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

by Paul Charles

Kennedy declined to answer Farrelly, choosing instead to address Geoff Marsh, a friendly, family kind of solicitor who was clearly way out of his depth on this one.

  ‘As I have said, I think you and your client should have a break to discuss the situation further. I’ll order some tea.’ Kennedy popped the ‘stop’ button, moved his chair back, rose to his feet and left the room.

  A few minutes later, Kennedy and Irvine were dunking Walkers shortbread in tea in his office. Kennedy wanted to use the break not only to give Marsh a chance to talk to his client but also to find out from DS Irvine exactly how the confession had come about.

  Apparently when the police had arrived at the Farrelly household, called by Mr Farrelly, there had been quite an atmosphere. Colette had chosen the quietness of a family day, Sunday, to confess her affair to her husband. Twenty hours later, on the Monday morning, Farrelly was still fuming.

  DS Irvine had put his highly-agitated state down to the fact that he was trying to come to terms with having taken someone’s life. The interview snowballed out of control like a runaway train.

  ‘There was no one more shocked than me, guv, when Farrelly said, “Yeah it was me, I did the bastard.” Actually his wife seemed more stunned. She screamed, “Oh no, no Martyn, please don’t do this!”.’

  At that point Farrelly had requested the WPC to remove ‘that tramp’ from the room.

  ‘Did he tell you how he did it?’ Kennedy inquired.

  ‘No, he didn’t. I read him his rights, arrested him and brought him straight to the station. Sergeant Flynn processed him, sir, and, as per your instructions, he’s been in the cell ever since. His brief was allowed access to him immediately he turned up.

  ‘All done by the book, sir. I didn’t want to fu… I mean mess up your case on the paperwork side.’

  ‘No, of course not. Good. Was he as agitated at home as he was in the interview room?’

  ‘About the same.’

  At that precise moment Superintendent Thomas Castle burst into Kennedy’s office. ‘I say, damned good work, Kennedy, tying up the O’Browne murder so quickly. Absolutely. Excellent, you’ve made it all look so easy and yes, Irvine, good on you, too. I believe you were the arresting officer. Congratulations. Yes, well done.’

  ‘Well, um, teamwork, sir,’ was all Irvine could think of saying.

  ‘Yes, it’s looking good, but we haven’t concluded our investigation,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Haven’t concluded the bloody investigation. Don’t be so bloody modest, Kennedy. You’ve got someone in the cells who I believe confessed to the murder. I’d say that’s a pretty damned successful conclusion to the investigation! Sterling work, Kennedy, great stuff. This is going to look great on your record, on both your records, in fact. Especially with the Marianne Faithfull-lookalike case being solved so quick as well.’

  ‘We were very lucky there, sir. Very lucky. We nearly had the proverbial smoking gun on that one, sir. But here…’ Kennedy attempted to hoist up the question mark, but before the top curve had broken surface, the Super interrupted him.

  ‘Ah, Irvine. Do me a favour would you? The DI and I need to have a chat, a private chat.’ He ushered DS Irvine to the door, congratulating him yet again, opened the door, showed him out and closed the door after him. He returned to Kennedy.

  ‘Now look here, Kennedy, do I detect a note of doubt?’

  Kennedy thought, I get the feeling you used to be a detective, but said nothing, merely nodded positive. The perkiness drained from the Super’s face.

  ‘The truth is I just don’t know,’ Kennedy explained. ‘We’ve just started to interrogate him and he wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘What on earth do you need to talk to him about? Look, don’t be upset just because he doesn’t want to become your best mate. He’s admitted it, that’s all you need. Just tidy up the details, Kennedy. Don’t complicate matters. Murder is complicated enough, but not all murderers have the PhDs Ruth Rendell and PD James would have us believe.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Don’t give me the “Yes I know, but I disagree with you” routine. I don’t need it and, what’s more, I don’t want it, Kennedy. Just let it rest.’

  ‘But there are too many loose ends, sir.’

