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

by Paul Charles

  The doctor took another sip from his cup; it was magnificent tea. One of those rare cups of tea which are so refreshing and enjoyable, you want to drink it quickly to enjoy the tea fully, but at the same time you want to drink slowly, so as to prolong the experience.

  The doctor set off on another tack. ‘His hands had been tied together in front of him.’

  ‘In front of him? How do you know that?’ Kennedy searched around his cluttered desk for a pen to commit his thoughts and the doctor’s information to paper. Taylor produced one from his breast pocket and handed it to Kennedy. He was a famous compulsive supplier. He always had all sorts of useful items about his person – pens, pencils, erasers, paper clips, pins, elastic bands, blotting paper, calendar, multi-blade Swiss army knife, even a plastic spoon. Kennedy could remember one scene of crime he’d attended with the doctor. They’d found, easily enough, tea-making facilities but had trouble when it came to cups. Leonard Taylor had miraculously produced two polystyrene cups from an inside pocket. On this occasion a pen was sufficient and the doctor passed it over the desk and answered Kennedy’s question.

  ‘When someone ties your hands behind your back’ – the doctor rose to his feet to demonstrate the point, though he had trouble joining his hands behind his burly frame – ‘the most natural thing to do is to tie them in an X shape. This means that at least one of the inside wrists will have a rope burn. However, when your hands are tied in front of you, the most obvious way is to tie the inside wrists together, which will leave no rope burn on either inside wrist.’

  ‘A lemon entry, my deal Watson. A lemon entry!’ Kennedy cheered.

  Leonard Taylor sat down again and returned his attention to the report. ‘His legs were also bound together at the ankles.’ There were no observations this time from the DI so he continued. ‘Mr O’Browne’s last meal was nothing other than a large helping of French fried potatoes. I would probably say that, taking into consideration body temperature and how cold the Mayfair Mews studio was, he probably would have died at nine thirty at night, at the earliest, and as late as ten thirty, at the outside.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, all this tying up and then hanging and then untying and laying out the body. It’s like some kind of statement isn’t it?’ Kennedy suggested.

  ‘Yes it is,’ agreed Taylor. ‘The other thing, the final thing in fact: if you had been wondering how Peter O’Browne was overpowered the answer is chloroform. I found traces of chloroform in his blood.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  You move much better when you know

  When you know

  Why you are happy

  - Mary Margaret O’Hara

  Two things of varying significance happened at the end of that Thursday afternoon, approximately twenty-one hours after the death by strangulation of Mr Peter O’Browne. And as so often is the case, both things were happening simultaneously.

  WPC Anne Coles had an unexpected visit from the golden-voiced DS Sandy Johnson of the Fraud Squad, New Scotland Yard. And Mr Paddy George, Peter O’Browne’s original partner in the record shop, received an equally unexpected visit from the police in the person of Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy of Camden CID.

  The WPC was quite taken with the owner of the attractive voice. So often in the past, a wonderful telephone voice would turn out to belong to either a wimp or a person of over-ample proportions. Neither of these types appealed to WPC Anne Coles; no, she went more for the Christy Kennedy type. She wasn’t really sure what the Kennedy type was (which probably made him more attractive), except that her DI was always clean-shaven, well-dressed, slim, seemingly deep, but still amusing and courteous. But what were his faults? Everyone had faults. WPC Coles would have liked to have got to know those of DI Kennedy, but she was too sensible and too ambitious to get involved with her boss.

  She had been summoned to the reception by the desk sergeant, the ever-jolly Timothy Flynn. Here DS Sandy Johnson confidently stepped up and introduced himself. ‘I chased down those couple of names as I promised and well, you know I just had to see the owner of such a vibrant voice.’

  God, you don’t believe in beating about the bush, do you? thought Anne Coles. DS Johnson saw only that she blushed slightly as she replied: ‘Good to meet you, too. Thanks for delivering the names in person. Come on through and I’ll treat you to a cup of station treacle – sorry, I mean coffee.

