the clouds broke, and the new sun came shining through and fully removed the darkness. The transformation in the scenery was nothing short of spectacular. The hills, with their thick, tree-lined foliage were now fully in view and looked visibly refreshed from their recent shower. Those proud trees lived a life of luxury. They remained static while everything was brought to them: heat, light, water, food, and even the deposits he was sure the trees would avoid if they possibly could.

  Kennedy sat for another thirty minutes, transfixed by the transformation from the need for shelter from wintry gloom to summer enticement for the outdoors. He loved this part of the day; when it was young, fresh, and unspoilt. He fancied a walk, and ten minutes later he was down as far as where the line of trees bordered the fields beyond the corral. The air felt unused and invigorating, and even in spite of the recent vicious showers, it still smelled like America.

  From out of nowhere, Sharenna Chada came into his mind and seriously disturbed his peaceful thoughts. Could Grace be right? Could Miss Chada really have thought she’d gotten away with the murder of Patrick Mylan and was now in Half Moon Bay settling down into the next part of her life? He knew Grace and her father were right; he did need to have a cast-iron case before he confronted her. Kennedy was pretty certain it was Miss Chada, mainly due to the phone records, using him as an alibi, and her skipping town. He had honed in on the motive, and all that needed to be resolved now was the how.

  He calculated it was early Sunday afternoon in the UK, and DS James Irvine would soon continue the London side of the investigation by interviewing Maggie Littlewood again first thing tomorrow morning. Kennedy regretted not pushing Maggie further when he’d interviewed her. Come to that, Rodney Stuart had obviously known much more than he admitted. But only with the advantage of hindsight did Kennedy know what questions Mylan’s longest friend and accountant should have been asked. Even Banks wasn’t at all reluctant to give up information on Sharenna Chada when Kennedy had eventually quizzed him about it. “Yes,” Kennedy admitted, to himself and the trees, aloud, “while questioning it always pays dividends to go on fishing expeditions.” By the time Kennedy contacted London, he hoped to be able to read the details of Irvine’s current interview with Maggie. Irvine had set Kennedy up with an idiot-proof account with GoToMyPC, where he, Kennedy, could sign into his North Bridge House computer from anywhere in the world. He’d yet to try it out, and Kennedy had clocked that the Coastside Net store was probably the most private route for him to keep contact with North Bridge House.

  By this point, Kennedy realised he was lost. He thought about it for a while and decided he was thoroughly enjoying the feeling. Eventually he came across a river.

  “No,” he corrected himself out loud, “this is a creek.”

  The recent downpour had filled the creek to dangerous levels, and the fast-flowing waters looked very vicious. He thought this must probably be the border of the chief’s land, so he backtracked a bit and then followed the slope of the hill back down again to the fields just beyond the corral.

  It was now seven o’clock, and it was his turn to make breakfast, so he strolled back to the cabin, only to meet the chief returning from somewhere.

  “Early morning stroll, Christy?”

  “Yeah. It’s amazing here. Unbelievable. I got lost in the trees for a while.” Kennedy was worried that his inability to string a sentence together was making him sound too much like a hippie.

  “Do you ride?”

  “Sadly not, Chief,” Kennedy replied.

  “You should get Grace to take you out on a trail on one of the quiet horses. She’s been on horses since she was six. She’s a brilliant horsewoman; she’ll look after you well.”

  Kennedy panicked at Grace’s name. What if the chief went in and found her in Kennedy’s bed! No amount of explanation would suffice.

  “Is Grace up yet?”

  “She wasn’t up when I came out for a walk,” Kennedy replied, picking his words carefully.

  “Any progress? I heard you were down by the bridge yesterday?”

  “A few observations, but nothing solid yet,” Kennedy replied. He was having bizarre flashes of being in a cowboy movie and having a conversation with Randolph Scott.

  “Well, London speaks very highly of you, and hopefully Grace will be satisfied when you conclude your investigation.”

  “Chief, do you know what Officer Scott was working on when he died?”

  “Officer MacCormac has already rechecked all those avenues for the city police; you should talk to him.”

  “So there’s absolutely nothing suspicious there?”

  Chief Ed Donohue broke into a hearty laugh. “Look, Christy, we’re not LA or New York here. Heck, we’re not even San Francisco. We don’t really get a lot of major crimes going on. We’re more peacekeepers, dispute settlers, a stepping stone on the career paths for some of our more ambitious officers. We’re plagued with robberies, domestics, disturbance of the peace, but for the most part that’s all we get. Recently, it’s taking all of our resources to prevent teenagers from beating the living daylights out of each other. It’s the girls who are the worst offenders.”

  Kennedy only nodded.

  “You’re not shocked?”

  “I’m afraid it’s the new culture,” Kennedy replied.

  “Okay,” the chief said, moving on a
nd now acting a little self-conscious, “Grace came to see me yesterday and, ah… Christy, I have to tell you, you don’t know how wonderful you’re making her feel by taking her seriously. I have to tell you I, ah …feel very good about that.”

  Kennedy wondered how Randolph Scott… how good the chief would feel about Kennedy if he knew that his daughter and the Ulster detective had shared the same bed for the previous two nights.

  The chief, hands deep in pockets, tried to free a stubborn stone from the path way beneath them. Kennedy felt their chat was over.

  “So, how are you sleeping?”

  “Not bad last night,” Kennedy replied, hoping he wasn’t blushing.

  “What are you up to today?”

  “Chief Nolan has invited me over to his place for lunch.”

  “MacCormac mentioned that. He was worried he’d have to take you over, but Grace saved his bacon by volunteering to chauffeur you instead.” The chief reached over and shook Kennedy’s hand. “Right, you have a great day, and if I don’t see you later, I’ll see you down in Kelly Street tomorrow morning.”

  As the chief walked away, Kennedy started to worry about his progress. Here he was, at great expense to Camden Town CID, in America for two nights already and venturing into his third day with nothing to show. He knew his Ulster upbringing and work ethic were at the root of his guilt. He knew how he could quickly kick the guilt into touch for the moment: he’d prepare breakfast for Grace Scott.