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

by Paul Charles

  ‘Is that meant to be the vegetarian’s equivalent of eat a horse, Kennedy?’

  ‘No, it means I’m hungry enough to eat tree horses.’

  They both laughed the laughter of a couple in love and in search of pasta.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Give me a broom

  And I’ll sweep

  My way to Heaven

  - Terre Roche

  It’s funny how you can sit around looking at your noticeboard containing your case notes and clues, searching deep and hard, and nothing presents itself. And then…

  Well, Kennedy supposed ‘funny’ might not be the right word. He lay back in his steaming bath, trying hard to think of the apt one: coincidental, frustrating, amusing, aggravating? He also thought of a saying DS Irvine liked to repeat at times such as this: ‘People who wear glasses look closer, because they have to.’

  His bath was as hot as Kennedy could bear it. The hotter it was the more relief it gave his aching limbs. It was extremely satisfying to just lie back and completely immerse himself in the healing water. Soon the only bits of him breaking the surface of the water were his nose and eyes.

  Having his ears underwater made all the subterranean noises louder. He could hear the water dripping through the overflow. The more he submerged himself, the more water gushed down the metal tunnel. As he listened to these strange marine sounds, Kennedy’s mind’s eye replayed the scene at Mayfair Mews Studios as it appeared on his first visit.

  He could smell the putty again and see the rafters. He visualised a pulley system like the one he’d bought, attached to the rafters. He could see the body of Peter O’Browne rotating with the twists in the rope, from the other end of the pulley.

  How could Tom Best have been in two places at the same time? His alibi was foolproof. This was not as common as might be imagined: often an innocent suspect would be frustrated by the fact that his potential alibi let him down by thirty minutes either way.

  In the natural course of living, you rarely feel you are going to need to account for your movements minute by minute. However, were you to know in advance that your innocence was going to be called into question, then you would make sure that your every move before and after the vital time could be backed up by as many witnesses as possible.

  Unless you were psychic, the only reason you’d know in advance was that you were the murderer.

  Obviously this was an over-simplification, Kennedy continued to himself over the soundtrack of water dripping through the bath overflow. The heat was so soothing to his aches and pains, he felt he could stay in the half-suspended state forever, lost in his thoughts. He was back at Mayfair Mews Studio and he was now concentrating on the floor. Suddenly the damp patch on the floor came into view like a scene in a film. The more he focussed on it, the louder the sound of the water escaping through the overflow became.

  ‘SHIT!’ he shouted, sitting bolt upright in the bath. As he did so, he lost his grip and slid back under the water.

  Spluttering and splashing, he pulled himself up, gasping for air. He shouted to ann rea in the bedroom two floors above, who didn’t hear him: ‘I’ve sussed it. He is one hell of a clever bastard!’

  He hauled himself out of the bath and ran dripping up to the bedroom, shouting to ann rea.

  When she saw Kennedy, wet to the bone and dripping water everywhere, she burst out laughing. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and joined the laughter. Kennedy jumped on the bed and shook himself violently like a wet dog, spraying water all over ann rea.

  ‘Okay, you’ve got my attention, Mr Isaac Newton; what have you discovered? With all this fuss it had better be nothing short of the secret of eternal youth.’

  Kennedy looked at her naked body, now soaking wet, and thought perhaps he had discovered that too.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  If I was the Lone Ranger

  Hiding behind a mask

  Wouldn’t be any danger

  To the questions I ask

  - Grant Lee Phillips

  ‘But how did he manage to do it, Kennedy?’ was all the Super could say when he was briefed early the next morning by Kennedy.

  ‘All in good time, sir. I still have a wee bit of research to do yet, but I am convinced that Best’s our man,’ Kennedy replied confidently.

  He loved this stage of the case; the part where he had just found his way through the woods. There were still bits and pieces to tie up of course, but when he sussed it, or cracked it as they said in the police circles, then he could really relax and enjoy one hundred per cent the art of police.

  ‘Are you going to bring him in and charge him?’ the Super quizzed, happy in the knowledge that having left Kennedy to get on with the case he hadn’t been let down.

