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

by Paul Charles

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The lights of North Bridge House welcomed Kennedy as he arrived there twenty minutes later. He summoned Irvine, Allaway, Lundy and Coles to his office and they gathered around his noticeboard.

  ‘So, our friend James MacDonald thinks Colette Green may have been Wilko’s spin doctor in the Circles camp?’ Kennedy suggested, as he wrote a few more names on cards and tacked them on the noticeboard.

  ‘I think that’s what he was suggesting,’ Coles said. ‘Do you think there is anything in the fight between KP and Wilko, over Tracey McGee?’

  ‘Well, I have to admit it’s gathering credence all the time,’ Kennedy replied. ‘Clarke, MacDonald and Slattery all checked out, so I suppose we should drop them from our noticeboard entirely. Same for Edwards. Let’s dig for more information on Susan Robertson and her sister, Tracey. And Sean Green and his wife. And KP. Let’s now put our brains to the method of murder. If we can work that out, we might take a giant step. If KP is the culprit, then the locked-door thing all fits, but if it’s not him then why was the door locked, first off? And how was the door locked?

  ‘How could someone possibly have entered the room, stuck a sharp needle into Wilko’s heart, placed the murder weapon neatly amongst his sweaty clothes and disappeared through the walls of the dressing room? Impossible! There had to be a simpler solution. Was the locked door meant to distract us from something? And if so, what?

  ‘Okay, let’s get back into this. There’s more out there waiting for us. Let’s meet back here at seven and see what we have,’ Kennedy bid them all goodbye.

  Kennedy’s mind flashed to Rose Butler. Seeing Irvine had made him think of her again. He felt guilty for not having devoted more time to Sinead Sullivan’s death. Now that he had his Rose Butler/Dr Ranjesus problem on his desk again he needed to focus on it. After his meeting with Dr Taylor, however, he was no longer convinced that the doctor could be brought to justice. Consequently, he was delaying meeting Ranjesus because he was unsure how to handle it; knowing that if he handled the meeting wrong the doctor would scarper. On top of which, he was up to his eyeballs with the Wilko Robertson murder. He was seriously considering an immediate visit to Ranjesus when his phone rang.

  It was Irvine, he’d been waylaid in the reception of the station house. A Geordie by the name of Larkin had been hauled in on suspicion. He’d been asking too many questions around Camden Town about another murder victim thereby drawing suspicion on himself. Irvine was fine and said everything checked out, he just wanted Kennedy to give him the once-over before he let him go. Kennedy was fine with it. He encouraged Irvine to give the Geordie as much help as possible. He was obviously distraught and on an important agenda of his own.

  With two hours to spare until his next meeting, Kennedy toyed with the idea of visiting Dr Ranjesus. He still wasn’t sure how to deal with the situation but at least he had the germ of an idea. A long shot but it might work. He decided to visit Dingwalls Dancehall before returning to the North Bridge House for the seven o’clock meeting. On his walk to the dancehall, he pondered the mysterious eleven o’clock meeting with KP.

  Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Dingwalls Dancehall, just like five or six hundred other people that night. Kennedy, though, was there to visit the scene of a crime. The several hundred patrons were on their way to see Ireland’s latest sensation, Sharon Shannon, the Jimi Hendrix of the accordion. When Kennedy read this notice on the poster outside the venue, he wondered was she going to pour lighter fuel on her instrument and set it alight.

  ‘Excuse me, Guv. Can I help you?’

  Kennedy flashed his warrant card to the bouncer, a stocky chap in a shiny black bomber jacket, black chinos, gleaming black shoes, black hair and with a black mobile glued to his ear.

  ‘Yes, sir, can I help you?’ He was six foot four, at least.

  ‘Is this the only way into the backstage area?’ Kennedy asked, shutting the security door behind him.

  ‘Yes, Guv, this way or over the stage.’

  ‘Does one of your chaps cover this spot every night?’

  ‘Correct, Guv. Four of us every night – one on the other door by the box office, one each end of the long bar and me here backstage.’

  ‘Do you move around? You know, relieve each other?’