  ‘Well just bloody well tie them up. Look, I’m telling you to conclude the interview with this Farrelly chap by lunchtime. I want to give a press conference in the early afternoon. And I want to announce that we have charged somebody and that he’s off the streets. People will thank us for that, Kennedy. They don’t thank us for wasting money and time.

  ‘This O’Browne, he was well known – hell, even my wife knew of him. This is a high-profile case and we’re going to look good, my man.’ The Superintendent rose from the chair opposite Kennedy and made to leave the room. ‘Tidy it up by lunchtime, Kennedy, and prepare yourself for some praise. And for God’s sake learn to take it!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  And love alone

  Won’t be your saviour

  - Paul Buchanan

  Kennedy was left seething in his office. He could feel the blood pounding past his temples and feel his forehead reddening as a result. My man, do this; my man, do that!

  All they were really interested in at the end of the day was the press conference and the pat on the back from above. How high did you have to go before there was no one left to do the back-patting. Unless, of course, the great big Super in the sky had three hands, the third of which was used only in instances of self-congratulation.

  By and large Kennedy found Superintendent Castle okay to work for. He usually let Kennedy get on with it. Now Kennedy thought the method in his madness was that he believed this was the most efficient way to do things. Secure the results. Recently the Super had become preoccupied with results, facts and figures. ‘No, I can’t give you more manpower to solve your case. Just solve it quicker.’

  Maybe the Super was up for promotion and Kennedy would now have to play the fiddle to a different tune. Kennedy certainly knew a lot worse than Castle. And maybe, Kennedy was too fond of searching for the complicated angles on a case.

  Perhaps it was simply that Kennedy did not want the murderer to be Farrelly. All that family happiness had evaporated and, whatever the outcome of all this, it was gone forever.

  Kennedy purposefully finished his tea and Walkers shortbread and reconvened the interview with the original cast exactly forty-one minutes after the false start.

  This time Martyn Farrelly seemed calmer, easier to talk to. Either acceptance of the reality of the situation, or his solicitor’s advice, had loosened his tongue.

  He told those present that on the Friday night, while his wife thought he was hard at work in the studio, he had slipped out and gone over to Primrose Hill, where he knew Peter O’Browne would be working on his new studio project, Mayfair Mews Studio.

  He hadn’t gone over to the studio with the precise intention of murdering O’Browne. This was either the truth as he saw it, or what the brief had advised. He might receive a lighter sentence if they were able to prove the murder had not been premeditated.

  Farrelly claimed Peter had taunted him about the affair with Colette, and that Peter had hinted that Colette had preferred him to Farrelly because he was successful in everything he did. Farrelly confessed that he had lost his temper and attacked Peter, strangling him, and when Peter passed out he decided that he would finish him off and try to make it look like suicide.

  He found a rope and tied one end around Peter’s neck. The other he threw over the rafter, hoisting Peter into the air, and watched him die. ‘That’s it,’ Farrelly concluded.

  ‘That’s it?’ Kennedy asked incredulously. ‘You’ve nothing else to tell us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. Look, I’ve told you. I’ve told you how, why and where. What else do you need?’

  ‘I need to be satisfied you are telling the truth.’

  Geoff Marsh’s eyebrows and Farrel
ly’s mouth both said, ‘What?’

  ‘And,’ Kennedy continued, prepared to stand no more nonsense from either Farrelly or Superintendent Castle, ‘quite frankly I’m not!’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘Not satisfied that you are telling the truth. I would have been more convinced if you had blamed Jack Duckworth. He seems to get blamed for everything else, so why not this?’

  DS James Irvine hadn’t batted an eyelid so far. He agreed with Kennedy one hundred per cent and wanted to observe Farrelly’s every body movement searching for just one tell-tale sign betraying the story. The line about the Coronation Street character had nearly thrown him, but now he saw what he’d been hoping for. Farrelly reached up with his right hand and pressed his open palm hard on his forehead. Then he started to move his hand, slowly, up and down, all the time pressing his forehead, trying to relieve his growing headache.