  He had eventually come to the conclusion the more he left Kennedy to get on with it, the more efficient the cases were solved. It was just that sometimes the damn police politics (PP as Kennedy called them) tended to confuse the wood and the trees.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, sir. I still have a few leads left to follow up. I think it will take a considerable amount of time to crack our friend Best. Perhaps the full limit of time.’ He was well aware that from the minute he arrested Tom Best, he would have only twenty-four hours before he needed to charge him.

  If at that point, he wasn’t in a position to bring charges he could apply to the Super for an extension of another twelve hours. After that there were only two options available to him. Either he could go to the court and apply for a second extension, this time for a further forty-eight hours, or else he would have to let Tom Best go. The courts usually only granted the extension when the suspect was believed to be involved in terrorist activities. So, as they said down Camden Market way, after the initial thirty-six hours you had to be ready to shit or get off the pot.

  ‘I don’t think Tom Best has any fears of being found out, sir. I rattled him the other day but I think he feels he’s committed the perfect crime. I don’t think that he’ll be going anywhere.’ As he was not being offered any tea he rose from his chair to leave the Super’s office.

  ‘Good. Keep me posted.’

  ***

  Kennedy returned to his office and offered tea to his first visitor, WPC Anne Coles.

  ‘You interviewed the two couples who had dinner with Best on the night of the murder, what were their names…?’

  Kennedy searched through his notes but before he could find the names the WPC volunteered, ‘Yes, Brian and Sally Baxter and the gay couple, Ted and John.’

  ‘Apart from confirming that they were at Tom Best’s house, did they say anything else?’ Kennedy pieced his first question together as he was speaking, aware that it might be a bit vague.

  Anne Coles checked her notes this time. ‘Let’s see. They did. It was a regular thing. They’d all been friends for years and every fortnight, apart from Christmas and summer holidays, they met up, using a sort of rota system.

  ‘Actually Ted – of Ted and John – it’s funny how some people who are parts of a couple are always identified as half of that couple…’

  Kennedy wondered if he and ann rea were always thought of a part of a couple. If so, was it ‘ann rea and Christy’ or ‘Christy and ann rea’ or was it ‘Kennedy and ann rea’ or ‘ann rea and Kennedy’? Instead of posing the above question to the WPC he merely replied, ‘Yes, isn’t it.’

  WPC Anne Coles continued, ‘Well, anyway, Ted said that the last dinner party was supposed to be at their place. They live in Hampstead. But Best asked if it would be possible to do a swap. He claimed it was something to do with Mavis, Best’s girlfriend, being very busy the following fortnight when it was meant to be their turn. Ted agreed as it made no difference to them – Ted and John, that is, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. Well…’

  ‘Come on, anything. Don’t worry about how insignificant it appears to be. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, but there must be something else.’

 
; ‘Well, both Ted and the Baxters commented on how much fun it was. They said Best had been on particularly good form, and they all got, “seriously rat-faced”, sir.’ She quoted the “seriously rat-faced” from her notes.

  ‘Good.’ Kennedy nodded. ‘Good. That helps.’

  ‘So you think that it is Tom Best, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m convinced of it. But he must be a bit of a magician.’

  ‘But, sir, how could he have possibly been with the Baxters and Ted and John…’

  ‘Not to mention Mavis,’ Kennedy reminded her.

  ‘Yes,’ WPC Coles smiled. ‘And Mavis. But how could he possibly have been with all five of them and at the same time carried out the murder? The forensic report ties in the time of death right in the middle of the dinner party.’

  ‘More like the last supper.’ Kennedy afforded himself a smile.

  ‘So,’ WPC Coles continued, ‘even if the forensic report is out by an hour or so either way, even two hours either way, Tom Best is still covered.’

  ‘Yes he is. Isn’t he a clever bastard? Perhaps he’s a bit too well covered if you ask me,’ Kennedy replied and took a long swig of tea. ‘When you finish your tea, let’s go and find DS James Irvine and do a bit more shopping,’ He nodded in the direction of the RAMS carrier bag beside his desk. ‘We’ll return to the scene of the crime and see if we can throw a little more light on this, this perfect crime.’

