I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 2)

by Paul Charles

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  You come home late

  And you come home early

  Sometimes you don’t come home at all

  - John Prine

  Kennedy sat at his desk, lost in his thoughts. The morning sunshine had turned to rain and he watched the drops flow down his window picking up smaller droplets along the way. He spent some time wondering whether any of the classic singles of his youth had been ‘helped’ into the charts. ann rea had said that nowadays a record could reach the top of the charts with a total sale of 100,000 copies. In the good old days, a chart single would have sold such numbers in one morning.

  The Beatles, for instance, had a pre-sale in excess of a staggering one million copies for their fourth single, ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ when it was released on 17th October, 1963. That was another ann rea statistic, but Kennedy himself remembered being one of the million people who visited their local record stores to place an order (paying a fifty per cent deposit: three shillings and four pence) to avoid release-day disappointment.

  According to ann rea, the first single was recorded in 1895, featuring Emil Berliner, inventor of the microphone, reciting ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on to a zinc disc. 1948 saw RCA Victor in America release the first vinyl single, a red one, with a series of popular classical pieces. It was not until 1953 that the UK saw its first collection of releases, which included Alma Cogan singing, ‘I Went To Your Wedding’.

  The biggest-selling single ever was Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’, with over 100 million copies (Kennedy knew that one); the biggest-selling UK single was the aforementioned ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ by the Beatles, which had reached around fourteen million. The Beatles also shared the record with Elvis for the most UK number ones: seventeen.

  ‘A bit of good news, sir,’ DS Irvine beamed through the door, dragging Kennedy back from his Beatles memories and ann rea facts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve checked out O’Browne’s credit card company – actually he has several – but one card, his Access, has been used twice recently.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apparently, he took a train on Saturday from Waterloo to Wareham. If it was him using the ticket, that is.’

  ‘Devon?’

  ‘No, sir. Hardy country, Dorset,’ Irvine replied, checking the information on the fax message he was clutching.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘He bought a first-class single for forty-two pounds forty. The ticket was purchased at nine fourteen on Saturday morning, which probably means he caught the nine thirty train, via Chichester. This would have arrived in Wareham at eleven thirty-five,’ Irvine continued as he passed the credit card faxes on to Kennedy.

  ‘You’ll also see that he had lunch at the Morton House Hotel, Corfe Castle, which is about eight miles from Wareham on the way to the coast. He spent twenty-eight pounds thirty on lunch – poached salmon and half a bottle of house white – and tipped generously, five pounds.’

  ‘Well, Jimmy, progress, I think. Well done,’ Kennedy announced, his rich, green eyes smiling.

  ‘Perhaps he just wanted to get away from it all for a few days. You know, head off to the country and lose himself. I hear it’s quite splendid in that area.’ DS Irvine slouched into a chair his shirt straining on his belt.

  ‘I don’t know, Jimmy.’ Kennedy only used Irvine’s first name when no one else was present. ‘Mary Jones is convinced that no matter what Peter was doing, no matter where he was, he would at the very least make a couple of quick calls to her, just to check in. But, assuming that it was O’Browne, why Corfe Castle?’ he said rising from his chair and going over to his large wall map of Great Britain. He easily found Wareham but the location of Corfe Castle took a little while longer. Instinctively he stuck a pin (red) in the map at the location. ‘Swanage seems to be the nearest coastal port.’

  ‘Or Poole,’ chipped in Irvine, who had managed to ease the tension on his belt and was standing behind Kennedy, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘No, that would be back-tracking through Wareham in the opposite direction,’ Kennedy replied, scratching his chin and staring at the map to see if a clue might jump up from it and offer itself up in sacrifice.

  ‘Could you get on to the locals and see if we can find out any additional information about the diner’s identity? A description would help. And check whether any ferries sail from Swanage, and if so, to where.’

  ‘Do you think he might have done a Stephen Fry and exchanged his baseball cap for a French beret?’

