by Paul Charles
‘Who at Camden Town Records?’
‘The boss. A friend of mine works there, for him, in fact. She was meant to fix me up with an interview today but he didn’t come in the whole day.’
She rose from the bed in search of her jacket. ‘I wrote a profile of him a while back and it seems his house was badly damaged by a fire on Sunday evening. The Journal wants to do a piece on it. Apparently, they’ve got some great photos.’
‘Yes, I saw the fire, actually. Isn’t his name Peter O’Browne? I didn’t know you had a friend in Camden Town Records. They’re just opposite us, you know.’
Of course she knew. ann rea knew Camden Town better than most.
‘Oh – Mary Jones, a friend – I suppose she is really, we get on well, mostly through business, and I do like her. I suppose it’s just that in the music business someone is your friend if a) you know their telephone number and b) they take your call. So maybe I don’t really consider us to be best buddies or anything like that.’
‘Oh I see,’ Kennedy replied, not really sure that he did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We have one life
But one life won’t do
- Mary Margaret O’Hara
‘Are you sure we should have let Ray Morris go, sir?’ DS James Irvin inquired of DI Christy Kennedy the following morning at North Bridge House. Irvine’s soft Scottish accent, when not making him sound like Sean Connery, tended to lend every statement the air of a question. Kennedy often ignored this inclination of interrogation and this was the justification he used for not answering the DS on this occasion.
Instead, he chose to read Dr Leonard Taylor’s report, which was, as Taylor’s reports usually were, informative, precise and never, ever, speculative.
Marianne MacIntyre had been drunk (as in very drunk – about four times the normal level permitted for a human in charge of feet). The severe bruising around the neck showed she had been strangled to death – or, as the good doctor was fond of telling Kennedy, ‘death was due to lack of breath’. The lack of marks or bruising about the rest of her body, led the doctor to presume that Marianne had not put up too much of a struggle against her assailant.
Miss MacIntyre had died ‘around midnight’ and had had sexual intercourse just prior to death. Dr Taylor finally surmised that the victim’s liver was, ‘in the worst state I have ever had the misfortune to view’, and observed that, ‘without a transplant she certainly would have died in the next twelve months’.
‘If someone hadn’t helped her on the way, that is.’ Kennedy muttered as he concluded reading the report.
‘What, sir?’ DS Irvine inquired.
‘Dr Taylor’s report states that Marianne would have died during the next year due to liver failure.’
‘Hardly surprising, is it, sir, after what Morris told us?’ The DS was loitering around Kennedy’s door, unsure as to whether he was needed or not.
‘The good doctor also states that Marianne MacIntyre had sex just before she died. Our Mr Morris told us that they hadn’t indulged for the last couple of years. Now, that’s not something he’s going to need to, or want to, lie about, is it? I suppose in a way it lets him off the hook.’
‘I’m not so sure about that, sir,’ began the DS, mulling over the facts. ‘He could have caught her having sex with someone else, or found out about a wayward bonk and topped her in a fit of rage.’
‘It’s a possibility, but I’m not sure; if what he told us yesterday was true – and I kind of feel that it was – then he would have been very very happy if Marianne had found another guy. It might have let him off the hook. Emotionally I mean, about leaving her.’
Kennedy picked up his phone and dialled a number.
‘Ah, Detective Inspector, you’ve read my report,’ Dr Taylor responded in his characteristically theatrical tones, after having recognised Kennedy’s words of greeting.
‘Yes, yes thank you, Doctor. Just one thing. You say she had sex just prior to death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she raped?’
‘I doubt it, Kennedy. There were no bruises on the vaginal wall, nor about her upper thighs, that would have been consistent with a struggle. But with the amount of alcohol inside her, she would probably have been the proverbial sack of potatoes, anyway. And as I said in the report, frankly old chap, her personal hygiene was practically non-existent. She was in a very sorry state, including an infestation of what are commonly known as crabs.’
‘Thanks again, Doctor. See you soon for a cup of tea – my turn I think. Bye.’ Kennedy replaced the phone on its cradle and stared at it for a few minutes.