  ‘I suppose the perfect crime deserves a lot of light, doesn’t it, sir?’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  I’m so lonesome

  I could cry

  - Hank Williams

  Kennedy sometimes found that it was useless to just sit around and think. They were the times when the mind simply refused to take information on board. No matter what the boffins think, the human brain is not like a computer. How many computers can become stimulated by being fed a problem other than the one currently being worked on?

  Now, just as all this information was circulating in various holding patterns above Kennedy’s head, and about to attempt a symphonic landing, Castle had an urgent errand he needed Kennedy to run. Forget the fact that Kennedy is a Detective Inspector; forget the fact that he feels he is just about to solve a murder case. Police work is police work, and at that exact moment Castle was more interested in prevention than he was in detection. Kennedy’s solution would have to wait.

  An ex-colleague of both the Super and Kennedy was in – and causing – trouble.

  Detective Inspector Alan Hoyle had been ‘retired’ prematurely three years previously due to a drink problem. Sadly DI Hoyle turned to drink not due to the pressure of work, nor because a loved one left him. No, he turned to drink simply because he was, and, always would be, an alcoholic. Castle and Kennedy had tried hard to support Hoyle, sometimes going right to the edge, but never crossing the line. But for help to be effective it first has to be asked for.

  DI Hoyle, according to a complaint Castle had received, had chosen that particular week to try to extort two bottles of whisky from the off-licence on Parkway using an out-of-date warrant card. Kennedy did not like such chores but, when the off-licence owner had deposited DI Hoyle on his posterior upon Parkway the previous day, the ex-copper had threatened to return with a gun. The Super felt the former DI was just a step away from being gunned down while attempting armed robbery.

  The Super wanted Kennedy to make the visit because Hoyle and Kennedy knew each other. Kennedy had never been one to be matey with his colleagues, although he always respected the keener detectives. He was the type of policeman who was proud to be part of the force, but who lived a separate life.

  DI Hoyle lived in a tip not far, mentally and physically, from Arlington Road. The drunk was buzzing drunk when Kennedy arrived. Obviously not long out of bed and fresh on the sauce. He greeted Kennedy like a long-lost brother but became very annoyed when Kennedy refused a drink.

  ‘Look Hoyle, what’s all this carry-on about robbing an off-licence?’ Kennedy asked, irritated and unable to find anywhere clean enough, or safe enough, to sit.

  ‘Oh you mean the tight-assed bitch? I just offered to do her a favour,’ the drunk winked knowingly to Kennedy.

  ‘Listen, that’s not what I heard, Alan. Something about flashing a warrant card.’

  At the mention of the Christian name the Alan in question became all matey and swung his arm around Kennedy using the other to try and open a can of lager. ‘Here, son,’ he offered, ‘have some of this.’

  Hoyle had the strength of a drunk and Kennedy felt his face and the can moving towards each other at an alarming speed. Hoyle’s drunken aim had the can en route to Kennedy’s nose, not mouth. ‘Ah for God’s sake, Hoyle,’ Kennedy complained as he swung his arm up hitting the can and sending it flying through the room, landing and spilling on and over the dishevelled bed in the corner.

  Hoyle went stumbling after the can and tried, in vain, to prevent the spilling. The bed stains already in place had new friends arriving. After his exertions, Hoyle lay crying and cussing in a heap on the bed. Kennedy picked up what looked and smelt like Hoyle’s current, if not only, jacket, searched through the pockets and found the offending warrant card. ‘I’m taking this. Hoyle, you more than anyone, should know it’s an offence to impersonate a policeman!’

  ‘Then how come you’re getting away with it, DI high and bloody mighty Kennedy?’ Hoyle’s crying had turned to tears of laughter which streamed down his cheeks. He nearly pissed himself laughing at his own joke. When he’d regained his sense he continued. ‘Fucking team. You all have to be part of a bloody team. I don’t want to be part of a team. I want to be a lone, but I don’t want to be alone.’ Hoyle’s drunken mind then went to work dissecting the wisdom of his words.

