by Paul Charles
Kennedy could not resist it. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yes, actually we did. We didn’t know what to expect with all the fuss, and it’s rare that we agree on a movie, but we both thought it was brilliant,’ Colette replied on behalf of both of them.
Farrelly nodded in agreement at her opinion of the movie and to confirm the last day he’d seen Peter.
‘How did he seem?’
‘Well, he’d had a few you know. He was reflective. I think the problems he had to deal with on his new level were getting him down. He said he never found time to work direct with artists any more, and that depressed him a lot. He claimed he’d become a glorified salesman, albeit a highly-paid one, and he told me that the people who now owned the majority of his company did not give a shit what he sold. They were only interested in how many copies they shipped out. He said that there was no interest in developing an artist if the artist wasn’t a success immediately. If he or she did not show a profit from record number one, they were on Peter’s back to drop him or her immediately.
‘Actually, we talked a lot about the days when major labels like Warner Brothers signed acts like Ray Cooder, Bonnie Rait, Randy Newman and Van Morrison. They would know right from the start that it was going to take several albums before they made money or broke even. But the executives in those days had a vision, and they stuck with the artists and eventually made the money they needed. But Peter felt – and I agreed with him – that nowadays if your first album doesn’t do over a million it’s all over and you are dropped, and it’s “next please”. Music does not matter any more.
‘He was very annoyed that he had become part of this machine that just wants to be continuously fed. That’s why the CD revolution happened. The product had nearly dried up, the majors were losing out to the independents who were signing all the new worthwhile acts, as was the case with Camden Town Records.
‘The majors decided to find a way to sell more of the existing product by developing a new format, the compact disc. They effectively killed off vinyl just so that they could keep the hungry machine fed.’ Farrelly rose from his chair and went off to his shelves, where he found his CD copy and his vinyl copy of Abbey Road.
‘Have a look at this. No comparison, is there? Look at the sleeve,’ he pleaded passionately. ‘It’s a classic with the vinyl and it’s merely product identification with the CD.’
Kennedy was not sure that he agreed with Martyn Farrelly’s over-romanticised view of this subject. He did prefer the old vinyl sleeves, but with the advent of the compact disc the dust and hair crackles disappeared; the needle scratching vanished.
The sadness of finding out that someone, maybe even yourself, had scratched your valuable copy of Astral Weeks was now a thing of the past. In fact the example that Farrelly had picked, the Beatles classic, Abbey Road, could have been chosen to push the case for CDs. The CD version was, to Kennedy’s ears, the best sounding recorded music he had ever heard. Just listen to the warmth of the acoustic guitars on “Here Comes the Sun”. But Kennedy kept his opinion to himself. He was not there to debate the pros and cons of the CD.
‘Do you think he was more than depressed, or was the nostalgia alcohol-induced?’
‘Hard to know now, with what’s happened I mean. I’ll probably look back on that meeting for the rest of my life, wondering whether he was in danger. Did he know he was in danger? Could I have helped him? But I think he was just trying to come to terms with the fact that he had sold his soul for six million quid. And now he just had to live with it.
‘He quoted Dylan to me, you know. “And don’t go mistaking paradise for that place across the road”. He said that he had, it wasn’t and he shouldn’t have.’
‘But he didn’t say anything that made you suspicious?’ Kennedy pressed.
‘No, no not at all. I felt he was depressed and that was it. I felt great when Colette joined us. I suppose it was a bit smug of me, looking at both our lives, he with all his money and sadness; me with my family and songs and happiness.’ Colette briefly touched the nape of his neck.
‘Do you have any idea of who might want Peter O’Browne dead?’ It was another official-sounding question.
Martyn Farrelly thought carefully for a few moments aware that all attention was focused on him. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, he was unsure of what he was going to say.
‘No… No… Not murder him. Sure, he pissed off a few people along the way, but not so much that he would get murdered. No I can’t think of anyone.’
‘Who did he piss off along the way?’
