by Paul Charles
“Yeah, well, of course,” he replied, “anything to help with my divorce. Of course, sir,” he said, addressing his chief, “I wasn’t for one moment suggesting I would, you know, go off with a sixteen-year-old.”
“You’re okay, Mactoo. The chief knows you wouldn’t look at anyone a day under seventeen,” Grace teased.
“Oh good, that’s okay then,” Mactoo said.
As Kennedy and the chief carried a weary Grace into her bedroom an hour later, he whispered to Kennedy, “Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, Inspector, that parcel of yours from the Home Office cleared customs this morning. It’s in my office waiting for you.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Kennedy and Grace entered the main room of the cabin simultaneously at seven twenty-five the following morning. It was Thursday already and the end of his first full week in America, the land of the free (except for Green Cap, Bobby Cohn, and Florence Asher) and the home of the brave. Kennedy immediately thought of Steve Scott. Why did so many of the brave have to die?
“Good day’s work yesterday, Inspector,” was Grace’s upbeat greeting. “I think you deserve one of my special breakfasts.”
“Thanks,” Kennedy said, “but I think I’d prefer to scoot down into town, pick up my parcel, check my emails, then check how the forensic guys are getting on up at the Triple W...”
“But you’ve got your confessions, Inspector,” she interrupted.
“Hard evidence trumps words from criminals any day of the week, Grace. Lawyers have learned how to eloquently argue that black really can be white,” Kennedy said. “I thought we’d get some breakfast on the way, my treat.”
“You’re the man, Inspector. Give me fifteen for a shower,” she said as she disappeared back into her bedroom.
Superintendent Thomas Castle, DS James Irvine, DC Dot King, and the Home Secretary had all sent email messages to Kennedy. His team had only sent one each, as opposed to the Home Secretary’s three. Well, he did have a vested interest and had probably gone out on a limb in his efforts to get Kennedy to the USA so quickly.
Kennedy sent them all polite replies about his work in progress, and he asked Irvine to email him photographs from the scene of the Patrick Mylan crime.
Incredibly (to Kennedy), the photos came back attached to the return message from Irvine, whose only other bit of information was that he was “well chuffed” that Manchester United’s Ryan Giggs, BBC’s Sports personality of the year the previous year, had just been awarded a knighthood in the Queen’s birthday list. Photo attachments successfully printed, Kennedy dandered down Main Street to the cafe where Grace waited for him.
On the three-minute walk, Kennedy considered how easy it was to be in Half Moon Bay. He knew he hadn’t been there that long really, but he’d expected to be feeling some pangs of homesickness. Perhaps if ann rea were still in Camden Town waiting for him and Grace Scott not currently waiting for him up in her favourite coffee house, the pull of NW1 would have been stronger. He realised that the longer he was away, the less would be the interest in the developing news stories he’d left behind.
Grace had secured her favourite back corner table, ordered their breakfast, and had her nose stuck in her paper, coffee by her side. Kennedy had a chance to observe her undetected. She looked... happy was too strong a word, but she looked contented. She had an air about her, as if she were regaining her strength or power again. He couldn’t believe how stunning she looked, basking in the flickering shadows of the airy, cinnamon-smelling building, lost in her own wee world. Unconsciously she was giving off a vibe of “Stay away from me. Leave me to my thoughts.” If he hadn’t known her, no matter how beautiful he thought she looked or how attracted he was to her, he would never have gone up to her and started a conversation from zero.
Then when she saw him approach, her attitude changed immediately. She had such a big smile for him, she seemed genuinely happy to see him. He couldn’t believe it was true. He knew in his heart it wasn’t really true. He knew her feelings for him had initially been based on the fact that he was going to help her find out what happened to her husband. Now those feelings had most probably changed to gratitude for helping her find her husband’s killers.
No sooner had Kennedy sat down than their food arrived. He wasn’t a big breakfast fan back home in Primrose Hill, but this crispy bacon, two eggs over easy, hash browns, and OJ were a major treat. Yes, they still didn’t boil water hot enough in their tea preparation, but come on, he jested to Grace, “Sure youse have only had two hundred years practice.”