‘Did you notice whether our friend Ray Morris was scratching himself?’ Kennedy grasped his hands together under his chin.
‘No I don’t think so,’ said Irvine. ‘Funny you should mention that sir, because Brian Hurst was. Scratching himself, I mean. Quite a bit, in fact.’
‘Let’s bring in Mr Hurst, Jimmy. I think he may have a few more things to tell us,’ Kennedy muttered as he set about answering the ringing telephone.
CHAPTER NINE
Saddle the horses
And we’ll go
- Paul Buchanan
‘Hello, DI Kennedy here.’
‘I know it’s Kennedy there, I just dialled your direct number.’
‘Hi, ann rea. How did your interview go?’ Kennedy’s voice smiled.
‘Well I’m there – or rather here – now. Peter, the boss, still hasn’t shown up and Mary is beside herself with worry. He’s never done this before. He always checks in with her at least twice a day when he’s off somewhere.
‘I know missing persons is not exactly your thing, Kennedy, but could you do me a favour and come over and have a chat with Mary? Try and put her mind at rest?’ ann rea pleaded down the phone line.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll come right over,’ Kennedy sighed. It might do Brian Hurst some good to be kept waiting for a while. ‘But it’s probably nothing. Your man’s bound to be sorting out the mess the fire left.’
‘Great, thanks, I owe you one.’
‘It’s already written down in The Book in big bold letters, believe me,’ Kennedy laughed, before replacing the receiver, unhooking his jacket from the peg on the back of the door and racing down the single flight of stairs.
CHAPTER TEN
It’s coming from so far away
It’s hard to say for sure
- Jackson Browne
Kennedy had walked, driven and cycled – in fact he’d probably even flown – past the blue Design Building, home of Camden Town Records. But he had never ever set foot in the offices. It held no surprises: modern, open-plan, more plants than the Chelsea Flower Show, and the proverbial hive of activity. He followed the arrows marked Reception, which directed the visitor towards the far end of the building, near the stairs. ann rea was waiting for him there.
‘She’s through here.’ ann rea’s gentle squeeze on Kennedy’s arm was the only hint of intimacy between them. She nodded in the direction of a corridor behind the reception desk. Kennedy was slightly charged by the numerous conversations, some on the telephone, some not, going on all around him. There was a strong smell of ink from the newly-printed posters, of cardboard from the many 12’ x 12’ x 6’ boxes laying around and an aroma of freshly-percolated coffee. Kennedy immediately marked the place down as a coffee-conscious building, which meant that tea would be provided on request, but that the chance of a proper cup was remote.
As he followed ann rea along the five-foot high partitions he checked out the posters, some quite pornographic, proclaiming new releases from Camden Town Records.
‘Mary, this is Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy.’
The first thing Mary Jones noticed about Kennedy was his snazzy waistcoat and the second thing was that the fingers of his right hand were continuously flexing. She also noticed his friendly, smiling eyes and that he and the journalist were obviously more than the ‘just good friends’ ann rea had claimed a few min
utes before, when she had suggested they ring her friend at Camden CID.
‘Hello, sir.’ Mary had a beautiful Welsh accent. She invited Kennedy and ann rea into her office, off the postered corridor to the left, which was small, busy and tidy. In the middle of her desk stood a computer terminal and monitor. The walls were filled with yet more posters, mostly of Camden Town Records acts and one of the Welsh rock band, Man, which showed a bearded bunch standing outside a train station. Pride of place was given to Bruce Springsteen (often referred to as Loose Windscreen by ann rea in the many Dylan-vs-Springsteen conversations she had had with Kennedy). Apart from the posters, Mary Jones’ office, her desk, her dress were all basic: very tidy and very colourful.
Mary Jones had the most amazing head of black curly hair which tumbled all over and around her face as she moved. She wore only a little make-up around her eyes.
‘ann rea tells me you love tea and the Beatles,’ she smiled nervously.
‘A suitable epithet for a headstone, don’t you think?’ Kennedy replied, amused at how ann rea had chosen to describe him to others.