  ‘I suppose one good turn deserves another.’

  At this point in their embryonic relationship, if indeed a relationship was to be born, they shared a faultlessness. It was too early for them to be aware of each other’s flaws. At that stage it was all looks and glances and words, all of which merely hinted, probably erroneously, at a personality known only through two short conversations. In ninety-nine per cent of relationships – even the ones which last forever – it’s downhill all the way from there, albeit with a couple of pleasant detours along the way.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ offered Johnson, tentatively sipping the coffee. He smiled at WPC Coles, who merely stared at him.

  Eventually, in the absence of any further comment, she had to say, her eyebrows raised, ‘Well?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, you’ve brought some information for me, I believe.’ Anne laughed a very non-WPC laugh.

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry. Of course,’ DS Johnson stammered, realising that his behaviour was only two notches – maybe even one – above that of a village idiot. ‘I’ve brought you the names, of the two team leaders. I think you’ll find that the team members sometimes cross over from project to project.

  ‘The main team is run by a chap called Dave Anderson – known as Normal to his mates,’ Johnson went on, belatedly warming to his theme. ‘Don’t ask me why. Probably had a brother called Mad Max. He works out of the Hyde Park area of Leeds. The second chap, Hugh Guttridge, is based in Birmingham. Here are their addresses and telephone numbers.’ He passed WPC Coles a piece of paper.

  No, sorry, their fingers did not touch – not even the lightest of brushes. But the WPC did offer this poor, drowning man, a bit of a lifeline. ‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. Particularly for delivering it to me in person. I suppose it means I owe you a drink?’

  ‘That would be great, just great.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you a ring some time,’ she replied, folding the piece of paper in two and then in two again.

  DS Sandy Johnson looked like he’d found a five-pound note but lost a tenner. Go for broke, son, he told himself, it’s now or never. ‘Well, what about now? After all, I’m on your patch, and there’s no time like the present. What time do you get off duty?’

  He must have been mad to be so pushy, he thought to himself, but something inside was driving him. Women like WPC Anne Coles are seldom unattached. There was a danger, a real danger, that the next time they met she would have connected with someone else. Sandy Johnson did not want this to become another case of What If…

  The WPC checked her wristwatch, white dots and arms on a black background, for longer than she needed, giving herself time to make a decision. Was this a situation where she should be impulsive or sensible?

  ‘Well, in fact I get off in ten minutes. And I suppose, after all your trouble, it would be inhospitable of me – well for that matter of Camden CID – not to entertain you.’

  DS Johnson was holding his breath.

  ‘There’s a pub nearby, called the Edinboro,’ Anne went on. ‘Shall we meet there in, say…’ again she stared at her watch as if it were making her decisions for her ‘…say, twenty minutes? I’ve a few things to do.’ She unfolded the note again and rechecked the details. The paper, New Scotland Yard standard issue, was fresh and crisp and made a sound like pigeon wings flapping as she unfolded then refolded it.

  ‘I know it well. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes,’ Johnson replied. His relief was palpable. They shook hands awkwardly.

  WPC Coles had completed a memo containing the details of Dave ‘Normal’ Anderson and Hugh Guttridge a
nd placed it carefully on DI Kennedy’s desk before she freshened herself up for the eagerly-anticipated drink. She wasn’t to know it at the time, but the drink was to lead to dinner later the same evening at her favourite Italian Restaurant, Vegia Zenia in Princess Street, a few streets away from North Bridge House, and, even later the same evening a good old-fashioned snog (but no more!)

  ***

  As Anne Coles and Sandy Johnson were about to start the first of their two drinks (‘You’ve never seen a bird fly on one wing,’ claimed DS Johnson), DI Kennedy was conducting an interview with Paddy George in the latter’s home at the posher end of Arlington Street.

