by Paul Charles
The damp patch, less visible than it had been the previous morning, was about midway between the hanging point and the internal door in the corner of the studio. Kennedy passed through this door and into the cramped domestic quarters.
Visits to the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, toilet and lounge produced nothing inspirational. Once again, he noted the contrast between the murder room, cleaned and tidied by the murderer, and the home of Marianne MacIntyre.
The main difference might have been the obvious premeditation of the O’Browne killing, but the net result was exactly the same: the loss of a human life. Society dictated, and paid Kennedy to ensure, that such loss of life did not go unpunished.
To Kennedy, this work, his work, was a pleasure. The murders always upset him, upset him immensely in fact, but the detection and, in successful cases, the subsequent capture of the perpetrator, were the main reasons for his existence. The punishment of the criminal sometimes left him cold.
There were always mitigating circumstances. The offender’s father had beaten him; his mother didn’t love him; he was abused; he was bullied at school; someone stole his lollipop. There was always some excuse and some clever lawyer would appeal for leniency based on society’s debt, not to the victim, but to the destroyer. Kennedy was of the opinion, which he mostly kept to himself, that bad was bad and we all, no matter what our pasts hold, control the absolute power to make the decision to do wrong or right. If we decide to do wrong, then we must be prepared to accept the consequences. After all, mitigating circumstances are of no comfort to the victims or to their families.
Such thoughts filled Kennedy’s head that Friday morning as he walked around the studio and domestic quarters, the fingers of his right hand flexing repeatedly.
As he left the building he said, half to himself, half to PC Essex, ‘Anyone who is going to be that tidy and methodical in committing a murder is going to have a watertight alibi,’ and then as an afterthought added, ‘aren’t they?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, sir,’ the PC replied tentatively. ‘Or maybe they think that they are so clever, they think they will never need an alibi as they are never going to be caught.’
As he left the mews and stepped into Regent’s Park Road, under Fitzroy Flowers at No 77, Kennedy noticed to his right an unlit neon sign above a fish and chip shop. Regent, it proclaimed. Kennedy used this chip shop himself from time to time – it was famed for its mushy peas.
The Regent’s staff would undoubtedly have a hard time remembering someone buying one portion of chips two night’s previous. But it might be worth a punt. He made a mental note to have it checked when it was open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
My hair’s still curly and my eyes are blue
Why don’t you love me like you used to do?
- Hank Williams
‘Hello, it’s me.’ A funny way to introduce yourself Kennedy thought, even as he uttered the words. He’d received a message, concise as usual, to ring ann rea.
‘Hi, Kennedy.’ Kennedy was forever searching her voice for a hint of what was coming. If the truth be known, what he was expecting was, ‘Look, Kennedy, this is not really working out and I think we need to take a break/get married/split up.’ Delete as appropriate. It was funny that in the cold light of day or morning you could take little comfort from last night’s passion.
‘Listen, Kennedy, I feel bad about telling you this.’
God I was right – here it comes, Kennedy thought as his heart pretended it was Tyson to the Bruno of his chest. ‘Yeah?’ he said as casually as he could.
‘Well, I was talking to Mary Jones this morning,’ ann rea began gingerly.
What on earth has Mary Jones got to do with you packing me in? Kennedy thought in confusion, barely managing another, ‘Yeah?’
‘Well she told me. Oh God well, Kennedy it’s like this – she told me in confidence, and I don’t know. I told her that I would have to tell you in case it affects the case, but she wasn’t happy about it.’
So the Big E was not on offer for that Friday, at least not in the morning. Tyson stopped thrashing Bruno and he was fluent again. ‘ann rea, what is it, exactly, that you are trying to tell me?’
‘Oh, I wish I wasn’t…wasn’t your friend, then I’d be happy to let you find it out for yourself. But shit, you’ll find out anyway.’
‘ann rea!’
‘Peter O’Browne was having an affair with Colette Farrelly!’
‘What!’
