by Paul Charles
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Could you find me
Would you kiss my eyes
Lay me down
- Van Morrison
There’s nothing like staring down the barrel of a revolver (or any firearm for that matter) to give a person a clear head. Usually such sharpness of vision occurs only on early walks on Primrose Hill. The Sunday morning walks are the best. To be on top of the hill while the city sleeps, with no one to be seen or heard, save for a few souls on their way to work.
Sky blue, as blue as the deepest water. Kennedy’s thoughts returned to water and to Tom Best and he thought he saw the penny dropping. The pulley, the water, the hanging, how it all now fitted together. He decided to take a walk on Primrose Hill before returning to North Bridge House.
Unfortunately, due to dogs, fog and noisy kids, Kennedy couldn’t recreate the sharp scene his mind’s eye had provided him. He felt as if he were in suspension, someone with a story to tell but either not yet ready to tell it, or else not sure who to tell it to; a long distance runner with the tape in sight, but who hadn’t managed to cross the finishing line. So, Kennedy went on a detour. He walked to the bottom of the hill, crossed Primrose Hill Road and went into the old-fashioned red phone box just outside The Queens pub at the foot of St George’s Terrace. As he was entering the phone box a maroon saloon, a Jaguar XJ2, caught his attention. The image triggered something in his memory but he didn’t know what was familiar about it. He checked the number plate: 248RPA. He thought he should recognise it, but he didn’t.
Kennedy dialled ann rea’s number.
‘Hello, Features.’
‘Hi, ann rea.’
‘Kennedy. How are you? I tried to get you at the station but they said you were out and about. Where are you?’
‘Outside The Queens.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah I’m fine,’ Kennedy lied as he recalled he had nearly been in need of brown trousers about half an hour earlier.
The BT line crackle filled the silence between them.
‘Have you worked out how Best was at a dinner party and murdering Peter at the same time?’
‘I think so. I’ll tell you later. Listen I just wanted to say…’ more crackle. Kennedy thought that perhaps BT should provide a button to summon the crackle and sell it off to customers in need of something to fill embarrassing silences.
‘Kennedy?’
‘Yeah, sorry. Look, I just wanted to tell you…’
‘Christy?’ ann rea pleaded softly. She rarely used his Christian name and on the special occasions she did Kennedy loved the way she barely whispered it.
‘I needed to tell you how much I love you.’
The line melted into total silence as the crackling ebbed.
‘God, don’t do that. I thought for one moment there you were going to tell me it was all over between us.’
‘I don’t want this ever to be over, ann rea. I hope that doesn’t sound naïve, or scare you. We shouldn’t be talking about this on the phone, but I just needed to hear your voice. And then I had this tremendous desire…’
‘Kennedy,’ ann rea cut in. ‘The Camden New Journal does not permit obscene phone calls.’
‘I had this desire to tell you that I love you. We’ve both been treading water for a time now and I sensed in you a hesitation to commit. Then I thought perhaps you were getting the same vibe from me and I thought if I didn’t tell you, you’d never know. And that would have been sad. Very sad.’
ann rea sensed something had happened. Kennedy was not telling her the full story. She also knew that he would not tell her what it was until he was ready. He had some funny ways. She knew how much it had taken him to tell her that he loved her, and she wasn’t going to cheapen it with an I-love-you-too. Particularly when she couldn’t stand the bass player. Kennedy however was a different matter altogether because she loved him more deeply than she ever had, or ever would, love anyone in her life.
‘Kennedy, I’d like to see you tonight.’
‘Oh?’ Kennedy was surprised. It was supposed to be their night off from each other. ‘Fine. I’ll be late though.’
‘That’s okay, Kennedy.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I want to be with you tonight, it doesn’t matter what time.’
‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Kennedy?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’re going to be okay, you and I. We’re going to be okay.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I’ve much to say, I’ve more to tell
The words will soon be spilling from my tongue
- Mike Scott
Kennedy now felt clear enough in his mind to return to North Bridge House. He went straight to his office and brewed up, pausing only to instruct DS James Irvine to pick up Tom Best, reminding him to do everything by the book. It was a difficult enough case to prove as it was, without some clever-arsed lawyer applying the rules and getting his client freed on a technicality.
Twenty minutes later, DS Irvine stuck his head round the door. ‘Tom Best is here, guv. He’s in the interview room.’
‘How was he on the way down?’
‘Pretty nonchalant, sir. He seemed more interested in discussing how bad the English football team are.’
Kennedy smiled. Best had been on safe ground with Irvine on that point. ‘So what’s new?’
They both laughed a nationalistic laugh. Personally, Kennedy couldn’t care less about football. Though he did always remember the golden rule, ‘Never criticise your hairdresser’s football team.’
Kennedy stood up, collected his jacket from the back of his chair and accompanied the DS to the interview room.
DS James Irvine sat down opposite Tom Best on one of the four hard chairs round the rectangular stripped pine table. WPC Anne Coles moved another to one end of the table, so that like a net umpire at Wimbledon, she could see them both. Again, Constable Essex stood guard by the door.
Kennedy did not sit down. Instead he wandered around the room, slowly, hands deep in pockets. He strolled behind Tom Best and nodded over his head to DS Irvine to switch on the tape recorder that lay on the table by the wall, and start the interview officially. DS James Irvine announced the names of those present and further stated for the record that Tom Best had refused his right to have a solicitor present. Then there was silence. Kennedy ambled around the room, ever so slowly, looking absently out of the window.
Two minutes of silence is a long time.
Tom Best just smiled, feeling that a number was being done on him. He fervently hoped that his smile was proclaiming, ‘I know what you bastards are trying to do, and it’s not working.’
‘Tom Best,’ Kennedy said eventually in his quiet, gentle voice. ‘We are here to charge you with the murder of Peter O’Browne.’ He parked himself just to the left of WPC Coles, leaning against the wall, hands still in pockets, his eyes burning into Best, who in turn stared at James Irvine, his face fixed in a smirk that said, What the fuck is he on about?
For another three minutes, the only audible sounds were the noise of the clock and, from the other side of the door, a police station busy about its day.
Eventually Best broke the silence. ‘A-n-d?’
‘And what?’ smiled Kennedy.
‘Well aren’t you meant to say, “On such and such a day you blah blah blah blah?” And then I say, “But on that date and at that time I couldn’t possibly have murdered Peter O’Browne because I was having dinner with my girlfriend and four friends?” And then you let me go. It’s as simple as that. I’m not wasting money on a solicitor. Do you realise how much they charge these days?’
‘It only happens like that on TV,’ Kennedy laughed. ‘Out here in the real world we just gather the evidence, charge you, and give our evidence to the prosecutor. Then it’s up to our man, your expensive lawyer, twelve men and women, and a geezer with a major hair problem to sort it out. You go off to the cells and we go off to try and solve some more crimes.�
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‘And an “I didn’t do it” would have been nice,’ DS Irvine added, not sure of exactly where the DI was going with this one, other than trying to rattle Best’s cage.
‘But, if I wasn’t there, and I have an alibi, how could I possibly have committed this crime? What about wrongful arrest? Does that only happen on TV as well?’
Best looked at WPC Anne Coles. Her face was immobile, she was looking at DS James Irvine. Best turned around 180 degrees in his seat and looked at the PC by the door. Essex was staring straight ahead, out of the window.
‘Jesus, this is a new one,’ remarked Best. ‘I thought it would be rubber pipe, good guy, bad guy, sorry, bad gal.’ He looked at WPC Coles again. ‘But just a, “We think you did it, so off you go to the cells”. You must admit, it’s a bit novel.’
‘Take him out and have the desk sergeant process him. If he still refuses a solicitor, get the desk sergeant to appoint one for him. Now we’ve got him, we don’t want him getting off on a technicality.’