  If Mr George were the old oak he was said to resemble, he would have had sixty-three concentric circles on his inner trunk, bent and battered by the wind and the rain. He was a gentle man, probably a gentleman as well. He still had a few things on the boil, but generally he had sold off most of his business interests and now seemed intent on spending his quieter years in the more appealing company of his wife.

  Paddy George had already heard through the grapevine about the death of Peter O’Browne. Camden’s bush telegraph is second to none: local news travels through the numerous shops on Parkway quicker than Damon Hill could dump the ‘shoemaker’ from the track at Silverstone. He had thought that the murder element of the story was perhaps a bit on the imaginative side – after all, murders only happen in books, on television and in the movies.

  ‘He was great in the early days, you know,’ Paddy was reminiscing to Kennedy. ‘He was totally, I mean totally, into the music. He lived only for that. He’d have a copy of everything, absolutely everything, which came in.

  ‘And he wasn’t like some of the collectors, who would add the albums unplayed to their collections. Peter would devour them until he knew the songs inside out. Then he would badger his customers into buying his favourites. He’d play them non-stop in the shop. I’m sure he personally sold five hundred copies of Astral Weeks. I think that was his favourite album of all time. I remember him going on and on about how it was a new language, a breakthrough album, and that no one would ever better it.

  ‘Peter was great to have in a shop – the records would just walk off the shelves. That’s why I suggested we open the record shop together. I didn’t think it would be long before he decided to do it by himself in any case, so I thought, Why not jump the gun and help him set one up? That’s why I wasn’t losing a great shop manager, I was gaining a shop.’

  ‘Weren’t you upset you didn’t have a share of the record company?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. Not at all. He came to me with the idea and asked me to put up five hundred pounds to start the record company off. I said no, for two reasons. First, I believe in doing what you know, and doing it well. I knew about selling records. I knew sweet FA about making them or about dealing with the people who write and record them.

  ‘Secondly I reasoned that if he didn’t have the five hundred pounds he couldn’t set up the record company. If he couldn’t set up his record company then our shop would do better and I hoped at the time that perhaps we would set up a few more shops, maybe even a chain.

  ‘The next thing I heard was that his mate Martyn Farrelly, the songwriter, had given him the five hundred lids and Camden Town Records was born. The rest is history, as I’m sure you know, Inspector.’ Kennedy thought that Paddy George had an excellent story-telling voice. Age had removed the need to rush his words. He was happy with life and what it had given him and his wife.

  ‘Peter became famously successful,’ the story continued. ‘But the more successful he became, the less happy he was. And, judging by the last few times I spoke to him, music had ceased to be a joy.’

  ‘Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’ Kennedy inquired as he languished in a comfortable armchair by the front window of George’s sitting room. He had noticed that older people were happy to neglect the fashionable in food, furniture and clothes in favour of comfort.

  ‘God, now there’s a question. I wouldn’t have a clue. The business he’s in now…sorry, I mean was in, is so cut-throat. It could have been anyone. That’s not a big help, I know. But I’ve been thinking about that same question since the rumours started,’ Paddy replied sadly.

  ‘Did you still see him, socialise with him?’

  ‘No, not a lot. I think the last time I saw him was about a year ago. He and the girlfriend he had then – what was her name. Doris? No Diana, yes that’s it, Diana – came over here for dinner with me and the missus. It was the happiest I’d seen him in years. She was a great girl, very down to earth. We took to her immediately. She was just right for Peter, not in the least impressed with the pop crap. We supposed she loved him for the man he was.’

  ‘And that’s the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yes, we move in different circles these days.’

  And that was about the extent of the information Kennedy extracted from Paddy George. He had tried to find out more about Diana, but neither Paddy nor his wife could remember her last name. They thought that she might have been a school teacher but they weren’t sure.

  So ended the day during which Peter O’Browne’s body had been found. Kennedy was regretting that the day had passed without his managing to uncover more. He felt that on a murder case, the first day was vital. What you did (or didn’t do) could lead to success or failure in solving the case.

