Kendall - Private Detective - Box Set

by John Holt

  “Earlier today, two Rican flu cases were confirmed in Taiwan. This was disclosed as false alarms a few hours later by the Taiwan authorities. Early Monday morning, health officials on the island backtracked and said the patients had tested negative after all.”

  * * *

  Kendall looked at his map once again, and shook his head. Either he had taken a wrong turn somewhere, or the map was wrong. He concluded that it must have been the map. Almost certainly it was out of date and totally unreliable. Perhaps he would invest in one of those Sat-Nav gadgets after all, he thought. Augusta Way, it should be right here. It wasn’t.

  He slowly drove to the corner where he could see a road sign. “Carolina Avenue.” He started to smile, and nodded his head. He was getting close. “Where’s that map?” he murmured. “There it is,” he announced. “Carolina Avenue. And Augusta is … there, the second on the left.”

  * * *

  It was just after ten thirty when Kendall eventually turned into Augusta Way. The sun was shining brightly, straight into his eyes. The sky was clear, with not a cloud to be seen, and there wasn’t a hint of the threatened rain showers that had been forecast. He shrugged his shoulders. Once again the weather people had got it completely wrong. You would think with all their modern technology they wouldn’t have a problem. What with computers and satellites, how could they possibly get it so wrong?

  He did better, or at least as good, with the pain that he got in his shoulder. If he got the pain really bad, there would be heavy showers. If it were just a dull ache there would be light drizzle. If there was a constant throbbing, there would be snow. It worked nine times out of ten. Maybe he could get a job with the Weather Bureau, part time at least. Not that he was that concerned about the weather, far from it. He just didn’t really want it to rain. That was all. He hated the rain, and the wind. Oh, and the cold. He loved the sunshine. No, he wasn’t really that concerned about the weather. He was just amazed that the forecasters got it wrong so often, and yet they still kept their jobs. If he had got things wrong as many times as they had he would not have lasted long at the Department. He would have been out in a matter of days. He shook his head again. More like hours, he thought, as he remembered his chief.

  The sunlight was quite bright. He reached across to the glove compartment looking for his sunglasses. He couldn’t find them. Then he realized that because the weather forecast had promised rain, he had left them in the office. He could visualize them lying on his desk. He started moaning under his breath. Weather forecasters, they are not worth a light. If I had my way I’d sack the lot of them.

  He slowly drove along the tree-lined street. As far as he could see the street was completely deserted. There were no other cars, and no people. There were no children playing in the gardens. There wasn’t even the sound of a dog barking, or a baby crying. It didn’t seem natural somehow. Kendall checked the clock on the dashboard. Ten thirty-five. He shook his head. Where was everyone? They couldn’t all be at work surely.

  As he drove along he glanced at both sides of the road. He saw no one. If he had glanced through his rear view mirror he might have taken note of a car, with two men inside, perhaps two hundred yards behind him. Even if he had noticed it, he probably would not have thought that there was anything unusual about it.

  Five minutes later he had stopped outside number 438 Augusta. It was the house where Richard Dawson had lived for not quite five years. Kendall switched off the engine. He sat for a few moments looking at the house. It was a weather-boarded building; a double fronted bungalow, with a double garage. There was a short flight of steps leading up to a small veranda and the front door. The front garden was covered with grass, with one or two small trees to one side. The grass was quite high, and had obviously been neglected in the past few weeks.

  Kendall looked across to the opposite side of the road, to number 435. It was identical. So too was the house next to it, and the house next to that. In fact all of the houses looked identical for as far as he could see.

  Kendall looked back at number 438. He opened the car door, and got out. He locked the car door, and started walking towards the house. He reached inside his pocket and took out the small bunch of keys that Mrs. Dawson had given him. He selected the key to the main door. He suddenly stopped and looked around behind him. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he was sure that he was being very carefully watched. He thought he saw a curtain move across at number 435. He looked at the window for a few moments. There was no further movement. Probably the wind, he decided. He raised his hands and waved. Might as well be friendly to the neighbors, he thought. Just in case.

  He turned away, and looked down the road a short distance. The area was still deserted. Further down the road was a dark grey car parked near the corner. The car appeared to be empty, and Kendall briefly wondered where the occupants were. He glanced around him, but they were nowhere in sight. If he had taken more care, and looked closer he might have spotted them at the side of the house opposite. They were watching him very closely. Kendall looked in the opposite direction. There was nothing of interest. There were no other cars around.

  He turned back towards the house, and continued walking up to the front door. Lying on the porch were several broken flowerpots, lying on their sides. The plants that they had originally contained were lying by the side, shriveled, and dried up. Scattered next to them were a number of newspapers. Kendall bent down and rifled through them. As far as he could see the most recent was about two weeks old. He went up the steps, to the doorway. He inserted the key and turned the lock. He heard the lock click, and he pushed the door open. Once inside, he closed the door behind him. He never noticed the two men standing at the opposite corner, deep in conversation, as they watched Kendall go into the property. He entered a small hallway. Lying on the ground behind the door, were several envelopes. As far as Kendall could see they appeared to be mainly bills, or circulars. To one side there were double doors leading into a lounge. On the opposite side were the dining room, and a kitchen beyond. At the back of the hall there were two bedrooms.