  ‘Listen, Alan, the graveyards are packed with drunks, so you’re not going to be short of company if you keep this up.’

  ‘Oh yeah, but do you realise that the only thing that’s guaranteed is…’

  Kennedy filled the expected ‘you’re going to die’ in his mind but said nought as Hoyle slurred, ‘You’re going to be dead a lot longer than you are alive.’ The drunk smiled once again, proud of his words of drunken wisdom.

  ‘Look Alan, you’ve really got to get a grip,’ Kennedy started pleading. He knew this was a total waste of time but he felt that he had to give Hoyle at least one fair shot. ‘You’ve got to get help. But you’ve got to ask for it; you’ve got to feel you need it, before the help will do any good. There has to be more to life than this,’ Kennedy carried on as his eyes circled the room.

  ‘Oh what’s the point, what’s the bloody point. It all means shit. It’s all a waste of time, the whole thing,’ Hoyle spluttered. ‘Look at you, out risking your life tracking down murderers and thugs and then some fucking do-gooder will get the sentence reduced just because our fucking criminal has learnt to read books, or paint fucking pictures or… It’s all a waste of time… You and your bloody team. I don’t want to be part of your team, I don’t want to be part of a bloody AA team, I want to be a-lone.’ Hoyle had peaked and was fast running out of steam, his last words disappearing into an inaudible murmur. ‘But I don’t want to be lonely.’

  Kennedy felt it was time to leave but, before he could do so, he had one bit of unfinished business to attend to. ‘Where’s the gun Hoyle?’

  ‘What bloody gun?’

  ‘The one you were threatening to return to the off-licence with.’

  ‘Oh that. I was lying! I just wanted to scare the tight-assed bitch. Probably gave her her first wet knickers of the year! Haaagghhh!’

  ‘Come on Hoyle, drunks can’t keep secrets, you know that. She was making you mad and you were thinking, “If only she knew, if only she knew I could blow her away!” Come on man, where is it? Where is the gun?’

  ‘You mean this?’ Hoyle smirked, pulling a revolver from under the mattress. ‘You’re not so high and bloody might now, are you Mr Kennedy? Once again an Irish bastard is looking down the barrel of an
Englishman’s gun!’

  Kennedy thought of ann rea, his mother, his father, Peter O’Browne, his lottery tickets, Reg Holdsworth, Tom Best. The look in Hoyle’s eyes. That look led Kennedy to believe that Hoyle was going to pull the trigger and he was going to die.

  Then he started to calculate, ‘Well if I just stand here like a lemon, he’s going to get a good shot in and possibly kill me. But, if I charge at him, or distract him in some way he may hit me in the shoulder, or leg, or arm and I’ll just be wounded. Wounded but alive. But then what if I’m confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. What if I couldn’t make love with ann rea? If only I’d something in my hands I’d throw it at him.’

  Hoyle was still sitting on the bed close to the beer stains and all Kennedy could think of doing was to say something, to say something stupid. ‘God, Hoyle, you’ve fucking pissed yourself!’ Kennedy yelled, staring at Hoyle’s crotch.

  ‘What?’ Hoyle’s eyes glimpsed the damp patch.

  The split-second distraction was all that Kennedy needed to rush across and kick with all his might at Hoyle’s gun hand, forcing the pistol barrel upwards. The shock caused Hoyle to pull the trigger involuntarily and a round was fired into the ceiling.

  The noise and smell filled Kennedy’s eyes, ears and nose as he overpowered former Detective Inspector Alan Hoyle. This was not a hard task as the drunk had gone completely limp in surrender and this time it sounded like he really was pissing himself.

  Kennedy radioed for a back-up car, returned to the station and reported the incident to Superintendent Thomas Castle.

  ‘Kennedy, we tried. At least now he’ll be forced to take professional help.’

  ‘He’s pretty far gone, sir.’ Kennedy replied. ‘He just doesn’t care any more. He’s going to need a lot of help, a hell of a lot.’