  ‘So let’s go through this again,’ Kennedy announced, sensing that the advantage was on his side of the table.

  ‘Look, are you a masochist or what? Do you need to beat a confession out of me before you’ll believe me? Is that how it goes?’

  ‘Here’s the thing, I’ll tell you how it goes. I’ll admit it to you in front of your solicitor. I’m convinced, absolutely convinced, that you did not murder Peter O’Browne. You haven’t a clue what you are talking about.’

  The laying out was still significant to Kennedy, and he felt that the murderer would be proud of this and several other features of the killing. Kennedy knew that it was virtually, if not entirely, impossible for a single person to raise the dead weight of an eleven-stone body by pulling on a rope. He was pretty sure that this could have been achieved only with the assistance of some kind of mechanical power, a small engine, or an elaborate pulley system. Dr Taylor’s report had suggested no evidence of damage to the victim’s neck caused by someone’s hands as well as the rope, and Farrelly hadn’t mentioned the chloroform.

  ‘Having said that,’ Kennedy carried on, ‘we have to assume that at some point you are going to be allowed to return to your family. However, can I just say this, such a return is going to be greatly delayed if we have to charge you with obstructing the police. That is quite a serious charge in itself.’

  Martyn Farrelly at last began to regain some contact with reality. ‘Okay. Look, I’m sorry. Colette, told me about, you know – that she was unfaithful to me with Peter and I just snapped. I really wished I could have murdered the bastard. I suppose I just felt I was getting some kind of stupid revenge on her.’

  ‘A way of getting even,’ DS Irvine chipped in.

  Kennedy moved across to Farrelly’s side of the table and sat on the corner, very close to him, with his hands clasped in front of him. He spoke so quietly that both DS Irvine and Geoff Marsh had trouble hearing him.

  ‘Martyn, I know you are feeling bad about this. But can I just tell you that I know your wife is feeling worse? I know you think it’s stupid, but it’s absolutely true. So look, help her through it; make it at least a bit easier for her, and I think that way you just might make it a little easier for yourself. I’ve seen what you two have. Don’t throw it away. Not for this. Please.’ He stood up. ‘Mr Marsh would you please take your client away and get him out of my sight before we lock him up for something, anything, nothing. Just get him out of here.’ Kennedy hit the ‘stop’ button on the tape recorder.

  He and the DS made their way to Castle’s office, one suspect lighter on the case.

  ‘You know, sir, what if he’s very, very clever and has totally out-foxed us?’

  ‘How do you mean, Jimmy?’

  ‘Supposing he really did kill Peter O’Browne, but knew that if he didn’t give us the correct details we’d think that he couldn’t have done it?’

  ‘Bit of a risk, isn’t it, Jimmy?’ Kennedy thought for some seconds as they walked along the corridor.

  ‘And I suppose the Super would accuse us of getting too complicated if we were to go and present him with a theory like that.’ Kennedy smiled. ‘And with the mood he’s going to be in when he hears he hasn’t got his press-bloody-conference…well, I’m not sure, Jimmy, that I would want to chance that theory, but please feel free to run it by the Super the next time you meet.’

  They had reached the door of Superintendent Castle’s office. Kennedy took a deep breath and knocked as DS Irvine quietly scarpered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  But now you’re here

  Brighten my Northern Sky

  - Nick Drake

  ‘Okay, that’s fine. Keep me posted,’ was the only reply Kennedy received from the Super to his appraisal of recent developments in the Peter O’Browne case.

  No breath of fire, no wrath of God, just a sprinter who had dreamed of beating Linford Christie to the tape. Thank goodness Castle realised it was exactly that: a dream. He seemed happy to return immediately to reality.

  Kennedy’s reality, on the other hand, was somewhat different. Whereas the Super had someone, muggins, on whom to rely on to go out and find another suspect, Kennedy had no such luxury. He was the man on the sharp end of the stick. And at that point he was a man with few clues and even fewer suspects.

  He returned to his office, updated his noticeboard, sat down on his desk and rested his feet on the chair, a move which would have gained him a clip on the ear from his mother thirty years earlier. He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned his chin into the safety of his hands, drumming his fingers on his cheeks.