  ‘The other three do, but I’m the only one cleared to deal with the actual artists, so I always do the backstage door.’

  ‘Were you working last Thursday evening?’ Kennedy enquired. He had to raise his voice slightly as the band had started into another number.

  ‘Yes indeed, Guv. Sad night for that band, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me, sorry, what’s your name?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘I’m Philip Silver.’

  ‘Good to meet you. Tell me, Philip, on Thursday night, do you remember anyone coming back here during the concert?’

  ‘No, not a one,’ Silver replied confidently.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’ Kennedy continued.

  ‘Yes, well except for the tour manager. I remember his name, he just had two initials, KP. He told me that no one should get backstage during the concert. He came in and out of here several times during the show, but no one else passed me that night, I’m absolutely sure of it. I told all this to one of your officers on the night.’

  ‘Are you sure it was KP and not someone else? One of the musicians say? Sean Green?’

  ‘What the little geezer with the handlebars and the Hendrix haircut?’ The bouncer laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ Kennedy replied hopefully.

  ‘Nah, definitely not. He’s the boss, isn’t he, I’d recognise him even in the daylight. But no, the only person to come through here during the show was the tour manager, KP.’

  ‘Is it okay if I go back through to the dressing rooms?’ Kennedy requested.

  ‘Course you can, Guv, you’d only go and get a warrant if I said no anyway, wouldn’t you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kennedy made his way past Philip Silver and back along the full length of the venue, underneath the dance floor, going further and further away from the stage. Eventually he came to the dressing room area. The racket above him, five hundred pairs of feet doing a Michael Flatley, was creating quite a din.

  Kennedy felt uneasy being there. He felt Wilko’s presence, he was sure of it.

  The dressing room door was still to be repaired and so Kennedy opened it and walked in. It was pretty much as it had been the first time he’d been down there. Except now all the Circles’ clothes had been removed and replaced with Sharon Shannon’s band’s clothes. Replace the platforms and flares and wide collar shirts with Doc Martin shoes and denim, and denim, and denim. He looked around the room. A fiddle case here, a battered accordion case there. A few CDs, and some other trinkets, and a guitar case on the floor close to the dumb waiter. A dumb waiter who had the night off when its base was used as a dressing room for the visiting attractions.

  Kennedy paced the room in all directions. The bouncer was convinced that no one other than Kevin Paul had passed him backstage last Thursday evening. The only other route backstage was the very public route over the stage. Kennedy wandered around the dressing room, deep in thought. He was reluctant to accept the mounting evidence, but he had to accept the facts. And the facts suggested that Kevin Paul had murdered Wilko Robertson.

  He had the opportunity.

  He had the motive.

  He imagined KP in the corridor that night, banging on the door trying to raise Wilko’s attention. How many times would he have tried before he burst the door down? The security man was only two minutes away on the backstage security door. Why did KP not first go to him and get a key to the dressing room door? Why did he not seek the help of the six foot four strapping security man to burst the door down? KP was, at best, slight of frame.

  No, Kennedy reluctantly had to admit, the murderer had to be KP. He had the opportunity and the motive. It had to be Kevin.

  Then another thought hit Kennedy. Ho
w should he play his eleven o’clock meeting with KP? KP claimed to have a lead. Was it a wild goose chase, to take Kennedy off the path and further away from the tour manager? Kennedy wondered how he could get KP to admit he was the culprit. He liked him so he felt shitty trying to trap him. Kennedy insisted that his brain run that one by him again, “He liked him, so he felt shitty trying to trap him”.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, man,’ he warned himself out loud. ‘Get a grip. This nice hippie chap of yours has just gone and fecking murdered someone, so get out of this feeling shitty vibe.’

  KP was the murderer and Kennedy would have to use all his suss to catch him and secure a confession. Any other considerations were irrelevant. He closed the dressing room door behind him, thanked Philip Silver for his help and stepped out into the cold night. He decided he’d better bring Irvine with him to the eleven o’clock meeting with KP.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘So, you’re convinced it’s Kevin Paul then?’