After breakfast, they went down to Kelly Street station to pick up Kennedy’s package from DS James Irvine.
Kennedy asked Grace if there were any old fashioned bicycle shops. The closest one, Wheels On Fire, was over in San Mateo. En route they stopped at the Triple W Ranch and found the forensic team hard at work on the bank of the creek and in the barn. Tyre tracks and Dustin “Green Cap” McClelland’s description had helped them select the correct locations. The officer in charge, Sergeant Chris O’Donnell, informed them that they’d picked up several pieces of vital evidence, assuring Grace that they had all they needed, including Florence’s offending wine bottle which the sergeant reckoned would have both Florence and Officer Scott’s DNA on it.
Next they stopped at the chief’s ranch to swap Grace’s Ford patrol car for her Mustang, and just under an hour later they were pulling up outside Wheels On Fire. The ornery owner eventually stopped jibbing Kennedy long enough to admit that he did have some of the old style repair kits for the “inner-tube” as he called it (“tube” as Kennedy called it) of the tyre. The Ulster detective also purchased a hand pump. Kennedy was like a kid who couldn’t wait to get home to play with a new toy.
“This is a new side to you,” Grace said, pulling up outside the log cabin.
“Fingers crossed it’ll work,” Kennedy began, as he unpacked the deflated twenty-four inch diameter, orange exercise ball. “Could you do me a major favour and get me a large bowl of water?”
By the time she returned he had attached the bicycle pump and pumped the ball up to 50 per cent of its potential. The half-filled basin she returned with was a bit too small for Kennedy’s idea to work.
They searched for alternatives. A rain barrel was too dark for Kennedy’s needs. The sink in the bathroom was also too small. There were only showers in the log cabin. The shower basin was big enough but couldn’t hold enough water.
“I know,” she said. “There’s a place up on the creek where we used to go swimming. It’s in the sun, and the water is very clear and about waist deep.”
“Perfect,” Kennedy said.
“We’ll have to go by horseback,” she said.
“I can’t ride,” he admitted.
“You can hop up with me,” she insisted. “Let me quickly change.”
Kennedy figured the only thing Grace must have changed was her mind, because she came out of the cabin a few minutes later dressed in exactly the same dark blue jeans, a pink shirt and her sensible, on-duty shoes.
It took a bit longer than expected for Kennedy to get up behind her. In fact, truth be told, he didn’t master the manoeuvre at all. She had to dismount, assist Kennedy into the saddle and climb up behind him, all the time controlling the horse, Boots (because his brown turned to white just six inches above each hoof), from behind Kennedy. Then just as he was getting cosy, he realised he’d forgotten to take the orange ball with him. So she had to get down and fetch it for him along with his pump and mending kit.
They (particularly Kennedy) enjoyed the fifteen-minute trot to the creek, although he ached a little when they dismounted. Then he realised he’d forgotten to bring waders. Very quickly thereafter he also realised that Grace had indeed changed when she went into the cabin. She undressed to reveal a vibrant red bikini.
“Okay, now we’re going to see what you’ve got. Off with your clothes, Inspector,” she ordered.
“Nah, it’s okay,” Kennedy said bashfully, trying to avert his ey
es from her perfect figure. “I’ll just take off my shoes and socks and roll up my trousers.” He thought of all the similarly dressed men on the beach at Portrush’s West Strand, the majority of whom had had knotted handkerchiefs on their head as makeshift sun hats.
“Just kidding, Inspector,” she said playfully. “In the back pocket of my jeans there, you’ll find a spare swim suit of my dad’s. You can change in the bushes; promise I won’t look. Actually I think it’s quite sweet that you’re so shy.”
Kennedy forgot his modesty as he remembered why they were up at the creek in the first place. As Grace swam smoothly in the creek, Kennedy pumped some more air into the ball. Then he joined Grace in the creek. The water, cooler than he’d expected, took his breath away as he went waist high.