‘Well you know,’ Farrelly muttered nervously, ‘I’m sure there are other people who would know the answer to that question better than me. I didn’t deal with him as much on a day-to-day basis the way some did. Tom Best, say. Peter told me that they had a serious falling out. Basically it seems that Tom thought he was a partner and Peter thought he was an employee.
‘Peter also fell out big time with the manager of Radio Cars. Peter was really mad at the manager, and at the band as well, come to that, for not being more loyal to him.
‘But I don’t know. I feel I’m drawing too much attention to these people by mentioning names. The incidents mentioned were probably more skirmishes than a full scale war, or even a battle for that matter. I can’t see any of them actually killing him. It’s a terribly big thing to kill somebody.’ Farrelly sighed.
‘How was he killed by the way?’ he asked quietly.
Colette gave him an Oh-Martyn-how-could-you? look.
‘We’re not releasing that information just yet,’ Kennedy replied and paused for effect before moving once again into official police-speak. ‘What were you doing yesterday evening between six and midnight?’
‘God, you can’t think that Marty had anything to do with Peter’s death can you, Detective Inspector?’ Colette spluttered, panic evident in both her face and her movements.
‘What I have to do, madam, is eliminate as many people as possible from our inquiries. The easiest way to do this is to find out what people were doing around the time of the murder. If this information, the alibi, checks out, we can then move on to someone else.’ Kennedy’s reply was polite but firm.
‘I was up here, in this room, working on my music. I’m working on a song I have promised to another artist for inclusion on her album. She, Amy Sels, is due in the studio next week to record it and I’ve been reworking some of the lyrics. They need to work from the female point of view.’
‘What time did you start working?’
‘I came straight up after tea at about six thirty, and finished at about one in the morning. As I said, I needed to finish the song.’
Kennedy turned to Colette, ‘Did you come up here during that time?’
Colette hesitated for a second. ‘No. No, I didn’t. Martyn does not like to be disturbed when he’s working.’
PC Gaul wondered whether Colette, in the moment of uncertainty, had considered giving her husband an alibi.
‘When you record your albums, sir, have you ever used a studio in Primrose Hill called…’ Kennedy checked his notes ‘…Mayfair Mews Studios?’
‘No, I always use a studio called Konk. It’s owned by Ray Davies of the Kinks. It’s only two streets away and I always hope I’m going to be influenced by England’s finest living songwriter when I go there. But I’ve never even come close to “Waterloo Sunset”.’
As Kennedy drove away from the Farrelly’s home, he found himself overcome by an overwhelming urge to listen to the Kinks’ classic Farrelly had mentioned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dirty old river, must you keep rolling
Flowing into the night
- Ray Davies
The melody was engulfing Kennedy’s brain. The cheeky guitar line from Dave, the other Davies brother, hooked its way into his mind as effectively as the times-tables had at school. Dave Davies proved to be a perfect foil for his older brother’s cynical but endearing outlook on English suburban life.
His guitar solo on ‘Waterloo Sunset’ was as sweet as any strawberry milkshake.
Kennedy had PC Gaul drop him off at the Salt and Pepper Café in Parkway. He was to meet ann rea there and she was already at their favourite corner table. Kennedy immediately ordered tea (naturally) and brought ann rea up to date with his interview with the Farrellys, ‘Waterloo Sunset’ and all.
ann rea interrupted his commentary on London’s most elegant folk song.
‘I worry, you know,’ she began.
‘What?’ A startled Kennedy departed the melody.
‘And then you tell me about people like the Farrellys and their life and I feel okay about things.’
‘You don’t mean “things”, do you? You mean relationships don’t you?’ Kennedy cut across her words and her thoughts.
‘Yes. I just feel that I want to try, but I like what we have now and I don’t want to blow it. But then when you see a couple who have made it work, like Martyn and Colette Farrelly, that’s how I imagine it to be, and how I want it to be – God, I don’t even like talking about this. I’m so damned uptight about it, I feel that in a way, even by discussing it, you can ruin everything.’
