by Paul Charles
But now, under the alert ear of a bloody tape recorder he, and all his colleagues, had been instructed to sit at the table facing suspects, so that conversations could be captured clearly. Kennedy felt inhibited by this, but the rules were there to be followed.
Brian Hurst was already in the interview room and obviously DS Irvine had already conducted the preamble for the sake of the tape, because Kennedy was greeted with a formal: ‘Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy enters the interview room at twelve forty-eight.’
Brian Hurst was first off the starting block. The prey was on the run.
‘Okay, what the hell is this all about? Come on! I extended hospitality to you and to your men, and then you return it by coming to my house and taking me away like a common thief in a marked police car.
‘Look, what’s this all about?’ he repeated, fidgeting with the left lapel of his grey herringbone jacket. ‘Why couldn’t you have asked your questions in my house?’
Kennedy smiled, first to himself and then at Mr Brian Hurst. Sometimes the first one out of the blocks is the first one to run out of steam. To finish first you first have to finish. Tactics, those are what win races and catch quarry. Tactics.
‘Oh, I’ve no questions for you, Mr Hurst,’ was Kennedy’s opening gambit.
‘What? What do you mean, no questions? What the fuck am I doing here, then?’ Hurst’s clean-shaven face registered disbelief and he stopped worrying his jacket lapel and surreptitiously gave his crotch a quick scratch.
‘Well,’ began Kennedy in leisurely fashion as he stood up and removed his jacket, placing it carefully on the back of the chair before sitting down again. ‘I thought I’d bring you down here and tell you exactly what happened at your place on Sunday evening.’
Brian Hurst’s look of disbelief was matched by one from DS Irvine.
One (Hurst) mouthed ‘What?’, the other (Irvine) had seen this movie before and remained motionless, noticing Hurst’s unease and growing itch.
‘Okay,’ Kennedy began in a quiet voice, ‘on Sunday night you were at home watching TV and enjoying your Pouilly Fume wine. As the evening wore on you enjoyed your wine a little more. Such a pleasant way to spend a Sunday evening. A bit of TV, a few glasses of chilled wine, but too lazy to do much after a big lunch.
‘And then, around eleven o’clock, the racket downstairs created by Marianne MacIntyre and Ray Morris started to annoy you.
‘Around eleven forty you breathed a sigh of relief as you assumed, judging by the slamming of the door and the rocking of the house, that she had thrown Morris out.
‘You were waiting for the midnight movie to start, still pleasantly merry at this stage, when you heard a knock on your door. You answered the door only to find Marianne MacIntyre standing there, probably ranting and raving about Ray Morris and sucking on her bottle of Guinness.
‘She was scantily dressed. Her dressing gown was revealing more of her flimsy slip than you’d ever dreamed of. Although she had seen better days, she was still a magnificent woman – I’d say very appealing to a man who had just consumed the best part of a bottle of wine. So being the generous neighbour that we all know you are, you invited her in.’
Brian Hurst was about to say something (probably to protest that this was not true) but Kennedy raised a single finger to his lips to silence him before continuing: ‘Marianne moaned to you about Ray leaving her. She was drunk, but, like all drunks, she wanted to cry on somebody’s shoulder. And on Sunday night your shoulder was elected to support that blonde-haired head.
‘The more she babbled on to you, the more you ogled her. She finished her bottle of Guinness and went off in search of more of the Liffey’s finest. You had only wine in your flat so you helped her back down the stairs to her place, leaving behind the solitary empty Guinness bottle.’
‘The empty Guinness bottle,’ Hurst interrupted with a short, nervous laugh, ‘I can explain that.’
‘Later,’ Kennedy cut back in firmly. ‘There’s more – as Jimmy Cricket might say.’ DS Irvine smiled a smile that threatened to break into a laugh. He contained it, but was clearly enjoying himself; thoroughly enjoying himself.