“Okay,” he began, “now the important part. I need you to help me look for bubbles coming out of the ball.”
He submerged the ball and started to squeeze on it.
At first Grace found it hard to be serious, but pretty soon she began to follow his lead and concentrate at the underwater section of the ball as Kennedy slowly rotated it.
“Okay, Grace,” Kennedy eventually said, “we need to be very still. We’re creating our own air bubbles with our bodies.”
“So that’s what we’re doing,” she said playfully, but it went straight over Kennedy’s head.
They kept looking for another full five minutes until Grace eventually shouted in excitement, “Bubbles, I saw bubbles; they’re very small Inspector, but I saw them.”
“Brilliant,” he shouted and he squeezed a bit harder on the ball.
“There they are again, Inspector,” she said laughing with genuine excitement, “lots of them.”
“Okay,” he said, “put your finger on the ball where the bubbles are and keep it there until we get out.”
They looked like they were involved in one of those bizarre It’s A Knockout games and were making great progress as they carefully made their way out of the creek. Then Grace slipped on the bank and fell totally back into the water. Kennedy immediately dropped his precious ball and plodded in after her, worrying she’d hit her head on a rock. He pulled her up towards him, without taking any care where he was grabbing her.
“You got me, Inspector; you saved me again,” she gasped as she resurfaced. “Now can I have my left breast back again please?”
“Oh goodness,” he stammered, “I’m sorry. Of course I didn’t mean to...”
“I’m only kidding, Inspector,” she laughed, “it’s only natural that your eyes would occasionally focus on my body. I don’t think you should force yourself not to for fear of getting a crick in your neck from not looking at me. At least you’re not letching.”
They returned to the creek, repeated the process of locating the bubbles and then, this time, successfully negotiated the slippery bank. Grace held her finger on the location of the bubbles while Kennedy fetched a magic marker from his trousers and marked the location of the puncture.
Grace and Kennedy had one more stop to make. This time it was back in San Francisco, where Grace had organised a friend in the forensic lab to examine the ball for them. An hour and a half later, they were driving back from San Francisco content with the additional bit of information her friend had discovered.
“Okay,” Kennedy said as they drove up Main Street over Pilarcitos Bridge, “I believe it’s finally time for us to pick up Miss Sharenna Chada.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
It wasn’t to be as easy as that. According to the receptionist in Livingston House, Miss Chada was taking her first day off since she’d arrived from London. Kennedy was looking forward to seeing the house that Patrick Mylan had bought and then passed on to Miss Chada. He still hadn’t worked out the connection between Patrick Mylan and Half Moon Bay. Chief Donohue’s theory was that Mylan, like hundreds before him, had been driving either up from LA or down from San Francisco and had happened upon the picturesque town and, on an impulse, had stopped and fallen in love with something or other and decided to put down roots there.
If the chief’s theory were accurate, then it showed a side of Mylan Kennedy had never imagined before.
Grace rang her contact in Livingston House, who told her that Miss Chada had taken the day off to visit San Francisco to see an accountant and a lawyer in order to set up her business model. It appeared she was hoping to remain in America permanently.
Maybe it was because Kennedy had received several messages from various people back in London about his progress, but he decided in the end not to, as Grace suggested, leave it until the following morning, choosing instead to visit Miss Chada’s house and wait there in the hope of picking her up that night.
They drove out in the general direction of Half Moon Bay Airport, and Grace turned off just before Princeton by the Sea at El Granada and headed up Dolphine Avenue until they found a modern house built into a steep, tree-lined hill, with amazing views out over the ocean. It looked too big for one person. For the first time Kennedy wondered if Miss Chada had a partner; an accomplice in Mylan’s murder perhaps? Kennedy chastised himself for not considering this option before. The house looked very tidy and well maintained, but the small, tell-tale concrete garden suggested an absentee owner. Grace reckoned the hill house wouldn’t have a single back window, and she figured it would have set Mylan back at least one and a half million dollars.