  At ten twenty Kennedy and Irvine were sitting down to a late-night snack in the crowded Golden Grill. Cafes or restaurants in Camden Town who took late orders were rare. Good ones were even rarer. In fact, Camden’s finest were quite possibly sitting down in Camden’s finest late night diner. The tickle in Kennedy’s throat was developing and he felt his eyes getting heavy. Working on the theory of “starve a cold and feed a flu”, he ordered the works – two eggs, crispy bacon, hash browns, a couple of sausages and wheaten toast. All to be washed down with a mug of tea.

  Irvine went for a much more sensible diet of hot whiskey – double at that. He was working on his own theory, “you can’t have too much of a good thing”. Strictly speaking, Irvine wasn’t drinking on duty. His shift had ended at six.

  ‘Sadly, yes. It can’t be anyone else,’ Kennedy replied as his breakfast arrived, either fifteen hours late or nine hours early.

  ‘But, is that enough? You know the fact that it couldn’t be anyone else?’ Irvine prodded.

  ‘It must be him. I really would like it to be anyone else other than KP. But he was the only one with backstage access. He was the only one who could have been at the scene of the crime. Only two people left the stage during the concert. Wilko went straight back to the dressing room to change and Sean hopped off the front of the stage into the audience, where he remained until the end of the instrumental. So, the only person with access to Wilko during the vital time was KP. Also, he had a motive. Wilko had stolen his girl.’

  ‘But he surely wouldn’t murder a man over a woman, would he?’

  ‘Well, you know, it wouldn’t be the first time a sensible chap lost his head over a woman. You see, KP’s been on the road a long, long time. Perhaps the thing he wanted most in his life was a home and a family to come home to. If you’re KP, a simple no-nonsense Irish guy, you’re not going to be impressed by the rock and roll groupie scene. Yeah, they’re great to look at and maybe even something more but you’re not going to bring them home to meet the mammy, are you?’

  ‘Aye, sir. I know exactly what you’re on about,’ Irvine agreed.

  ‘In the middle of all this madness KP meets and falls for Tracey McGee,’ Kennedy continued. ‘She’s from a down-to-earth Scottish family. She’s…well, he was attracted to her. Maybe he even, you know with too many late nights alone, nothing but dope or pills, or whatever, felt that she was the one for him. She was the one to mother his children. The person to make a home with. He was probably bursting to get back from some tour to proclaim his undying, hash-influenced love for her and to whisk her off to the land of happy ever after. Then he finds out she’s fallen for Wilko. Her sister’s husband, no less! That was probably when the evil rot set in. Wilko was married. KP knew his wife. KP knew exactly what devilment Wilko was getting up to on the road behind Tracey’s back, the woman he was already seeing behind Susan’s back. Say KP wanted Tracey McGee for himself. I mean, get this, on the day of Wilko’s death, KP drove him and Tracey to a hotel for an hour in bed before his concert in Dingwalls. Perhaps that was the straw that broke his frail back.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, both deep in their thoughts and Kennedy helping himself to his breakfast.

  ‘Goodness, sir. Would you look at the vision that has just walked into my life,’ Irvine said as a stunning young woman stepped up to the service counter.

  ‘It looks like Vange has beaten you to this one,’ Kennedy replied. They watched Vange step in and work his charm on the delighted object of desire.

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’ll come back later. When he’s in the kitchen washing the dishes I’ll step in and she’ll be mine,’ Irvine grinned confidently.

  They spent the next few minutes involved in small talk with Irvine continuously monitoring Vange’s progress with the young woman. His concentration was broken by a bit of a racket at the door and the entrance of a rubber man. He made his way, very unsteadily, to Vange and the girl. Rubber man started to hit on the young woman, ignoring Vange. It seemed he knew her. It was equally obvious that she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. It was one of those scenes which was bordering on ugly. Irvine stood up and made his way across to try and defuse the situation. Kennedy also thought that his DS was more than happy to jump to the girl’s defence.

  ‘Come on, sir. Leave these people alone. There are lots of other tables,’ Irvine started.

  ‘Nah, we don’t want him in here. He’s a troublemaker. Get out, Tommy, you know you’re barred,’ Vange offered confidently. The situation was still a friendly one, but one teetering on a razor’s edge ready to tumble over into nastiness with the first nudge.