When ann rea failed to find the words, Kennedy filled the space for her.
‘Look,’ Kennedy began in a quiet voice, ‘it’s okay. It really is. Yes I’d love us to live together but I can see that although part of you longs for that to happen as well, the other part of you is screaming and running for cover.’
Kennedy knew exactly why ann rea felt like running for cover. On the one occasion she had given her heart and her life to a man, she had found not only was he married, but despite all the words and gestures, he had little other interest in her apart from bedding her. This had all happened five years before she met Kennedy and she still hadn’t recovered from it, barely even talked about it. It seemed to him that the better they got on, the more worried ann rea became about their relationship.
‘But ann, it’s simple. When, and if, the time is right for us to live together, we’ll live together.’ And then he added, ‘Or not!’ for fear she would think he was vain enough to be thinking, all he had to do was wait and she’d come running. ‘It’s not an issue and we shouldn’t be making it an issue. For me it’s simple. I love you. It’s like I’ve been waiting all my life to meet you and be with you, and now that I’ve met you and you’re here I want to be with you.’
‘But how can you be so sure? Why are you so convinced it’s me you want to be with? Why not your last girlfriend? Or your next girlfriend? That’s what I can’t work out. We’ve discussed this before and I told you then that I felt that my last boyfriend was the one and that we were going to live happily ever after. But then he turned out to be a shit. And he fucked me over. I keep wondering how I could have ever been so wrong. Why shouldn’t my feelings for you blow back in my face as well? I just don’t want to mess up, Kennedy.
‘I don’t want to find you staying out later and later. I don’t want to one day realise that we haven’t made love for six weeks and I don’t want to.’ ann rea hissed air through her teeth as Kennedy’s tea arrived at their table. She smiled, not at Kennedy but at the table. But for his benefit. ‘Look, Kennedy, I know you’re a randy sod, and if you hadn’t made love to me for six weeks you’d be off looking for it with somebody else.’ Clearly ann rea felt it might be time to try to lighten up the conversation.
She was annoyed with herself for having got into this now. For heaven’s sake, he was working on a case and he was seeking her help on it – the first time he had done so officially. It was just that the way Kennedy had described the Farrelly’s home and their life together, in a way, he sounded envious. ann rea had wanted all her life to be like them – well, maybe not exactly like them.
The way Kennedy had described it, Colette Farrelly was slightly subservient to her husband. ann rea on the other hand, believed it was possible to have a complete relationship when both partners had a fulfilling career.
Her theory, in fact, went deeper than that. ann rea believed that such a relationship could be the perfect one – providing, of course, that love was present. But at the same time, love alone was never enough. It took more than love to take you through the novelty of lust, to still be buzzed by your partner every time he or she said something.
ann rea felt that she could have such a relationship with Kennedy. She loved him, but she worried that now that she had found someone she loved, and who evidently loved her, she didn’t have what it took to take the relationship to the next level. She admired his ability to accept things and move with them (‘or not’, as he often told her). Perhaps at this stage he was the one most prepared to risk all the hurt and shit that had to be gone through when you tried to go for something you wanted, and wanted desperately. Kennedy, ann rea felt, could accept failure; she was not sure that she could, not again.
‘Listen to you, would you?’ Kennedy laughed, responding to ann rea’s need to lighten the atmosphere. ‘If you hadn’t practiced the fiddler’s elbow for six weeks when you wished to have your evil way with me, I’m not sure I’d live to tell the tale of our banking.’
‘Don’t you mean bonking, Kennedy?’ ann rea responded teasing.
‘No banking, I mean banking.’ Kennedy smiled.
ann rea’s raised eyebrows said, ‘What on earth are you on about?’
‘You know,’ Kennedy said dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Banking. Where I make a deposit!’