‘Yes, I know. I thought the same thing. She and Martyn seemed so happy, so much a couple.’
‘How long had this being going on?’
‘Quite a few years, apparently. But it was quite weird really.’
‘I like weird, tell me more.’
‘Kennedy!’
‘Sorry.’ He wasn’t really, and both of them knew so and enjoyed the moment before Kennedy prompted, ‘So, what was weird?’
‘It seems that it wasn’t really a normal relationship.’
‘Well it wouldn’t be, would it? She already had one of those with her husband.’
‘Kennedy I can’t believe you’re being so frivolous at a time like this,’ ann era replied. If she had known what Kennedy had been expecting her to say, his frivolity would have been very understandable. ‘If you’ve settled down, I’ll continue. It seems it was more of a fraternal relationship; she cared for him, she liked him. In fact it was Colette who fixed him up with his last girlfriend, the teacher Diana Alexander.
‘Allegedly, occasionally, it seems they did have sex, but Mary reckons it was no big thing to either of them; they enjoyed it, but neither was hung up about it. Not love, just that.’
‘Hmmm,’ Kennedy murmured taking all this in, writing Colette’s name on his notepad, coincidentally under Diana Alexander’s, and drawing ever-growing concentric rectangles around it. ‘How did they manage to keep it a secret?’
‘Mary didn’t think anyone knew about it, apart from her – that’s why she was so insistent I didn’t tell you. But now with Peter’s death, well, she has started to wonder whether Martyn might have known. Martyn is so in love with Colette that Mary was worried that he may have found out about it and, well…killed Peter. And I remembered that you told me he claimed to have been alone in the music room that night.’
‘Yes,’ Kennedy replied. ‘But lack of an alibi does not necessarily equate to proof of guilt.’
‘But if first of all he doesn’t have an alibi and then it appears he might also have had a motive, doesn’t that add up to something?’
‘It certainly doesn’t prove anything, but it might nudge me in a certain direction of thought. Do you think there may be anything else floating around out there that Mary isn’t telling us about?’
‘No. She assured me that was all. Mary liked Colette. She says she really cared for Peter. Apparently Colette often rang Mary just to check how Peter was doing.’
Someone knocked on DI Christy Kennedy’s door.
‘Look, ann rea, thanks a million for this – I have to go, I’m late for a meeting. Will I see you later?’
‘Ah, I don’t know, Kennedy. I’m miles behind here. Maybe I’ll just work late and go straight home tonight. I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later.’
He wondered whether she was really behind with her work or whether she was just cooling down and trying to gradually back off.
Before then, Kennedy had rarely thought about the possibility of them splitting up, but here he was for the second time that morning having such thoughts. This worried Kennedy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
- Bob Dylan
WPC Anne Coles was the owner of the hand that had been knocking upon Kennedy’s door. When Kennedy had finished on the phone and called her into the office, he could tell immediately that she was excited. Well, he was a detective.
‘We’ve foun
d him, sir,’ she gushed and before he could inquire as to whom she had found, she gushed more. ‘We’ve found Barney Noble, the London connection for Hughie Guttridge’s Brum hyping team.’
The WPC told Kennedy that her new Fraud Squad contact (omitting exactly what good friends they had become), DS Sandy Johnson, had just called her with his thrilling piece of information.
WPC Coles also forgot to tell DI Kennedy that in the same call her New Scotland Yard friend had invited her out on another date (their first real date, since they had kind of fallen into the unofficial one). The WPC had willingly accepted the invitation; they were going to see Elvis Costello and the Attractions at the re-opening of the legendary Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, the following night, followed by, ‘Well, we’ll see how we feel afterwards, dinner, drinks, or something.’ Should the DI have used his immense powers of ascertainment he would have detected an extra inch to the WPC’s step that morning.
‘Shall we go and see Barney Noble now, sir?’ she offered hopefully.
