The Ballad Of Sean And Wilko (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 4)

by Paul Charles

  And with that, Tracey got up and left the room. The minute she opened the door she could hear her sister crying, more like wailing. Before WPC Coles had a chance to restrain her, Tracey burst through the kitchen door and ran to her sister, who greeted her with open arms, at which point they both hugged, rocking together gently.

  Tracey McGee hissed over her shoulder at Coles and Irvine. ‘Now look what you’ve done. Get the feck out of here before you cause any more damage.’

  Considering their interviews to be a disaster, they left the sisters of mercy. Both couples were dejected. But the interviews hadn’t been a complete waste of time. There had been a valuable piece of information given away during the course of the interviews. But it was like Kennedy kept saying to his team, ‘All the information is out there. It’s waiting for us to collect it. Once we collect it, we have to realise what we have and, more importantly, we have to know what to do with it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Kennedy barely had time for Coles and Irvine’s report. He considered what Susan hadn’t said. Kennedy was convinced that KP was telling the truth, that Tracey had in fact had an affair with Wilko.

  At seven forty he exited North Bridge House with the unwholesome threesome on his mind. Did Tracey’s being forbidden fruit turn Wilko on? Was Tracey the one to do the chasing? Had Susan Robertson set up the whole affair?

  For heaven’s sake, how could you sleep with your sister-in-law? How on earth could you ever look her or your wife in the face again? Was rock-n-roll really as decadent as people made out?

  Or perhaps this particular infidelity cost Wilko his life. Suppose Wilko was sleeping with Tracey. Could that have been the final straw, the thing which made Susan snap? She’d managed to overlook all the other affairs but this one, literally on her doorstep, just pushed her over the edge? Kennedy considered another scenario. What if Wilko decided he didn’t want to continue the affair with Tracey any longer? What if he wanted to return to his wife? Tracey, humiliated, first by sleeping with her sister’s husband, then by losing him back to her sister again, couldn’t take it any more and killed him.

  He considered both sisters. He was happy to assume that both had a motive. But, whichever sister it was, how on earth did she murder Wilko Robertson in the basement of Dingwalls Dancehall? How did they carry it out?

  What if Tracey’s accusation against KP was true, that he had been jealous of Wilko enjoying her favours? Was there any history there? If KP was a legit suspect then the crime itself became somewhat more explainable again. KP burst down the door before anyone else arrived and replaced the key. That worked, didn’t it, Kennedy thought as he crossed Regent’s Park Road into Rothwell Street.

  His ruminating came to an abrupt end when he noticed ann rea’s maroon Ford Popular parked outside his house, number sixteen. The car was empty but his doorstep wasn’t.

  ‘In approximately forty-five seconds you would have been officially late,’ ann rea scolded playfully.

  ‘In other words, I’m early,’ Kennedy replied, as he jumped the four steps in one and planted a peck on ann rea’s cold cheek. Kennedy loved it when her cheeks were cold.

  ‘Is that all I get after last night?’ she teased, as he unlocked the solitary lock.

  Kennedy said nothing. He caught her by the hand and playfully pulled her after him into his darkened hallway. When they were both clear of the door he turned, closed the door, and took ann rea in his arms and kissed her.

  ‘We should split up more often,’ she said as she pulled away. ‘I’m thirsty, let’s have something to drink.’ She led him through to the kitchen and produced two bottles of cold white wine from her black canvas rucksack and presented them with a flourish.

  As ever, ann rea dressed to thrill. She wore white skin-tight leggings under a deep blue micro skirt, a white satin shirt under a matching blue waistcoat. The head-turning ensemble had been concealed under a sober navy blue duffel coat. The cold evening had given just a little hint of colour to her usual white cheeks, but it was the eyes that got Kennedy. They always did.

  ‘Kennedy, don’t go all soppy on me, remember where that got us last time.’

  ‘Oh, forget soppy. This is my tongue-on-the-ground look.’

  ‘Yea, the old white bra under a white shirt trick always got you going,’ ann rea returned, noticing his line of vision.