‘Where were we? Oh yes, you were helping Marianne down the stairs. This was most likely a very complicated manoeuvre, both of you being drunk and you having only one hand to help her, the other supporting a glass of wine. But you managed. You’d probably got yourself so worked up in anticipation of the delights in store that a little effort to negotiate the stairs seemed a small price to pay. When you reached her flat, she would probably have flopped on to the bed, exposing herself and her charms even further. She was probably so languid that she didn’t even notice you were having sex with her.’
‘Please stop this. I must protest,’ Hurst flustered more for the benefit of the tape recorder than for Kennedy or Irvine. ‘This can’t go on. It’s all so stupid. I mean, the thought, the very thought of me and that, that slag together. Please!’
‘Okay, patience, you’ll have your chance shortly. So you had sex with her and, like all men, your feelings after sex were not as warm as they were before and so you got angry at her, angry at yourself, for having sex with this “slag”. So you strangled her.’ Somewhere along the line there was one almighty big step missing, but Kennedy had to carry on with the bluff.
‘The following morning you went through the obvious motions of being concerned about your neighbour so you let her friend in, hung around, and rang the police. But, you forgot to remove your wine glass.’
‘What? Is that what all this is about: a bottle of Guinness in my flat and a wine glass in hers?’ jibed Hurst.
‘Actually a Guinness bottle. It was empty,’ DS Irvine corrected.
‘Isn’t that known as circumstantial evidence, gentlemen?’ Hurst ignored Irvine, but began fidgeting with his lapel once more.
‘No, it’s known as the correct use of the English language, sir.’ Kennedy was watching his prey, trapped, struggling every which way to escape. Getting madder because he was being played with.
‘Not that, you prick, the fucking Guinness bottle and a wine glass don’t prove a fucking thing. They are both circumstantial evidence, and would be laughed out of court.’
‘Yes,’ Kennedy admitted, then waited in silence, feeling as well as hearing the red second hand on the clock behind him, banging away in a never-ending cycle.
After exactly seventy-three bangs Brian Hurst’s fingers slowly extricated themselves from his lapel and made their way downwards, stopping briefly on the wooden table for three flicks of the second hand, before descending to scratch his crotch.
‘But what you are now doing is not circumstantial evidence, it’s proof of very live evidence,’ announced Kennedy, his eyes burning through the table to where the busy fingers of Hurst’s right hand sought to rid him of the itch. The hand had made the journey totally involuntarily: he had never known an itch which blazed so.
‘What? What are you on about? He spluttered self-consciously bringing his hand back on to the table, where it grabbed its partner, seeking comfort from guilt.
‘Your itch, sir. I’m afraid Marianne MacIntyre had an infestation commonly known as the crabs. I’m sorry to say that, from your action, I would guess that you have caught them. Actually, I’m not sorry – in fact I’m glad, damned glad, if you really want to know. This is not circumstantial evidence. This is water around your feet, sir. Your ship is sinking.’ Kennedy allowed himself a grin of triumph before continuing in a more serious tone.
‘I’m afraid that I have to charge you with the wilful murder of Marianne MacIntyre. Anything you say can be taken down in evidence against you. Anything you choose not to say but later wish to use in court may be…’ Kennedy finished his caution though the remainder was drowned out as Hurst began to talk.
‘It’s her own fault you know. Yes, she was drunk, but she did act like she wanted me and then when we’d finished, she started to cry. She started crying for Morris. Can you believe that? She kept crying for
him to please come back, on and on, “please come back”. She just wouldn’t stop babbling.
‘I just tried to shut her up, but she kept on sobbing. I put one hand over her mouth to quieten her and then the other hand found its way onto her throat to stop her from thrashing about so much. The harder I pushed the hand on her mouth, the more she babbled.
‘The harder I grabbed her throat the quieter she became.
‘So I squeezed it tighter and tighter until she quietened down and then she just passed out. I slapped her face to bring her around but she was totally lifeless. Then I felt for a pulse and there was none, no vital signs whatsoever. So I just left. It was an accident – honestly, an accident. And then the bitch has to go and give me crabs.’
Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy could feel neither pleased nor annoyed at tying up the case. Once again a debris of victims had been left in the wake of a murder. The prey, now caught, no longer occupied the mind of the hunter.
As they walked back to Kennedy’s office, DS Irvine said, ‘Ah, “That’s water around your feet, sir, your ship is sinking”. Where did that come from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kennedy laughed. ‘It just came out. I couldn’t believe I’d said it.’
‘Well it was a good break, sir, anyway. If only they were all that easy.’
‘If only we were always so lucky, Jimmy. Time for tea I think,’ said Kennedy, as he added an inch to his step.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Commander-in-Chief answers him
While chasing a fly
- Bob Dylan
Kennedy stood by the window in his wooden walled office, staring across at the blue building; the home of Camden Town Records. He tried to visualise the various scenarios that might have involved Peter O’Browne.
Perhaps he’d been at home after all when thieves had arrived on Sunday. Perhaps when they didn’t find anything of value they’d kidnapped him. Any minute now, Mary Jones would be on the phone saying that she’d been asked for a million-pound ransom.
Perhaps he’d been drunk and fallen into Regent’s Canal. It was not exactly what Nash had designed it for, but the canal had become the final resting place for too many careless walkers over the years.
Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy removed the cards bearing the names, Marianne MacIntyre, Ray Morris and Brian Hurst and all the other relevant notes from his noticeboard. He wrote out the name PETER O’BROWNE in large letters on a card with a blue felt-tip pen and pinned it up in their place. The noticeboard was covered in green felt and proclaimed Guinness is Good for You. He had picked it up at Camden Market about five years earlier, during his attempts to ‘personalise’ his office. He had become quite attached to it.
There was a knock on the door and Superintendent Thomas Castle entered without waiting for an invitation.
‘Oh, hello, sir.’ Kennedy greeted him.
As ever, Castle was immaculately dressed. He was a crisp man, tiny – five foot three inches tall – but his outstanding success in the Met made up another nine inches. He was jacketless in dark blue pin-striped trousers with matching waistcoat, starched white shirt and red tie.
Sometimes Kennedy wished he could dress as smart as the Super (only sometimes mind you). Even his well-worn brown shoes were as shiny (‘spit and polish mate’) as his mother’s prized dinner service.
‘New case, Kennedy?’ the Super began reading Kennedy’s noticeboard. ‘Peter O’Browne… And how did he die? This one hasn’t reached my desk yet.’
‘Well, actually, I don’t know, sir. That is, I’m not even sure he’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘He disappeared towards the end of last week, sir.’
‘Shouldn’t someone else handle this? If you’re without work, I’ve a lot you could take off my desk. Isn’t this more a case for missing persons?’
‘Yes, normally,’ Kennedy started drawing the words out awkwardly like chewing gum you’re trying to remove from your fingers. ‘But he’s been behaving totally out of character. And to complicate matters, on Sunday night his house, up off England’s Lane, was badly damaged by fire.’ As he spoke Kennedy wondered whether, had it not been for the involvement of ann rea, it would have been anything other than a missing persons case.
‘Peter O’Browne. Don’t I know that name?’
‘Yes, sir, you probably do. He’s our neighbour. The boss of Camden Town Records in the blue building across the way.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I remember him. He kindly supplied some of his pop memorabilia for a charity function the missus was involved in. That’s it. He gave her a couple of gold discs. Tin Lizzie, yes that’s it.’
‘Ah, I think you mean Thin Lizzy.’
‘What? Yes, that’s what I said: Tin Lizzie. They fetched quite a bit of money. I remember it because the wife was extremely pleased and wrote him a thank-you note.
‘Well, I hope he’s okay and you are jumping the gun a bit. Keep me posted,’ the Super announced. And then, in what appeared to be an afterthought but was in fact the reason for his visit, he added, ‘Oh yes, and well done with that Faithfull-lookalike case. That’s what we like: quick and efficient detective work.