At eleven-forty, they abandoned the idea of waiting for Miss Chada. Grace’s point, and a valid one, was that the minute they arrested her, the clock started running. They would only waste the first twelve hours as they wouldn’t be allowed to interview her until the morning anyway.
Kennedy spent a very restless night, while only several feet away in her own room, Grace slept the sleep of the contented.
***
Seven o’clock Friday morning, Kennedy was up noisily preparing their breakfast in the hope of disturbing Grace and stealing an hour on the day. Now that Kennedy felt he had solved the puzzle of the crime, he was keen to confront Sharenna Chada.
As he heard noises from Grace’s room, he thought how much slower a pace he was working at while in America. The days just seemed to disappear on him. Maybe it was because he was away from home and didn’t have all his creature comforts and office and team around him, but it still seemed to take longer to accomplish things over here. Like yesterday for instance; although in one way it was a breakthrough day, it was also frustrating because they couldn’t start to question Miss Chada.
“Ah something smells good out here,” Grace shouted as she positively sprang from her bedroom.
Kennedy’s disappointment was too visible when he noted she was still in her sleeping T-shirt and shorts.
“Inspector, there are a lot of men out there who would give a month’s wages to see me like this first thing in the morning.”
“No, no, sorry I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I like to see you undressed,” he drooled, making it apparent he was drooling.
“Okay, now you’re just weirding me out,” she said, grabbing the slice of toast she just had raspberry-jammed. “I get the picture. I’ll get some clothes on, and then we’re outta here.”
A few minutes later Grace Scott, her hair still wet but at least properly dressed, and a relieved Christy Kennedy were driving off in the direction of Half Moon Bay, leaving their half-eaten breakfast still on the table.
***
Miss Chada wasn’t at her house when they called, but she was at Livingston House, where she was making up for yesterday’s trip into San Francisco by starting very early.
Kennedy thought it weird that as he and Grace Scott were shown through to Miss Chada’s treatment room, she didn’t look shocked to see him. If anything, she looked as if she’d been expecting him. If she was surprised about anything, it was Inspector Christy Kennedy from Camden Town CID being accompanied by a beautiful woman whom he introduced as “Officer Grace Scott from Half Moon Bay Police Department.” If Miss Chada recognised Grace from he
r earlier visit for treatment, she wasn’t letting on.
“Ah Mr Kennedy,” Miss Chada asked, “is your back troubling you again?”
Kennedy decided not to beat about the bush. “Miss Chada, I’m here to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Mr Patrick Mylan.”
Grace Scott then read Miss Chada her Miranda rights.
“But Mr Kennedy you know where I was when Mr Mylan was murdered,” she offered with a confident smile.
“We’re going to bring you in to Half Moon Bay police station for questioning,” Grace Scott announced. “Shall we cuff her?” she asked Kennedy.
“It’s entirely up to her,” Kennedy replied.
“That won’t be necessary,” Miss Chada said. “I will offer you no resistance. I have the conscience and confidence of the innocent.”
There was then a bit of a pantomime in the car park outside Livingston House where Grace Scott put Miss Chada in the back seat of her patrol car. Kennedy then went to take his normal seat in front with Grace.
Grace took him to one side and whispered, “You’re supposed to sit, child locked, in the back with our prisoner. You know, so she can’t harm herself or interfere with the driver.”
“Right,” Kennedy replied, slightly embarrassed. “Got it.” He hopped in the back of the car beside Miss Chada.
Seven minutes later, just as he was getting out of the car at the police station, Miss Chada leaned over after him and, quick as a flash, used both her hands to aggressively manipulate something in the small of Kennedy’s back. When he stood up beside Grace on the pavement, he immediately collapsed in a painful heap.
Grace Scott’s first instinct was to go to the aid of her fellow officer, and she was distracted enough in that split second for the agile Miss Chada to dart out from the back seat and run right past her in the general direction of freedom. Well, freedom in as much as freedom was the arms of Officer Kevin MacCormac, who was on his way out of the station house and had observed the entire incident. Miss Chada swatted Mactoo out of her path the way one swats flies. All, particularly Grace, were amazed by her strength.