  ‘I’ll say,’ Kennedy replied, happier to keep the conversation on a lighter note, particularly this lighter note. Truth be told, he adored every inch of her body. She had, what was for Kennedy, the perfect body. Full-figured, very full-figured, but not plump.

  ‘That’ll have to do you for now, Kennedy. I’ve another hunger to satisfy first, so feed me.’

  The detective smiled, admitting he’d been caught out. ‘Okay, you go and put on some music and I’ll start dinner.’

  A couple of minutes later they were both sitting at his large well-worn table, the hub of his kitchen, sipping their wine and listening to Van Morrison’s Saint Dominic’s Preview. In the oven Mr Marks and his good friend Mr Sparks were furiously whipping up another of their specialities of le package, chicken paramount, potatoes gratin and peas.

  By the time they’d reached “Listen to the Lion”, the final track on side one of the record, they were both so lost in the music that neither spoke for a while. The Belfast-born vocalist moved from singing the lyric to using his voice as an instrument; an instrument to weave around the arrangement, pulling your heart this way and that. Kennedy thought, with this music filling the room and this vision of ann rea before him, he would settle for what he had. No gripes, just grateful submission. By the time the song had ended Kennedy felt drained.

  ‘That is so beautiful,’ ann rea announced, as much to herself as to him.

  ‘Aye, I know, but it’ll never get on the Radio One Playlist.’

  ‘You’re not wrong and you can thank God for that,’ ann rea said.

  As Kennedy laid out the food and replenished their wine glasses, ann rea returned to the study to put on a new cassette; this tine the sound of the Beatles’ Revolver album filled the kitchen.

  ‘This is class as well,’ Kennedy nodded.

  ‘So how are you getting on with the Wilko murder?’ ann rea began, as they settled down to their food.

  ‘Well, we’re making progress,’ Kennedy replied. It wasn’t exactly the direction he hoped the conversation would have taken. Nonetheless, he continued, ‘Did you know that Wilko was having an affair with his wife’s sister?’

  ann rea stopped mid-bite.

  ‘No!’ she spat out. ‘How gross. How low can you get?’

  ‘The sister, Tracey McGee, denies it of course. But it does give us a couple more suspects.’

  ‘The sisters?’

  ‘At least,’ Kennedy replied.

  ‘You mean there are more?’ ann rea quizzed.

  ‘Well, Tracey claims the alleged affair is a figment of KP’s imagination. She claims he started the rumours to protect his bruised ego when she turned him down.’

  ‘But you think that’s a bit of a smokescreen?’

  ‘Perhaps, but there is a certain logic to it,’ Kennedy reflected.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, if KP did murder Wilko, then the procedure with the locked door kind of makes sense. At the same time, I don’t think he’d be the type of person who could murder anybody.’

  ‘God, what a mess. Your own sister sleeping with your husband, or your own husband sleeping with your sister. I don’t know which is worse. You see, that’s the aspect of this whole love thing that I can’t get to grips with.’

  ‘What? People cheating on each other?’ the detective replied, fearing this shift in their conversation.

  ‘Well, obviously Wilko and his wife…’ ann rea hesitated.

  ‘Susan,’ Kennedy prompted.

  ‘…yes, Susan. Well, obviously at one point in their relationship they were in love, in love enough to get married. And then this happens. He has an affair; she gets jealous
and then he ends up dead. It’s like us in a way—’

  ‘How on earth is it like us, ann rea?’ Kennedy cut in, more than a little annoyed. ‘You think that just because I was in love with you there is a possibility it was going to be dangerous to your health?’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ she held up her hands. ‘It’s just that we were on that “happy ever after” road and I didn’t want that, I didn’t want all that cosiness. I love the way you lust after me. I’m just not sure I like the way you loved me.’

  ‘And which way was that?’ a mortally-wounded Kennedy enquired. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

  ‘The way that demands I love you too?’