  All of the rooms were neatly furnished, clean, and tidy. Everything seemed to be in order, and yet Kendall had the distinct feeling that someone had previously searched the place. He shook his head, and then he smiled. It was probably the police, he decided. Then he slowly shook his head again. Something was wrong, he whispered. If Richard Dawson’s death had been an accident, and everything seems to point that way, then why would the police need to carry out a search? Why would they bother? What would they be looking for?

  Unless of course the police didn’t really believe that it was an accident after all. Perhaps they were looking for the same thing that he himself was looking for, something to show that his death hadn’t been an accident; something to show that his death had been far more serious.

  Kendall sighed and shook his head. That was not the impression that he had got from Devaney though, was it? And certainly there were no indications of an ongoing police enquiry. In fact Devaney had intimated, in quite strong terms that the case was over and done with. But perhaps, just maybe, for a while, be it long or short, there had been a little doubt in the police’s mind. Perhaps for a split second or two they had thought that maybe, just maybe, it was murder. So they had carried out a search, and found nothing, and came to the conclusion that it really had been an accident all the time.

  Brilliant, Kendall, he murmured. Precisely what did you gain by all of that? For whatever reason, the police have obviously been here, searching for something. He wondered what it was, and whether or not it had been found. Whether they had, or hadn’t, they had concluded that it had been an accident. And that was that.

  So Kendall, what are you actually doing here? What precisely do you hope to gain? He heaved a sigh and took a deep breath. What he hoped to achieve, he did not know. What he was actually looking for, he had no idea.

  Where to start, he murmured, shaking his head. He slowly glanced around the room. Over in the
far corner was a large bureau. Kendall decided to start his search there. He walked over to the bureau and pushed the roll top back. There were a few black and white photographs, and a bundle of papers. Kendall picked up the photographs. The top one was of a young lady. Dawson’s mother when she was no more than twenty-five years old, Kendall guessed. Next to her was a young man. It looked so like Richard Dawson, that it was obviously his father. The next photograph showed two young boys astride their bicycles. One of them was wearing a crash helmet, and arm pads. Kendall stared at the photograph for a few moments. Richard, he guessed, and the other is Peter. The bicycle was almost certainly the one that Mrs. Dawson had told them about. Kendall smiled, and then he carefully replaced the photographs in the bureau.

  He then started to sift through the papers. They were mainly bills, or receipts. There was nothing of any significance. He piled them neatly together, and put them back inside the bureau. He closed the lid, and continued to look around the room. He was perplexed. There were no other papers anywhere. No personal documents of any kind. There were no letters. No documents relating to his work. There was nothing, apart from those few bills. There wasn’t even a list of things to do. It didn’t make any sense. He was forever writing down things to remember. Phone that person, or pick that up, or post that. Everything had to go on to a list. Things to do, places to go, people to see. It all went down.

  He glanced around the room once again. He then went into the next room. It was the same story. The room next to that was no different. Everything was neat and tidy. Not a thing out of place. This just isn’t normal, he muttered to himself. This house hasn’t been searched. It has been cleared, but by who?

  Kendall suddenly felt strange, almost like an intruder. What was he doing really? What was he looking for? Whatever it was, he hadn’t found it, that much was certain. He took one last look around the room, and shook his head. He had found nothing of any significance. No more than I expected, he told himself. He opened the front door, and went out.

  * * *

  Kendall gave a deep loud sigh of disappointment, as he came out of the house. He was shaking his head, and muttering to himself. So far his search had been a complete waste of time. He had found absolutely nothing of any great consequence. Nil, zero, zilch, dinarda. Whatever you called it there had been a great big nothing. Although what he was actually looking for was not exactly obvious to him. He slowly walked down the steps onto the pathway. There was the sudden sound of a lawn mower coming from across the street. Kendall looked up. There was one of Richard’s neighbors busily cutting the front lawn. The man looked over at Kendall and smiled. Kendall nodded and smiled back.

  Kendall then turned away, and slowly walked over to the garage at the side of the house. The door was already open. Inside was a bright red sports car. Kendall walked over to the car. He opened the door and peered inside. He reached forward and opened the glove compartment. It was empty. He reached up and pulled down the two visors. Fixed to the back on the passenger side was Dawson’s driving license. Kendall took it down and looked at it. It was not a good photograph of Richard Dawson. He looked so stern, with dark staring eyes. Typical of the official photographs these days, Kendall murmured. Keep your head up, and look straight ahead, and no smiling. He tapped the photograph and then put it into his pocket. He looked over to the back seat. There was nothing there. He stepped back, and closed the door. He then walked around to the back of the car and opened up the trunk. It was empty, just as he had expected. He closed the trunk door and walked over to the garage door. He stood at the opening for a moment, and glanced back at the car.

  He was just reaching for the handle to close the door when suddenly he heard a voice behind him. It was one of Richard’s neighbors. “Hello there,” he said. “I’m from across the street.”

  Kendall turned around to face the voice. He instantly recognized the man with the lawn mower. He nodded. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Lovely day.”