‘Well, I can help you with the tea.’
‘That would be brilliant,’ Kennedy said rubbing his hands together. ‘Absolutely brilliant. White with two sugars, please.’
‘Look,’ announced ann rea, ‘I’ll, er, leave you two to it, if you want.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Mary. She needed the informality of the journalist’s presence to keep her worries in check.
‘It’ll be fine if you stay, ann rea,’ Kennedy smiled at her, realising that ann rea was worried about infringing on his working space. Now it was his turn to gently touch her arm as he led her to the sofa opposite Mary’s desk. Mary spoke into an intercom on her desk to order tea (for Kennedy) and mineral water (for the two women) from an invisible but loud crackly voice.
‘I believe you have already spoken with WPC Anne Coles?’ Kennedy started.
‘Yes, but that was about the fire at Peter’s house on Sunday evening. But I still haven’t heard from him. I don’t know if he even knows about the fire. It’s so out of character for him not to call.’
Kennedy tried to smile reassuringly. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘It was last Friday, in the evening. We were both here late and I was meant to see him later that night at a gig at the Forum in Kentish Town. One of our new bands, Roger’s Theory, was playing support there to the Hothouse Flowers.
‘I suppose I wasn’t that surprised when he didn’t show up. He’d had a really busy week and I figured he had probably just gone home and crashed out.’
‘When you say that you were both here late,’ said Kennedy as he added two sugars to the milky tea that had arrived, ‘what time did you leave the building?’
‘We both left at, um, let me see, about eight twenty. No – sorry – that’s not right. We were leaving at eight twenty, but just as we were about to go, a call came through for Peter. He hesitated but eventually went back to his office to take it and told me to go ahead.’ Mary took a sip of her mineral water.
‘You said Peter had a busy week. What was he doing?’
Mary reached for what Kennedy assumed must be an engagement diary. ‘Let’s see. Well, at the beginning of the week he’d just returned from New York and then on Tuesday,’ she licked her finger to turn over the page, ‘he had a marketing meeting which went on all day. On Wednesday a lot of the Europeans were in town for a meeting with our distributors, Repeat. So Peter took the chance to bring them all up here to discuss our autumn release schedule, particularly our three new signings, Roger’s Theory, Zinc Damson and Paul Kavanagh, the best new singer-songwriter I have ever heard since…’
Kennedy followed her eyes to the Bruce poster and there was no need to finish her sentence, but she did anyway, giving him the feeling he was being treated to the company sales pitch. Mary took Kennedy, and ann rea, through the rest of Peter’s busy schedule.
‘Does Peter have a family? Girlfriend? Mother? Father? Life partner?’ Kennedy added the last option in recognition of the fact he was talking about a showbiz-type person.
‘No, not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘Well, his parents have been dead for years and he broke up with his last girlfriend well over a year ago. Diana, that was her name. Peter’s last girlfriend.’
‘So he lived alone up on England’s Lane?’
‘Yes he did, he did indeed. He had a cleaner – a housekeeper, really, I suppose – a wonderful Yorkshire woman he always referred to as “Mrs”. She would even ring up and say “It’s Mrs here”. Anyway, she “did” for him, as they say, four days a week: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday.’
‘And has he never done this before – just disappeared? Never fallen in love, sagged off, done a bunk, a Basil Bond for a few days?’ ann rea, sitting about two feet away from him, hadn’t noticed him taking out the small leather-bound notebook in which he was now jotting down notes.
‘No, never,’ came the emphatic reply, with just a hint of heavier Welsh in the voice. ‘He always rings me at least twice each and every day, just to check up on things. Usually first thing in the morning, to see if there are any overnight faxes or mail that needs his attention. And then again towards the end of the day to see if anything has cropped up and to give me instructions on matters he wants me to attend to in his absence.’ Mary’s voice seemed to show more concern as she confirmed the seriousness of the situation to herself.
‘So,’ Kennedy continued, deciding to move the conversation on to a less worrying topic. ‘Who else is he close to do you think?’