  ‘Oh, that’s absolute rubbish. We met. I was attracted to you. We had a shaky start. At one point we were destined to become “just good friends…”’

  ‘Yes, but just hold it there. Hold that thought. That is exactly what I wanted to be. Your friend. Not just your friend. If we are true friends the word “just” doesn’t apply. I was happy to be your friend. I liked you, I liked you a lot. Then we got closer and closer and then this unresolved man-woman thing appeared and then it’s “will we, won’t we?” For heaven’s sake, I was thinking it, I knew you were thinking it…it wasn’t as though you were just after one thing. In fact, if you had been, it would have been much easier.’

  ‘What? You mean if you thought I was only interested in sleeping with you, it would have happened sooner?’ Kennedy asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes, Kennedy. If I thought you had just been after a bonk, we possibly would have a lot earlier. But you wanted so much more from me. You wanted so much of me you nearly scared me off. All the time, here am I wanting you as a friend and all the time we were growing closer and closer. I suppose it was inevitable we would end up in bed together. But I don’t like to feel that my resistance has been worn down.’

  ‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ Kennedy said after an uneasy pause. He’d given up eating his food. ‘Are you telling me that we only made love because I wore your resistance down?’

  ann rea also appeared to have lost her appetite.

  ‘Look, Christy,’ ann rea began shakily, ‘what I’m saying is that I started out wanting to be friends with you and we ended up lovers. I’m not complaining. It was beautiful. It is beautiful. But then it started to feel like being lovers wasn’t enough for you. You were so in love with me, I couldn’t love you the same way in return. Your love was so precious, so full, so committed, so sure, that anything less than a hundred per cent return was going to be cheating you.’

  ‘Hang on a minute there. I can’t believe all of this. What happened to, “boy meets girl, girl meets boy, they fall in love?” What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with using that as a starting point as opposed to a finishing point? Being in love is not the end of your life, it doesn’t mean it’s all over. Being in love does mean being friends, a different kind of friends, but friends. Friendship exists but there is also a passion you wouldn’t have with a friend. But, for heaven’s sake, it doesn’t mean that the next point along the road is cheating and hurting each other. It’s only the beginning, ann rea,’ Kennedy paused for breath and continued, ‘Yes, we met and became friends and grew close. And yes, I loved you. I mean just look at you, why on earth wouldn’t I? But my love was not conditional on you loving me in return. I didn’t tell you I loved you so that you would say “I love you, too”. I told you that I loved you because I loved you. That was it. It wasn’t meant to be a threat. Don’t you see that?’ Kennedy pleaded, continuing before she had a chance to get a word in edgeways. ‘No, you obviously don’t, because you say things like, “how is he so sure about his love?” or “I thought I was in love before but the guy turned out to be a shit. I could also be wrong about Kennedy”, and on and on, tormenting us both. But not once do I remember demanding you to return my love. And now you sit here and say we only made love because I wore your resistance down, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Look, what can I tell you?’ ann rea asked. ‘I wanted to be your friend, period. Nothing else. We became friends. You were really nice to me but I didn’t want to become your lover. I wanted to be your friend. Eventually we did become lovers, but I hadn’t wanted to. So I look at it now and I have to think, either you wore my resistance down, or we wore my resistance down…’

  ‘Or, possibly,’ Kennedy added sternly, ‘you wore your own resistance down.’

  ‘Possibly, Kennedy. Possibly. But you have to see that’s where all my doubts come from.’

  ‘So, because of your continuous doubts we’re not going to pass GO?’ Kennedy pushed.

  ‘Well, we’re together right now.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Oh, Kennedy, give me time. Please. I like us being back together again. I missed you. I missed not being with you and yes, I missed not being physically close to you. I don’t want to be with anyone else but that doesn’t mean that we take up the relationship where we left off. I still have all those doubts, but if the alternative is not seeing you then yes, I do want to see you. But I want to forget all this baggage for a while. Let’s just deal with being with each other, caring for each other. Let’s have some fun together and see where that gets us, shall we?’

  ‘I never wanted anything else,’ Kennedy replied. He felt he should be happier than he was.