‘Yes. No time like the present.’ And indeed, in less time than it takes to melt some Cherry Garcia in a microwave, they were in one of the pool cars, a dark blue Ford Granada, and on their way to the Railway Arches at Cheyne Road near King’s Cross Station.
The WPC and DI were greeted by a hand-painted sign, green on a black background, bearing the legend, Erection and Demolition Promotions. The wooden doors, reflecting the shape of the arch, were painted dark blue. When open they would have admitted one of the famous red London Routemaster buses which frequently (perhaps infrequently would be more appropriate) passed no more than six feet away. A normal-sized door had been cut out of the larger left-hand one.
Kennedy knocked several times on the smaller door but doubted anyone would hear him. A loud bass thud from within was shifting wind in his direction. He tried to handle. It turned and the door opened on his push, allowing the natural light from the street to spill into the arch and mix with that from rows of yellow bulbs.
At the far end of the arch a person was seemingly packing cases. When he noticed the two strangers introduced by the first rays of daylight, he seemed like a rabbit caught in the glare of a car’s headlights. Unlike such a rabbit however, he was not trapped in the beam of light. He calculated, probably from the electronic static of WPC Coles’ walkie-talkie, that they were fuzz. The only way out of the arch was past them. To distract them he turned up the mega bass portable cassette player to an ear piercing volume which rattled the speakers with a sound that was a cross between Deep Purple and five thousand eggs frying.
Before Kennedy had a chance to ask him whether he was Barney Noble, he was struck by a large cardboard box, lobbed through the air at him. It was thrown with such lack of effort that Kennedy assumed it was empty. Not so. The box contained the video player crudely drawn on the side and it hit Kennedy full on the chest, toppling him over.
Kennedy tested his limbs to ensure that he was okay and tried to rise as his assailant came charging directly at him. Kennedy’s attempted movement created a sharp pain which cut right across his chest and made a speedy journey up through his shoulders, neck and ears and centred on a point in his forehead.
Out of the corer of his eye, Kennedy saw Anne Coles moving towards the attacker. The man had obviously been expecting this because he flung her to one side, just as one might swish a fly with the back of one’s hand. As the WPC fell backwards, she managed to stick her foot between the assailant’s legs and tripped him up.
Kennedy stumbled to his feet and made his way across to the man, who was back on his feet again within seconds and squared up to Kennedy. The detective’s heart was beating faster than Ringo could do paradiddles, each beat feeling as though someone was plucking at his ribs through the skin.
Kennedy hadn’t a clue, not the slightest of clues, what to do. Unarmed combat (nor even armed combat, for that matter) was not really his thing, but he deduced that if the geezer was so anxious to get away from him there must be some equally good reason why it would be in Kennedy’s best interest to detain him. So he swung his fist hopefully at the gaping mouth. But with one slick movement, the fist was knocked aside by an agile left forearm, while a right fist came crunching into his gut. Fuck this for a game of soldiers, Kennedy thought as the thug made gestures to indicate that not only was he enjoying himself, but that he knew exactly what to do next.
Our detective inspector was not enjoying the skirmish and didn’t know what to do next, but out of the corner of his eye, as he hunkered on the ground, he noticed a piece of spare Dexion shelving. In the absence of any better plan, he grabbed the giant Meccano section, rose to his feet, placed his other hand to his makeshift weapon and with all this energy he could muster, swung it backhand style in the direction of his opponent.
As the metal hit its target, the wrist which had so ably defected Kennedy’s previous attempted blow, he heard a crack. You would have thought, judging by the look of absolute shock and horror on the villain’s face, that he’d suddenly found himself in a dentist’s chair.
Kennedy used this shock to his advantage. Before the injured man had a chance to do anything other than grip his damaged wrist with his good hand. Kennedy took aim and this time delivered a similar double back-handed whack to the good wrist. It was but good only for a millisecond longer.
The sheer panic and agony on the stranger’s face gave him the air of someone who had a major toilet problem. He couldn’t think of which hand to hold as he hoped from foot to foot.