  ‘Corfe Castle,’ was Kennedy’s only reply. ‘What’s Corfe Castle got to do with this? Perhaps Mary Jones can shed some light on it. Do we have a photo of O’Browne, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered James Irvine, like a schoolchild eager to score points with teacher (saves wasting all those apples). ‘Mary Jones gave us quite a recent one. I’ve already faxed it through to Wareham.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you later,’ Kennedy replied, doing up the top button of his shirt, tightening his tie and putting on his jacket, before leaving his office and North Bridge House.

  The Camden Town Records building was quite strange, now Kennedy actually stopped to consider it. The shape was illogical, and the entire building looked like it might collapse if hit by a solid gust of wind. The outside shell was a third glass, the rest blue-painted partitions – Williams Racing Blue. Above the double door was a pink neon sign spelling out the company name to all on upper Parkway.

  Camden Town Records seemed to have adopted the policy of business as usual in Peter O’Browne’s absence. This made a lot of sense; Grabaphone who owned fifty-one per cent of the firm were obviously not going to see their investment go down the drain just because the softly spoken Irishman had done a bunk.

  Mary Jones was accompanied by a sophisticated-looking man in his mid-forties. ‘Oh, hi, Detective Inspector. This is Peter’s lawyer, Leslie Russell,’ she said. ‘Leslie, this is Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy from over the road.’

  ‘Actually if the truth be known, I’m quite happy with solicitor,’ smiled Russell. ‘Though some of my music business colleagues, keen to emulate our American counterparts are eager to claim lawyer as a new title and class. I’m pleased to meet you.’ He grasped Kennedy’s hand firmly.

  Leslie Russell was one of those chaps who is instantly likeable. He had such a warm welcoming smile. Yes, he did have the London solicitor’s uniform of suit (beige today, and heavy linen or cotton in the summer), red braces over blue shirt, red socks and matching red bow tie. His hair was untidily well-kept, a la Michael Heseltine and showing the first tinges of grey through the copper brown.

  His permanently clean-shaven face added the final touch to a man who looked and was, very approachable and obviously had a manner to him which ensured his clients were comfortable in his company. The single most prominent feature of his appearance were his piercing sky blue eyes. Someday he would make a good judge, because eyes like that would make most men (and all women) feel very guilty should they be strangers to the truth.

  Mary, reassured by Russell’s presence, was slightly less distressed on this occasion. She even managed a smile. ‘You’ll join us and have some tea, won’t you? Detective Inspector Kennedy likes the Beatles and tea,’ she told Russell before buzzing through an order on the intercom, without waiting for Kennedy’s reply.

  Kennedy nodded yes after the fact. He was thinking about ann rea spilling the beans on some of his secrets – not all, he hoped.

  Kennedy took photocopies of the faxes from his inside jacket pocket. ‘We believe we know where Peter O’Browne spent Saturday.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ Leslie Russell exclaimed leaning forward in his chair and rubbing his large manicured hands together in anticipation. Mary Jones was speechless, raising her hand to cover her open mouth.

  ‘Did one of you chaps see him, then?’ Leslie Russell asked, pronouncing each of the words fully and pausing after each one.

  ‘No, n
o direct sightings yet, but his credit card was used to purchase a rail ticket from Waterloo to Wareham and at a hotel in Corfe Castle.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ returned Russell. ‘And here I was thinking the worst. Blackmail, drugs, murder and what-not.’ He sat silent a moment, deep in thought as Mary tried in vain to hold back the large Welsh teardrops of relief that were rolling down her face. ‘Now, now, Mary, you simply mustn’t.’ Russell went over to Mary and dried her eyes with his handkerchief.

  ‘I should tell you both that at this point we only have proof that the credit card was used. We still have to confirm that it was used by its owner. We’ve sent a copy of Peter’s photo to the local police and they’ll check at Wareham Station, at the taxi rank outside the station and the hotel, the Morton House Hotel, where the card was used for lunch. The hotel should be the best bet.’

  Mary Jones asked Russell the question Kennedy had intended asking her, ‘Leslie, who on earth does he know in Dorset?’