  He felt he needed to talk to Leslie Russell, Carter-Houston, Tom Best and Mary Jones in no particular (but certainly not that) order. He also needed to chase down the details on the torn RAMS receipt. But, apart from that, he had zero to go on. The trail was dangerously close to growing cold, as cold as a Henry Moore statue. He rang ann rea. She was busy on the phone, which annoyed him. He didn’t know why ann rea being busy should annoy him.

  He felt aimless. He desperately wanted to find some way of getting on with the case, into the case. Sometimes you had to concentrate on the obvious, and concentrate on it intensely. He remembered the words his first detective inspector, a Welshman, Eamon Thomas, would keep uttering to anyone who would listen. ‘In playing cards, and solving cases, the secret is not to be dealt a good hand, but to be dealt a bad hand and play it well.’

  How was he to play this atrocious hand?

  Perhaps he should return to the motive. Why would anyone be prepared to risk spending the rest of their life in jail in order to kill? No matter how much you hated someone and wanted to throw a brick through their window, smash up their house, shag their missus, stick a cork up their dog’s arse to stop it soiling the pavements, accidentally scratch the side of their car, whatever, it was still a giant step away from murdering someone.

  It’s a big word, murder. It’s an easy word to say, but it represents the biggest and most terrible act a man and woman can perpetrate on another human being.

  When he was growing up, adults would speak in hushed tones whenever they used the word. His entire village would stop to discuss the taking of a life which had happened down in the city, Belfast, or even as far away as London. Had TV, the movies and the electronic media, with their ever-increasing appetite for the macabre, cheapened life to such a degree that victims had become dispensable and murderers the celebrities?

  Kennedy wondered whether there had been an audience for the hanging of Peter O’Browne. Had the killer stood or sat in attendance as the life had drained in spurts from the weary limbs? Or had Peter’s executioner been happier to wait outside the doors of Mayfair Mews Studio as the limbs concluded their involuntary jerks? Could the reason for the pennies on the eyes be to stop the murderer from being stared at from the other side of life?

  Where had the murderer found the old pennies? Did he have them in a private collection? Was he a collector? Did he collect other things as well? If so, what other things?

  At that junction in the train of Kennedy’s thought he became aware of a ringing. The
more he let his previous thoughts drift off to their astral circuit, the louder the ringing became until he realised that it was his telephone. He picked up the receiver to hear ann rea’s voice in the earpiece.

  ‘Hi, Kennedy. What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, I was just looking for inspiration.’

  ‘I’m flattered, although not sure I should be if you were hoping I’d set you off on the trail of a murderer.’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean. This is all so frustrating. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, at this exact moment, I’d be happy just to find the entrance to the tunnel.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had a bit of excitement today!’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Yeah. You’ll never guess who asked me out.’

  ‘kd lang?’

  ‘That’s not even funny, Kennedy. Besides, she’s a bit heavy on the bass drum for me. No, actually it was your friend and mine, Mr Leslie Russell.’

  ‘Leslie Russell! But he knows that you and I are dating, an item, or whatever.’

  ‘“Or whatever?” Very romantic, Kennedy. No, he said that he realised of course that you and I were together, but he’d love just to have lunch, or dinner, or whatever and get to know me better. Nothing heavy. He said it just might be nice socially.’

  Kennedy said nothing. In the mood he was in he wouldn’t have been surprised (well maybe just a little, more like a lot actually) if ann rea had told him that she’d agreed to meet Russell.

  ‘Aren’t you even curious about what I said to him?’

  ‘Worried would be a better word, actually.’

  ‘Oh, Kennedy you are hopeless. Too honest for your own good. Well, I’ll tell you, since you haven’t asked. I told him that it would be inappropriate. I told him that you and I were at the beginning of a long relationship. A relationship which I wanted to last forever. I told him that dating other men just might get in the way of that dream coming true.’

  Kennedy was too flabbergasted to speak.