WPC Anne Coles smiled admiringly. ‘Wow. Where did you learn that?’
Kennedy tried to utter a blasé, ‘Oh it was nothing’ a la Bond, but if he had a Bond in mind it would have been more of a Brooke Bond. He was sweating profusely, and not just from his forehead. He felt that his entire body was covered by a film of sweat and wondered whether he should be sending for brown trousers.
‘Are you okay?’ was all he could manage.
‘I’m fine,’ smiled Anne as she brushed herself down.
The defeated opponent was still doing his Native American war dance. Kennedy nudged him in the chest toppling him over and effectively immobilising him as he was unable to use his hands to help himself up from the floor. All he was fit to do was swear. This he did continuously and repeatedly.
‘Now that we have your attention sir, can we assume you are Barney Noble?’ Kennedy said sarcastically.
‘Fuck you!’
‘Strange name,’ the WPC quipped.
‘Fuck you too!’
‘Oh they’re not that bad, sir. Though Bono may be slightly misguided, I grant you,’ Kennedy replied.
‘What?’
Kennedy did not bother to respond. He felt as though someone was hitting him repeatedly in the chest with an iron bar. His head was throbbing so much he wondered whether someone had cut through his teeth with a hacksaw. WPC Coles noticed that he was in pain as he furrowed his forehead.
‘Are you okay,’ and as an afterthought, ‘Sir?’
‘He fucking won’t be next time we meet. Fucking asshole,’ came a muffled voice from the ground beneath and between them.
Kennedy up-ended the video box which had been thrown at him and gingerly sat on it. He motioned the WPC to a nearby wooden chair. ‘When we find out your name, we can radio to the station for help,’ Kennedy told the thwarted heap on the floor. The detective reasoned that pretty soon the body of the injured man, no longer needing the adrenaline of combat, would return to normal, and when it did, he would start to feel two very sharp and extreme lightning strikes in both arms.
‘You can’t do that! You’ve broken both my fucking arms,’ the man screamed.
‘Self-defence,’ Kennedy maintained smugly.
“I’ve got fucking rights, and…’
‘We need to know your name before they apply.’ This was not strictly true, but Kennedy was still severely winded and was relishing the breather. Particularly when his foe was in such obvious discomfort on the floor.
Eventually a mum
bled, ‘Barney Noble,’ was heard from the contorted body.
‘Okay,’ said Kennedy now taking no joy in the proceedings, his own injuries catching up with him. ‘WPC Coles, charge him and read him his rights.’
Barney swore some more, ‘Fuck you! Fuck you, asshole. Charge me with what?’
‘Attacking police officers in the course of their duty, with intent to cause GBH.’
‘I didn’t know who you were. You could have come to do me harm. I was protecting myself. I had to! It’s self-defence,’ Noble shouted defiantly.
Kennedy sighed, knowing that some smart-arsed red-braced solicitor might well get him off such a charge. Such was life in the nineties. ‘Let’s just check what we have here, WPC, before we radio in!’
At this, Noble, who felt, correctly, that he was being taken advantage of, flew into a renewed rage and started kicking out. The Doc Martin on his left food missed the WPC’s head by about six inches as she swerved as gracefully as Prince Haseem warming up.
Kennedy crossed the room, retrieved the iron bar, returned to Mr Barney Noble and threatened, ‘Now, here’s the thing, any more of that – even the slightest hint of that – and I'll deal with both your ankles in exactly the same way I dealt with your wrists!’
Kennedy and Anne Coles moved to the darker corner of the arch, passing box after box of CDs and music cassettes. When they were out of earshot Kennedy asked the WPC to ring for an ambulance. There was no point in hanging around much longer. There didn’t seem to be much there apart from the CDs and cassettes and they could have the boys go through those properly.
And the sooner Mr Barney Noble received medical attention, the sooner Kennedy could start his questioning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I know all your fears,
I know all your tears
- Christie Hennessy