  ‘For the life of me I can’t think. I’ve been wracking my brain since the Detective Inspector mentioned the location. Let me see now, isn’t that near that village Moredon where that awfully strange chap Lawrence of Arabia killed himself on his motorcycle? Now there were the makings of a pop star if ever there was one: lived dangerously, died young – I wonder if he could sing? Perhaps Peter set off to see if he had any relatives with a chip off the old charisma block, eh?’

  Kennedy couldn’t be sure if Leslie Russell was considering the signing potential of TE Lawrence and his offspring or whether Peter O’Browne might know anyone in Dorset.

  ‘No, sorry,’ Russell announced. ‘I can’t say that I’m aware of Peter having any connections down there. Who else would know, Mary?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A policeman shines a light on my shoulder

  - Mark Knopfler

  Perhaps Mrs Hannah Castle was going to be presented with another fund-raising gold disc after all. Kennedy just hoped her husband (his boss) would be as happy as the owner of the social conscience.

  But why Corfe Castle he asked himself for the umpteenth time. And why disappear in the first place? There were so many unanswered questions, but until he knew for certain that it was anything other than a missing persons case, he felt unable or unwilling to move into a more functional gear.

  He checked his map again. Poole, about a fifteen-minute taxi ride away from Corfe Castle, was the nearest ferry port. From there Peter O’Browne could have easily hopped a ferry to Jersey, without needing a passport, or caught a train back to London. Or anywhere else in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (ferry connection necessary), for that matter.

  Such grand words, United Kingdom and Great Britain. ann rea had often declared that if Britain was allowed to call itself Great then perhaps Ireland should be Excellent Ireland and Scotland Canny Scotland. Wales could be Rugged Wales and on and on. Kennedy cut himself off in mid-thought. He didn’t have the time for going off on tangents.

  He took some pieces of paper from a drawer and wrote down the several avenues he felt he should be exploring, and pinned them all to his noticeboard.

  Martyn Farrelly

  Tom Best

  Paddy George

  Jason Carter-Houston

  Chart Hypers

  Love Life?

  He also pinned up a piece of paper with Leslie Russell’s name on it. Not that he was a suspect (not that he wasn’t, mind you), but Kennedy believed he could supply a lot of background information required to move the investigation forward. An investigation still, Kennedy feared, in a state of warming up.

  The phone rang. ‘DI Kennedy,’ he proclaimed to whoever had chosen to make a connection with him. You just never knew who was going to be at the other end of the phone. You never knew if they were going to bring you good news, bad news, new leads, or kill old leads.

  ‘DS Hardy here, Dorset CID,’ announced the voice, its owner confident and crisp.

  Kennedy smiled at the obvious. He wondered if this was a wind-up. ‘Hello, how are you doing?’ He tried to hide his amusement.

  ‘Good. Very good, in fact. DS Irvine advised me I should report to you when I completed the interviews at Morton House Hotel regarding the disappearance of Mr Peter Browne.’

  ‘Yes. He’s actually O’Browne, Sergeant, Peter O’Browne.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No problem. It is quite an unusual name. To be honest with you, I’ve never heard it before.’ Kennedy relaxed into his chair. ‘Well, what have you found out down there for us, Sergeant?’

  ‘It’s a nice hotel, sir, friendly staff. A Mr and Mrs kind of place,’ replied Dorset’s less famous Hardy. ‘The receptionist, a Miss Melanie Gibson, remembers your man. She remembered him more from the tip he left than she did from the photo. She said the photo must be out of date. She remembers him as being politely short, if you know what I mean. Didn’t offer much of a conversation, but he wasn’t rude. And, apparently he was sweating quite a bit.’

  ‘Well, it was quite hot on Saturday,’ Kennedy recalled. ‘And he had travelled all the way from London.’

  ‘Yes, true, I’m just telling you everything she said. She thinks he may have caught a bus following his lunch.’

  ‘Why?’ quizzed Kennedy.

  ‘Well, it seems he didn’t have a car. He arrived by taxi and didn’t order one when he left.’