  “I saw you looking at Richard’s car,” the neighbor said. “It’s an imported model.” He paused for a moment and looked at the car. “It’s an import from England, you know,” he continued. “It’s a 1970 MGB, so I’m told.”

  Kendall looked at the car, and nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “An MGB GT.” He paused and looked at the car once again. “A classic car, if ever there was one.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “Richard bought that car about three years ago,” he said. “It’s not a bad car, although it certainly needs some work on it. In fact, poor old Richard had nothing but trouble with it since he got it. It was always letting him down, constantly in the garage having work done.” He paused once again and shook his head. “Clutch, gear box, brakes, you name it.” He shook his head. “Now that he’s dead it all seems so unimportant, somehow.”

  Kendall looked at the car and thought of his own old car. There was always something wrong with it, and it was always being repaired. It was in the garage more than it was on the road. Saved on the parking fees, anyway, he thought ruefully. He looked at the neighbor and shook his head. “You could be right,” he said. “Not important at all.”

  The neighbor walked closer to the car and tapped the hood. He shook his head. “Just two days before he died there were more problems with it, the crankshaft or something.” He smiled. “I’m no mechanic. I don’t really understand those things. You put the key in the ignition, and turn it. The car either goes or it doesn’t, that’s about it for me.” He shook his head once again. “He couldn’t afford to have it repaired, you know, not this time. Probably won’t ever be repaired now.”

  Kendall nodded. Probably not, he thought.

  The neighbor was still speaking. “He had to borrow mine that day,” he said. “The day he went up to see Trenton.” He paused, and looked down at the ground. “The day he died.” He looked up and shook his head. “Maybe if I had refused to loan him the car, he wouldn’t have gone. Maybe he would still be alive today.”

  Kendall shook his head. “What was that?” he asked. “What did you just say?”

  The neighbor looked surprised. “I said that he might still be alive today.”

  Kendall shook his head. “No, no, not that,” he said. “What you said before, about it being your car and not his.”

  “Oh, that,” the neighbor replied. “I said that he had actually borrowed my car that day. His one wasn’t working.”

  Kendall was thinking hard, his mind working overtime. “Your car?” he said. “He borrowed your car that day?” The neighbor nodded. “Can I see it, please?”

  The man looked surprised once again. It seemed odd. What did he want with my car? He could see no reason why Kendall would need to see it, but there again, why not? Where was the harm? “Sure,” he replied. “It’s over there on the driveway. It’s the green Ford.”

  The two men walked across the street. The neighbor opened the car door. “Help yourself,” he said, although what was so interesting was a complete mystery.

  Kendall got in and started to look around. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but the car knew something, he was sure of that. The car had been there that day, at Trenton’s car park, the day of the accident. It knew something all right, but what? If only the car could talk.

  Then he found it. Bloodstains on the right hand side of the driver seat head restraint. And there, on the door panel, close to a piece of sharp metal protruding through the worn fabric was more blood staining. Kendall got out of the car and pointed out the staining to the neighbor. “Do you know anything about that?” He asked pointing to the seat, and the door.

  The neighbor looked horrified. “No,” he said quite simply. “I’ve never noticed that before. That’s only been there since Richard borrowed the car. I haven’t really had a chance to look at the car since the police brought it back.” He looked up at Kendall. “How come the police never mentioned it?” he asked. “I mean they must have seen it.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Kendall. “After all the
re would have been no need for them to examine the car.”

  The neighbor looked puzzled. “Why not?” he asked.

  “Simple,” Kendall replied. “They didn’t see the need to look at the car because Richard’s death had been nothing more than a simple accident, according to them. He had tripped on a curbstone, and hit his head remember?”

  The neighbor nodded. That made sense, he supposed. Then he looked at Kendall, and shook his head. “You don’t think it was an accident, do you?” he said.

  Kendall just smiled.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Long Day

  “Overall, health officials around the world have confirmed 20,000 cases, the World Health Organization said on Monday on its Web site, though thousands of other cases are suspected. The WHO recommends isolating and putting under medical observation anyone coming into close contact with a confirmed flu case, but leaves the details of implementation up to individual countries. Elsewhere, a 32-year-old Dutch woman who arrived in Indonesia over the weekend is suspected of having the Rican flu virus and has been placed in isolation at a hospital on the island of Bali, the state news service Antara reported. And Singapore’s Ministry of Health lowered its alert level amid signs that the flu virus is milder than originally feared.”

  “In Hong Kong, on Friday afternoon the authorities lifted a quarantine that had kept nearly 300 guests and employees in a hotel for a week after coming into contact with an Argentine traveler infected with the influenza. Other passengers in some 19 provinces across China who had travelled with him were also released from quarantine.”

  * * *

  It had been a long hard day. Kendall was exhausted. He sat at his desk, his feet up, and his head back. Mollie looked at him. Well, she thought. Are you going to tell me or not? She glared at him. He would be asleep any second now. “How did you get on?” she asked. There was no response. “How did you get on?” she asked once again, louder. Still there was no response. She shook her head. He wasn’t going to say anything. She looked at him once again. His eyes were shut tight. He was asleep.