  ‘You know my name’s not Tommy, mate,’ the Rubber man spluttered, spittle flying everywhere.

  ‘Come on, you heard him Tommy. Leave them alone. With Vange’s personality he needs all the help he can get with the ladies,’ Irvine offered light-heartedly, winking at the girl. Kennedy clocked the first eye contact between them. It looked like Irvine’s irresistible charm was going to prove to be just that.

  Rubber man turned around and focused his attention on Irvine, ‘Ah, a Jock, and if the smell on your breath is anything to go by, I’d say a drunk one at that. You’re a drunk!’

  ‘Yes, sir. And you’re ugly. However, tomorrow morning I’ll be sober but you’ll still be ugly!’ Irving replied, using one of the classics he kept up his sleeve. At that point the situation could have gone either way but a few people in the cafe overheard the conversation and started to laugh. Then the young lady started to laugh as well.

  Kennedy thought, you’ve cracked it with her, Irvine. You may get your head kicked in, but you’ve cracked it with the girl.

  When the Rubber man joined in the laughter, the tense situation was defused.

  Irvine returned to Kennedy’s table just as his superior was finishing his meal. Irvine noticed the teacup was empty.

  ‘Vange,’ Irvine called out, happy to interrupt. ‘Two more teas over here please, mate.’

  The tea arrived and Kennedy checked his watch. It was seven past eleven and still no sign of KP. Unusual for KP to be late, Kennedy thought. He’s usually early.

  By eleven thirty Irvine was starting to get itchy feet. He kept looking at his watch and glancing over at Vange and the young woman.

  ‘Listen, I think he’s blown us off for tonight. Maybe he’s sussed we’re on to him,’ Kennedy started.

  ‘Should we go and pick him up?’ Irvine offered helpfully.

  ‘No, I’ll wander around Camden for a while maybe call by his house. If he’s in, I’ll give Flynn a call and we’ll get a car.’ Kennedy paused as he glanced over at Vange and the young lady. Two more people had just entered the café and Vange made a move to give them a couple of menus. ‘Here’s your opening now. Good luck. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Kennedy walked towards Camden Lock. The pubs were closed, supposedly, and the streets were packed with funsters. A blanket of snow offset the darkness around Camden Town.
There was no aggression in the air, the way there was sometimes at the weekend. The lights from fast food joints splattered their colours onto the fresh fall of snow as he crunched his way past the market and in the direction of Dingwalls. The snow covered the sight and smell of the market rubbish. It was nice, Kennedy thought, not to have to smell the rotting vegetables and fruit.

  Characters lurked on the street corners talking their jive, clipping their feet and waiting for something to happen. What were all these people waiting around for? Is this what life was all about? You went to school, you were educated, you secured a job and then you stood around the late-night streets of Camden Town? Could that have been the reason KP wanted things to work out so desperately with Tracey McGee? He wanted to avoid all of this?

  Kennedy felt bad for KP, in spite of himself. Had someone like Coles or Irvine been party to this thought process how would Kennedy possibly have justified it? Wasn’t he constantly telling them, “Never allow yourself to become personally involved in a case. Keep a distance. Keeping a distance will not only help you, but it will allow you to do your job better”.

  He was just passing Compendium Books and about to cross the bridge over the canal. He stopped to look over the bridge on the Dingwalls side. The moonlight was sparkling on the water. The water was still, so still it looked solid enough to walk on. A couple of people were standing below the bridge by the side of the canal. Both were male, middle-aged and dressed in dark clothes. For heaven’s sake, thought Kennedy what are they doing standing there in zero degrees, rabbiting away close to the midnight hour. Dingwalls was closed and Sharon Shannon and her band were probably long gone, probably playing a late-night session somewhere else.

  Perhaps that’s where KP was, perhaps he’d joined up with the band and they’d gone off for a session somewhere. Kennedy couldn’t begrudge KP that, his last night of freedom. Where better to spend it than having a session somewhere with Sharon Shannon and her musicians.