‘There’s his lawyer, Leslie Russell. He likes him a lot. He’s one of the old school, very straight and that’s why Peter likes him so much I think. No matter how much crap was going down with his dealing with Grabaphone Records he could always have a direct conversation with Leslie.
‘Sometimes he spends weekends with Leslie at his parent’s place in Steyning.’ Then she added, as if reading Kennedy’s mind, ‘I’ve already checked and Leslie hasn’t spoken to Peter since last Thursday.’ Finally her voice faltered, ‘God I do hope he’s okay. What can you do, Inspector?’
‘Well, we can now officially list Peter as a missing person, as he’s been gone for over twenty-four hours. That means everybody on the beat in the UK will be furnished with his details and will be on the look-out for him. We can also try to build up a picture of the hours leading up to the last time he was seen. Let’s see…’ Kennedy checked his notes, ‘you last saw him at eight twenty on Friday evening, so I’ll take it from there.’
‘It’s funny,’ mused Mary. ‘But when the inspector was going through his stuff just now it reminded me of us working with an artist or a group.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked ann rea.
‘Well they come in here and sit down where you are sitting, and they ask us what we are going to do for them to make their record a success. And we give them the list, you know: we’re going to get it to the radio stations and we’re going to get it to the papers and we’re going to try and get them TV and we’re going to try and get them on a tour and we’re going to do a photo shoot and a video. And we’ll help get them a manager, if they don’t already have one, and an agent, and so on and so on.
‘And all the time you’re going through this you can tell from the eyes of the more astute ones that they are thinking, “Yes, but is it going to work? Will you make me successful? Do you have the secret of success?” Of course, the honest answer is that we don’t. We don’t know the secret of success – unless it’s in the music – and if, and it’s a big if, you are lucky, then you might have a chance. But naturally, we never say that. We just try and reassure them, just like you’re trying to reassure me now.’ All this was leading up to the question Mary Jones was dreading asking. The question that had been scurrying around her mind like the sour smell of milk in an unwashed fridge, ever since that first visit from WPC Anne Coles on Monday morning:
‘Has hi
s disappearance anything to do with the fire in his house on Sunday night?’
‘All I can tell you is that there were definitely no remains found in the debris of the fire. The fire officer said that he thought the fire was probably caused by a faulty plug, although his final report is due in this afternoon.’ Kennedy’s reply was confident; it was better that Mary did not dwell on such dark thoughts.
‘I would have to say that it would seem to be a strange coincidence that both the fire and his disappearance happened on the same weekend.’
With that Kennedy excused himself and returned to North Bridge House, leaving ann rea to give further comfort and solace to the troubled Mary Jones.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s one thing you’ve gotta do
To make me still want you
You’ve got to stop sobbing
- Ray Davies
Glancing at his railwayman’s watch, fixed to a chain and housed as always in the right-hand side of his waistcoat, Kennedy noted that it was 12.35 p.m. as he re-entered North Bridge House. The build-up in traffic at the top of Parkway confirmed that lunchtime was approaching.
Kennedy tried to find WPC Coles but she was out on a call. Somewhere on Camden High Street a man and his common-law wife, both somewhat the worse for wear, were having a go at each other. By all accounts the man was losing the scrap and would probably be very grateful to the WPC for a timely intervention.
Kennedy left a message for WPC Coles to report to him upon her return. He was anxious for any additional news on the fire in Peter O’Browne’s house. In the meantime, he advised DS Irvine that he wished to conduct a formal interview with Mr Brian Hurst, who was by now cooling his heels in the bowels of North Bridge House.
A few years earlier Kennedy would have been happy wandering around the room asking his questions, viewing and circling the suspect the way an animal stalks its prey, ensuring that, before the final lethal leap, the quarry was completely in his grasp. Kennedy liked to sit on the floor, or on the table, or to stand behind his suspect so close that he could be smelt, his breathing heard. He would do anything (anything legit) to distract them from planning their lies. If you were busy protecting yourself you had little time for lies, or so ran Kennedy’s logic.