  Twenty minutes later as she led him up the stairs in the direction of the bedroom she said quietly, ‘Christy, you said earlier that you loved me?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Well, that kind of implies the past tense. Does that mean…’

  ‘Don’t even dream of going there,’ Kennedy warned in an even quieter voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A beautiful sunny Sunday morning, four weeks to Christmas, still far enough away for Kennedy not to have to worry about it. Presents, where to go for the holidays, and with whom? ann rea’s recent attention didn’t make the decision-making process any easier. In fact, he wasn’t altogether sure he liked the new ann rea. Of course, he shared these thoughts with no one. There was no one to share them with.

  This was turning out to be a perfect Sunday for Kennedy. A bit of a late lie-in with ann rea, breakfast, a shower, goodbyes, and then Primrose Hill by eleven. The sky was blue as far as the eye could see, the day was blustery but not cold, and it was perfect weather for a walk. Lots of seagulls squawking around. It was enough to clear Kennedy’s head from all thoughts of ann rea and his two current cases.

  Dr Taylor had arranged to meet Kennedy at North Bridge House at one thirty for tea, shortbread and the verbal delivery of the autopsy on the late Sinead Sullivan. The timing couldn’t be better, following a two-hour walk listening to Michael Parkinson on Radio 2 on his headset, a cup of tea would be just the thing for Kennedy. He was looking forward to hearing Taylor’s report. He secretly hoped, for Rose Butler’s sake, that there was something concrete in the report from which Kennedy could launch an official investigation.

  The look on Taylor’s face was not encouraging.

  ‘He’s a bit of a Dr Teflon is our Shareef,’ Taylor said. ‘Nothing’s going to stick to him. That is, of course, if the suspicions of Nurse Butler are correct.’

  ‘I’d a nasty feeling that was going to be the case,’ Kennedy replied, losing some of his early morning pace.

  ‘Miss Sinead Sullivan did indeed die as a result of a massive haemorrhage. The fatal haemorrhage was brought on as a result of placenta praevia—’

  ‘So, where does that leave us?’

  ‘Well, nowhere, to be blunt. There are no records of Miss Sullivan being monitored. That is a choice she would have been free to make. If she wasn’t being monitored the ailment wouldn’t have been detected and she wouldn’t have been treated.’

  ‘Could this prave…’

  ‘Placenta praevia.’

  ‘Could this placenta praevia been induced by any form of medication?’

  ‘Something similar perhaps, but not really. This dea
th was definitely caused as a result of placenta praevia. The placenta was very low,’ Taylor replied.

  ‘Okay. Say, for instance, a doctor with knowledge of the above was monitoring a young lady in private and he chose to ignore the symptoms. As a result the young lady dies…’ Kennedy fished blindly.

  ‘I see exactly where you’re headed, old chap. But sadly, there is no way in a million years that you could prove it. She’d have to have been monitored officially, with proper notes and records kept. Should a doctor be clever enough to murder the girl as you suggest, I doubt he would leave incriminating notes lying around. It’s possible, of course,’ Taylor continued, as he refilled his teacup, ‘that the doctor in question was totally unaware of Miss Sullivan’s predicament and is as troubled as the rest of us over her untimely death.’

  ‘Yes, there’s always that, isn’t there?’ Kennedy smiled. ‘Did you discover anything else in the autopsy?’

  ‘Only that Miss Sullivan recently had an abortion,’ Taylor announced. ‘Straightforward procedure, no evidence of complications.’

  ‘How recently?’

  ‘Possibly the back end of twelve months ago.’

  ‘Hold on a wee minute,’ the detective began, suddenly revitalised, ‘when Rose was running through the list of causes for placenta praevia I’m sure she mentioned recent abortions.’

  ‘Yes, she would have,’ Taylor nodded.

  ‘So, if we assume Sinead became pregnant by Dr Ranjesus—’

  ‘Who?’ Taylor interrupted.

  ‘The nurses call him Ranjesus because he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. So, say he finds out she’s pregnant and aborts her. From what Rose says about Sinead, the young nurse would have felt very guilty about this. Probably even felt she’d committed a mortal sin. Say she gets pregnant again as soon as possible. Only this time she doesn’t tell the doctor.’