‘Getting off what on a fucking technicality,’ exploded Best. ‘Can’t you bastards get it into your fucking heads that I have an unbreakable alibi? Remember that word? Hello, is anyone sensible listening. I have an alibi!’ Best leaned over towards the tape recorder and shouted at it, ‘I, Tom Best, have an alibi for the night Peter O’Browne was murdered. I was having a dinner party with five individuals – let’s count them: one, two, three, four, five. That’s Brian and Sally Baxter, Ted Lester, John O’Sullivan and my girlfriend, Mavis Moore.
‘They all confirm that I was with them at the time of the murder. But Detective Inspector Kennedy will not listen. It’s as plain as the fact The Beatles were better than the Stones. But he’s still charging me!’
Best’s tirade ended on such a high-pitched note that the word banshee sprang to mind.
‘Actually,’ this time the quiet voice of reason was that of the WPC, ‘the microphone for the tape recorder is suspended above your head.’
Best looked up above his head and then at the WPC, who added, ‘It is put there, sir, so that it can pick up everything that happens in this room.’
The DS, again taking a cue from Kennedy, pushed back his chair, stood up and started to put on his tweed jacket.
‘Just listen to me!’ pleaded Best. ‘You’re making a mistake. I don’t want to go to the cells. For heaven’s sake, I didn’t do anything. Will someone listen to me? I’ll say it in English. I couldn’t have murdered Peter O’Browne. I was somewhere else at the time. Why are you doing this?’
‘Okay, DS Irvine, sit down again. Just for the record, let’s recap for Mr Best how he, while dining with Brian and Sally Baxter and Ted Lester and John O’Sullivan and Mavis, hanged Peter O’Browne until he died from strangulation.’
The WPC thought, ‘This is going to be interesting.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
‘Well here’s a boy if ever there was
Who’s going to do big things’
That’s what they all say and that’s how the trouble begins
- Elvis Costello
‘Picture a scene…’ Kennedy resumed his walk round the room. He took off his black jacked and hung it over the back of the spare seat next to DS Irvine. He was wearing grey trousers, grey shirt, black woollen waistcoat, grey tie and black shoes. He looked good because he felt comfortable in his clothes. ann rea’s attempts to nudge his dress sense in a more ostentatious direction were slowly succeeding. The fingers of his right hand were flexing busily.
‘It’s Friday evening and the offices are closing. You know, because of your connections at Camden Town Records, that Peter O’Browne is about to leave his own office with his assistant, Mary Jones. You ring him and tell him you’ve got to see him urgently.
‘Perhaps, to stress just how important it is that he comes, you drop into the conversation a few of the rumours you’ve been hearing that he is hyping records. Perhaps he thinks it must be important because it’s an unusual request from you. In any event, he agrees to your suggestion to meet outside Mayfair Mews Studio, the studio Peter has just bought. It’s private and it’s not too far away.
‘He doesn’t see you when he arrives at the studio – thanks to the window you are already inside, so he lets himself in with his own keys to wait for you inside. But you are already there. You overpower him with chloroform. When he’s unconscious, you secure him in a seated position, binding his legs individually to the legs of a chair and his hands down the sides.’
Best unclasped his hands and moved one up to scratch his chin. He took out his roll-up gear and prepared himself a cigarette. He tried to speak but Kennedy help up his hand to silence him.
‘You’ll have your turn. Please bear with me, as this is all rather complicated. Smoking is not permitted in here. Now where was I? Yes. You keep him captive for a few days, either to fit in with the timing of your plan, or, perhaps, because you want to give yourself a bit of leeway in case he didn’t turn up on the Friday night.
‘You even feed him on fish and chips, or perhaps just chips and unbind him to the extent he is able to use the lavatory with his hands tied in front of him, so at least you weren’t totally inhumane. In the meantime you take his credit cards and have a high old time laying a false trail to Dorset. I suppose you hoped that no one would check the description of the man using the card, or maybe you did disguise yourself as Peter O’Browne? We’ll have to check on that.