  ‘A right little Miss Marple, your Miss Gibson. Let’s hope her friends last longer than the original’s did.’ Judging by the confused silence, DS Hardy was not an Agatha Christie fan.

  ‘It’s just that in the Miss Marple TV show, one of her friends dies every week.’ Kennedy tried.

  ‘Nothing wrong with being observant, sir,’ replied the DS haughtily. ‘It helps us, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ Obviously it wasn’t Kennedy’s day. ‘Look, any idea where he may have caught a bus to?’

  ‘Well, the one-four-two stops just outside the hotel. The bus on the hotel side takes you into Swanage, six miles down the road. From the opposite side of the street he would have travelled in the direction of Wareham, about eight miles. Another nine miles would take him into Poole,’ explained the ever-helpful DS Hardy. ‘As requested by DS Irvine, I got the hotel to make a photocopy of the Access credit card slip and that will be faxed to you shortly. If there’s anything else we can do for you, sir, please get in touch’ he concluded.

  ‘Thanks a million, DS Hardy. You’ve been very helpful, very helpful.’ Kennedy smiled as he returned the phone to its cradle.

  So DS Hardy of Dorset CID had a confirmed(-ish) sighting of Peter O’Browne and a signature proving that O’Browne had been in Dorset about thirty hours before his London home was burnt out with an incendiary device. What was the connection? Indeed was there a connection?

  A (VERY) SHORT SCENE

  From the dew soaked Hedge

  Creeps a crawly caterpillar

  Well the dawn begins to crack

  - Ray Davies

  Kennedy received a call at 9.05 a.m. the following morning. He was in his office and the call was from Mary Jones, who was in a highly-excited state.

  ‘Mr Kennedy, ah shit, Detective Kennedy, he’s rung. Peter’s rung and he’s alive.’

  ‘Peter O’Browne telephoned you?’

  ‘Yes. He called about eight forty this morning and left a message saying that he was okay. He said he would get in touch later and not to worry, for me not to worry.

  ‘It’s so great sir, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Brilliant news.’ Kennedy was about to ask Mary Jones if she could dig out one of Peter’s Gold Discs but he decided to leave it.

  But only until later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  One little Hitler does the other one’s will

  - Elvis Costello

  The murder of a sixty-two-year-old grandmother next occupied Kennedy’s attention. This case troubled Kennedy, but not because it was particularly complicated – he expected the
two youths seen running from the scene to be caught within twenty-four hours. No, it occupied his thoughts because this kind of crime was part of a growing trend in drug-related robberies on elderly people in Camden Town. The generation who had carried the country through lean times now found their meagre pensions, savings, TVs, videos (if they were lucky) pillaged to fund the purchase of whichever drugs were giving a buzz that particular week. The buzz was what had become important; what induced it, irrelevant.

  Invariably the pensioners (six this year already) would be shoved out of the way, maybe to hit their heads on a sideboard or the floor. Perhaps they’d even be knocked over the head with a bat or bottle or, as was the case was Mrs Mavis McCarthy, strangled until all life had left her limbs.

  Kennedy did not care to enter the debate about evil versus ‘deprived’ or ‘abused’ childhoods. It fell to him to deal with the aftermath of these horrific events, whatever their cause. A never-ending stream of experts was busy debating the issue on TV and radio talk shows, offering up their advice. ‘Give them five years national service’ or ‘Sixty of the best lashes will mend their ways’, ‘Let’s find a way to bring these people back into society’ or ‘Give them back their sense of responsibility’. Not to mention: ‘After what Thatcher did to the country, what do you expect?’

  No, Kennedy had to help Alfie, Mavis McCarthy’s husband of forty-three years. What do you say to a man whose wife’s life – and effectively his own, too – suddenly and violently ends just because two shits need to score and decide that the easiest way is to attack a poor defenceless woman who had spent her entire life loving her husband and bringing up a family. How did you explain all this to the remaining half of a couple who had seen each other through the troubled years and who had been looking forward to a well-earned rest?