‘Kennedy!’ she shouted, prompting all the other patrons of the Salt and Pepper Café to turn round and stare. They both turned bright red. ‘Please,’ ann era dropped her voice a few decibels, ‘pl-ea-se. We’re on a case.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied slyly as he finished off his tea. ‘Let’s go for a spin in your car and see if we can’t find “Waterloo Sunset” on the radio. You never know, Martyn Farrelly may have been dropping a clue.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Time wounds all heels
- Nick Lowe
Needless to say, ann rea and Kennedy were not successful in their search for a play of ‘Waterloo Sunset’. And even if they had been, they would not easily have found a clue to the death of Peter O’Browne.
By the time ann rea dropped Kennedy at North Bridge House, the rain had started to fall. It fell so hard it bounced three inches off the pavement and Kennedy decided against running across to the newsagent’s at the top of Parkway to pick up an Evening Standard and Camden New Journal. Meanwhile WPC Anne Coles and DS James Irvine were pushing the brass button which activated the electronic chimes at a four-storey house at 25 Ellington Street, Islington.
The entire third floor – two main front rooms, two smaller, darker back rooms, a tiny bathroom, (sink and WC), an even smaller kitchen (sink, small fridge and microwave oven) – of this house in a tree-shaded street was the headquarters (in fact the only quarters) of The Compact Management Company.
The Compact Management Company listed as its Managing (and only) Director a Mr Jason Carter-Houston, former manager of the Radio Cars, one of Peter O’Browne’s early, and successful, discoveries. Jason Carter-Houston’s private and personal, secretary, Miss Doreen Stephens, also acted as the company’s receptionist. It was Doreen’s high-pitched voice which greeted Coles and Irvine and advised them to push the door when instructed.
‘Now?’ the WPC inquired from the cream-ribbed intercom unit.
‘No, not till I tell you!’ came the terse reply from Doreen, who further instructed them to make their way up to the third floor. Having completed her orders, she told the WPC, ‘Now, push the door’.
Confirmation that they had successfully carried out their instructions came by means of the sound of the same high-pitched voice, only louder, greeting them,
‘I have advised Mr Carter-Houston that you are here and he will see you presently. Please make yourself comfortable,’ Doreen said, ushering WPC Coles and DS Irvine in the direction of two very uncomfortable chairs. WPC Coles was convi
nced that Doreen would have loved to have inserted the actual word ‘hyphen’ between ‘Carter’ and ‘Houston’.
She wondered about the parents responsible for such a name. Perhaps a Mr Carter, a modern man, had married an even more modern woman, Miss Houston and they’d adopted both surnames. Or, perhaps a Miss Carter had married a wimpy Mr Houston. Maybe, more boringly, a Miss Smith had married a Mr Carter-Houston. Or perhaps Jason himself had added his wife’s name to his own. The WPC’s mind mixings were interrupted by the arrival of an unassuming person whom the WPC and the DS – as was revealed in a later conversation – both took to be the tea-boy. Well, tea-young man would have been more accurate, though the WPC did not wonder if a Mr Tea had married a Miss Young Man.
As the young man drew closer, he looked less and less young and introduced himself. ‘Hi, I’m Jason Carter,’ he said, adding, a beat later, ‘Houston,’ which answered WPC Coles unasked question. ‘Why don’t you both come through to my office.’ No hint of an offer of tea.
Jason Carter-Houston wore a pair of black trousers with an elasticated waist. This in itself was not a problem. His black (plain and of a different shade) t-shirt ran out of material about an inch above his trousers and the gap exposed a bare belly which was fighting the waist of his trousers. His hair was also black, probably dyed, definitely dead. He had obviously seen some rock god similarly dressed, but in emulating his hero, Jason neglected to take account of the fact that he did not have the basic equipment to carry off the image.
WPC Coles was wondering how Miss Houston could have gone out with such a specimen, let alone hyphened-up their names. DS Irvine thought Jason’s obvious hyperness was probably due to a heavy intake of either bad food, chocolate bars or beer, or a combination of all of them. Whatever the reason, Jason had all the rock ‘n’ roll clichés off pat.