‘Anyway, let’s move on and concentrate on the night of the murder, Wednesday. The night of your great alibi.’
DS Irvine and WPC Coles both leaned forward a fraction in their chairs fascinated by what was coming next. Neither could tell how much of this Kennedy actually knew and how much he was guessing, but both were successful at suppressing their curiosity in front of the suspect.
‘On Wednesday night, you rush home from the office and stop off at the Mayfair Mews studio. In the intervening five days you have arranged everything you need to carry out the murder. You place Mr O’Browne, tied to his chair, on one of the platforms in the studio – I believe they are called drum-risers because they are sometimes used to elevate the drummer and his ego up in the vision of the audience, rather than leave him stuck out of sight behind the band.
‘You place the rear legs of the chair at the very edge of the drum-riser. You have probably offered Mr O’Browne, now elevated some thirty inches in the air, some sort of explanation – that you are holding him for a ransom, perhaps? Anyway, you can fill in some of the grey areas for me at the end of the story. I don’t want to lose the thread.
‘You put a noose round his neck and you secure the rope onto an eight-pulley compact block and tackle system which you attach to the iron rafters supporting the roof of the studio. The pulley is not directly overhead but about three feet away from the edge of the riser so that the angle of the rope from Peter’s neck to the roof is about thirty degrees.
‘Still with me? Good. Thus the body, or more specifically the neck, forms the load end of the pulley system. The effort-end of the rope, which raises the load, in his case Peter O’Browne, is attached to an empty bucket.
‘Now you nip into the studio annexe and up into the bathroom on the first floor. You have already made some adjustments to this bathroom to save time on Wednesday night. You had disconnected the overflow pipe on the bath, a point borne out by recent scratches around the clamp. To the overflow you attach your own water hose, which you have run through the annexe into the studio at rafter height and over the bucket attached to the effort-end of the rope. Next you fix the hose to the inside of the bucket.
‘Now all you have to do is turn on the water tap on the bath at the slow drip. This was a very difficult part of the operation to carry out as I discovered during my own experiments. If you set the drip too slow, the water will eventually stop running altogether. If the flow is too fast everything will happen too quickly to match your alibi.
‘I estimated that, with a pretty slow drip, the bath would have taken abo
ut three and a half hours to fill to overflow. Then the water would run slowly down the hose and drip into the waiting bucket.
‘The magic of the pulley system is that a little effort can raise a large weight. In this instance a full bucket of water was more than adequate to lift the body weight of Peter O’Browne.
‘It would probably have taken another thirty minutes for the bucket to fill and activate the pulley system. At this time, while you were entertaining friends at your famous alibi-dinner party, the rope would have been tightening around Mr O’Browne’s neck. Eventually the rope would have pulled Peter and chair to the limit of balance at the edge of the drum riser. The next step is obvious.
‘Peter and chair would have overbalanced both swinging backwards away from the platform.
‘Within about ten minutes, Peter O’Browne would have been strangled by his own weight. The following morning you returned early to Mayfair Mews Studio on your way to the office to cut Peter down and tidy up your handiwork.
‘You had, in your mind, committed the perfect murder!’
No one spoke. Kennedy scrutinised Best for a reaction while WPC Coles, DS Irvine and Constable Essex all pictured the horrific scene.
‘Sounds like a clever bit of fiction to me, Inspector. Now if only I had thought of that,’ Best laughed sarcastically. ‘If only I were that clever. But you’d be laughed out of the court if you tried to convict me using that story. Where’s your proof? And even if your ridiculous theory is true, any one of your lists of suspects – and knowing O’Browne I imagine it’s a long list of suspects – could have a cast iron alibi and still have murdered the bastard.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
If you haven’t got a penny
A ha’penny will do