  Back at his office Kennedy looked at the memo from WPC Coles. She’s good, he thought. She has the makings of a good detective. She was thoughtful, resourceful, efficient, imaginative and, probably most important, didn’t seem to mind a bit of hard work.

  Before going home to shower and shave before joining ann rea and Leslie Russell for dinner, he updated his noticeboard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I am out undoing

  All the good I’ve done

  - John Prine

  Later that Thursday evening, Leslie Russell, ann rea and DI Christy Kennedy were sitting in the Engineer, a former pub converted into a restaurant/wine bar, situated about a hundred yards along Princess Street from Vegia Zenia, on the corner of the Gloucester Road.

  Russell had dressed down from his solicitor’s uniform and was now casually attired: red polo-neck pullover, grey slacks and, to shield him from the cold and damp, a navy blue duffel coat, which he hung to the left of the entrance. He had recently showered – the rain couldn’t have been so successful under the hood of his duffel coat. Kennedy, also feeling the need for a change, wore a white collarless shirt and his favourite black and green patterned waistcoat. ann rea was stunning. Devilishly beautiful. Kennedy wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, or the subtle lighting in the restaurant, but she looked like she was glowing. She dressed very simply but effectively in a loose-fitting white blouse, short black skirt and black tights. Her favourite jacket, three-quarter length black leather hung close to Russell’s over garment and Kennedy’s black crombie.

  It was highly unusual for a detective inspector to dine with a witness, but Russell had suggested it. His logic made sense: he had important meetings all afternoon and he was sure that Kennedy and his team had enough to do to fill the afternoon without him. They would all have to eat at some point, so why not combine the two?

  This comfy approach was all very well if one (Kennedy) assumed that one’s dinner partner (Russell) had nothing to do with the murder. Kennedy did not have enough information or proof to make such an assumption, but his instinct told him Russell was in the clear and he was willing to give a little information in the hope of receiving a lot more in return.

  ann rea observed that Leslie Russell was obviously used to talking, to talking all the time. He kept up his side of the dialogue as he stabbed aimlessly in the salad bowl with his fork, never losing eye contact, not even for a second.

  ‘So, what do you imagine all that faffing about over the trip to the TE Lawrence territory was?’ he offered as a few more lettuce leaves fell victim to indiscriminate proddings
of the fork.

  ‘Pardon?’ replied Kennedy confused by the shift in gear from pleasantries to business without the gentle acceleration through second and third.

  ‘Dorset. The trip to Dorset. Was that a wild goose chase, or what?’

  ‘It’s all a bit spooky, as if the murderer is leaving clues, but his clues don’t add up to anything,’ said ann rea.

  ‘Well, there are two assumptions in your last sentence, ann rea, that I’m not sure we can afford to make.’ Kennedy smiled directly at her to ensure that his remark was not taken as a rebuff.

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Well, the first one would have to be that we can’t be sure the slayer is, in fact, male,’ Russell offered.

  ann rea and Kennedy spoke simultaneously. ‘Okay, agreed,’ from ann era and, ‘Correct!’ from the detective.

  ‘But the second?’ He returned his fork to the empty salad bowl, clasping both hands into a fist which he placed under his chin, distributing the weight of his head through the triangle created by his elbows, on to the table.

  ‘We can’t really assume that the clues don’t mean anything until we have the complete picture.’ Kennedy was struggling to keep up with his dinner partners on the eating front. His potato and leek soup was hot and, furthermore, it was pretty hard to speak with a mouthful of soup. ‘Even if they are red herrings, not part of our main picture, they will still give some information on the murderer, which, might even turn out to be the means we use to convict him or her, or even them.’ He finally emptied his soup bowl, which was more like a soup bucket, with three full spoon trips to his mouth.

  ‘How likely is it that this murder would have been committed by either a she or a them?’ ann rea inquired. She was surprised she had not considered either of these options before. But then, she was not a police officer.