‘Nothing to beat it if you ask me. You can keep all your computers, just give me a good detective and a bit of legwork every time.’
Kennedy decided against claiming that it was all due to luck. He realised such a claim would have fallen on deaf ears and been as useful as a chocolate teapot. No, no use at all, because the Super was already halfway up the corridor, striding purposefully away in his shiny shoes, his very shiny shoes.
No sooner had the shiny shoes disappeared than WPC Anne Coles stuck her head around the door of Kennedy’s office, the rest of her following shortly behind.
‘I’ve just received the Fire Officer’s report, sir.’
‘Good, great. Come in. Have you had a chance to go through it yet?’
‘No it’s only just arrived.’
‘Okay, no problem. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get Jimmy over here, I’ll make us all a cup of tea and you can read the report and share your findings with us over a brew. How does that sound?’
The WPC couldn’t work out if he was warming his hands or just rubbing them in glee over the anticipation of a cup of tea.
‘Sounds neat to me, sir.’
So Kennedy went about one of the joys of his life: preparing a pot of tea. In his case the ritual, although enjoyable, was not as rewarding as the drinking, which somewhat disproved the popular belief that anticipation was better than participation. He didn’t give a hoot whether the milk went in first or last. Hot, medium-strong, a little milk, two sugars, served in a china cup and saucer, rather than a mug, was all it took to satisfy Kennedy’s inexpensive habit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We’re sailing in a strange boat
Heading for a strange shore
- Mike Scott
The trio gathered in Kennedy’s office tore into the Walkers Chocolate Chip Shortbread (the perfect tea-dunker, Kennedy claimed), drank their tea and got down to business.
‘So, WPC Coles; was the fire an accident?’ Kennedy began.
‘No, sir, not at all. According to the report the fire was started in the study, ground floor back room, adjacent to the dining room, by an incendiary device.’
‘Hmmm,’ Kennedy and Irvine signed in harmony, Irvine taking the high note.
‘Apparently, it was housed in a music cassette box…’ The WPC waited to ensure that the Robson and Jerome of the police force were not up for a repeat performance, before continuing. ‘Goes off of its own accord. Devices of this type are usually left in shops to ignite after closing, when no one is there, and they can cause the greatest amount of damage and create the maximum inconvenience.’
‘Aye, nasty piece of work,’ DS Irvine commented.
‘So,’ mused Kennedy, ‘did someone set out to destroy Peter O’Browne’s house? Or, was he meant to be at home asleep when the device went off?’
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br /> ‘I doubt it, sir, I mean, I doubt they meant to get him as well. The fire started around seven thirty. So if whoever planted the device wanted to kill or hurt Peter O’Browne, then surely they would have timed it to ignite later, in the sleeping hours?’ WPC Coles deduced proudly.
‘Unless it was just meant to be a threat, a warning, sir,’ offered DS Irvine dunking his third piece of shortbread.
‘Anything else in the report, WPC?’ Kennedy inquired.
‘Yes. The fire brigade don’t think that whoever planted the device broke in. There were no forced locks or doors. And all the broken glass was on the outside, caused by the build-up of heat. And that’s about it, apart from…’ the WPC located the precise part of the report, so that she could quote verbatim, ‘“No human remains.” But we knew that, anyway, sir. They told us that at the scene,’ the WPC replied, her confidence growing all the time.
‘Okay. Jimmy, let’s get our forensic boys up there and see if they can find anything else. And then let’s muster everyone we can to go over and question all the staff at Camden Town Records and see if we can pick up anything over there. Liaise with Mary Jones, Peter O’Browne’s PA. Try to find out who else was in the building on Friday night at eight twenty. And let’s try to find out who that last call was from.
‘I’ll chat to Mary again myself when you’re all set up. I’m sure she’ll know as much as many, if not more, on Peter O’Browne. She seemed genuinely upset at his disappearance. It’s a whole new world for us and we’re going to need as much help as we can get to find our way around it,’ Kennedy added as he drank the final exquisite drops of tea.
