by Paul Charles
‘We know that her husband was seeing another woman,’ Kennedy prompted. By disclosing the single bit of information he had so far learned on the case he hoped to convince Judy that she could not be accused of gossiping. The tone of his voice was so comforting, so soothing, so reassuring, that Judy’s sobbing nearly disappeared altogether as she plucked up the courage to speak.
‘Yes, there’s no smoke without tears. I know, it’s awful isn’t it?’
Having offered her truth, the nanny breathed a sigh of relief, even though she’d mixed her metaphors. But that was apparently as far as she wanted to go. Kennedy tried another tack.
‘How long have you worked with Jens and Holmer?’
This seemed to brighten her up. ‘It’ll be three years this November,’ she replied proudly. ‘I started with them when they had a dingy basement flat up on Chalcot Square. Jens was only about four months old I think and it was getting too much for Esther. It wasn’t as if Paul was much of a help. That’s Paul Yeats, of course, her husband and the kiddies’ father.’ Judy paused. She seemed to be assessing how the detective was responding to her negative comments about her employer. Kennedy remained impassive and, visibly encouraged, the nanny continued, ‘I mean, really it wasn’t as if he was much good at anything.’
Again she paused for the effect it created.
Kennedy decided he could probably pick up this information more easily on the way back, so he continued, ‘Tell me Judy, was Esther a good—?’
‘She was great at everything,’ Judy cut across the detective enthusiastically. ‘She was a great mother. I’d love her to have been my mother. She was always doing such mumsy things. No matter what gallivanting Paul was doing, she always kept a brave face for the children. She loved them so much. She gave her life to them. It never ceases to amaze me how women do that; no matter how career-conscious or successful they are before the children, the minute they have their first child they sacrifice their entire lives for them. And the amazing thing is, they never make it look like a sacrifice.’
That’s better, Kennedy thought, we’ve moved on from single-sentence answers.
Just then Irvine returned to the small study.
‘Ah. Excuse me sir, but could I possibly have a word?’ Irvine began.
Kennedy stared at his DS with a ‘really?’ look.
Irvine returned the ‘really?’ look and added a ‘please?’
‘Excuse us,’ Kennedy said, addressing the nanny, swivelling the chair in the direction of Irvine and following him back towards the kitchen.
‘Sorry about that, sir, it’s just that Dr Taylor wants us to release the body to him as soon as possible. The word is out about—’
‘I’ve just realised she’s the Esther Bluewood. I didn’t even look at her face properly. You know what I’m like around corpses. I should have twigged in the study with the guitar and songwriting stuff.’ Kennedy gasped in genuine shock.
‘Yes, I wasn’t far ahead of you. It’s just the SoC people kept staring, you know, stealing more looks at her than they usually do. And it’s going to get like a zoo here pretty soon. Do you mind looking at the body now?’
On this occasion Kennedy had a good reason for delaying the examination of the body – he’d been talking to a witness. He took little comfort in the fact and knew that if he delayed it any more, his questioning would be patchy at best. Viewing bodies wasn’t something Kennedy found came any easier the older he got, but nor was it getting any harder. It would have been impossible for it to get any harder. This frequent acknowledgment, face to face, of the finality and surprise of death, was by far the worst recurring experience of Kennedy’s life. It hurt him to have to continuously admit to himself that whenever the Grim Reaper came calling, there was nothing anyone could do to persuade him to return alone.
Kennedy entered the kitchen.
Although some of the SoC people – photographer and fingerprints – were already packing away their equipment, the functional kitchen was still packed. Kennedy noticed that behind the door a dark blue towel had been rolled up and placed along the bottom edge of the door. Judy Dillon on opening the stripped pine door had, inadvertently, pushed it back. Had the towel been placed there to stop the gas from escaping to the rest of the maisonette and harming her children? Or was it there simply to give this impression?
The smell of gas had all but disappeared, thanks mainly to the open windows and the cutting fresh winds of Primrose Hill. But the smell of death was lingering longer. Kennedy thought it was like the smell of apples starting to rot; bittersweet, yet enticing to the nostrils. The kitchen was long and narrow and in two parts, with the door puncturing the longest wall. To the left of it was the function part, dominated by a sink underneath a window, offering a beautiful view of the gable-end of the house next door. Next to the sink a fridge, a washing machine, several cupboards and a cookery preparation area rested side by side. A set of spotlessly clean utensils hung from various hooks on the bare brick wall behind the preparation top. A packed clothes horse suspended from the high ceiling swung slightly as people brushed against it. To the right was the family living area of this very rustic-style room. At the far end was a well-worn circular oak table, surrounded by four chairs. A small island on the table housed a milk jug, salt and pepper cellars, spicy sauces, a small radio, six Clarice Cliff Solitude-design dinner place mats, stacked one on top of the other with matching coasters on top again. A baby’s highchair, now redundant, sat dejectedly in the corner. Above the table on the end wall was another cork noticeboard, again packed to bursting with photographs, mostly of the family but some of Judy Dillon playing with the children in this very kitchen. In the opposite corner to the highchair was a small colour TV, suspended precariously on a wall brace positioned above the room’s one easy chair. A pair of men’s leather bedroom slippers lay on the floor, neatly lined up by the front legs of the chair, whose wine-coloured cushions were carelessly scattered with various sections of The Sunday Times.
To one side of the chair was a large wooden trunk, opened wide and threatening to spew out its treasure; a heap of multi-coloured children’s toys. The walls were adorned with children’s drawings, all marked with a name and an age, as well as several Paul Yeats album sleeves. Just to the right of the door, a telephone was fixed on the wall with a calendar, a scribble pad and pen on a string close by. The two sections of the kitchen were bordered with the gas oven – very white and very clean. It was directly below the open door of this oven that Esther Bluewood had found her final resting place.
In death, Esther Bluewood looked more like a haggard, run-ragged, mother than the glamorous popular music sensation she was. Her once proud jet-black mane appeared unwashed and unkempt. Her sharp, well-cut face enjoyed not one trace of make-up, but still the power of her beauty shone through. Her pale skin had taken on the grey translucent hue of death and, Kennedy had to admit, she looked at peace with the world. Inside the oven door was another towel, and Kennedy noted that it was the same colour (lemon) as the ones on the clothes rack. It was neatly folded and looked to be intended as a cushion. With her face turned sharply to the left, Esther looked as if she was climbing an imaginary cliff face. She was about eighteen inches away from the open oven door. She wore the standard busy mum’s indoor uniform; navy blue loose-fitting trainer bottoms and a black sweatshirt. Kennedy and Irvine searched the body and found only a tuning fork in the right-hand trouser pocket. Her hands were open with palms down on the floor, nothing hidden.
‘Any notes or letter about the flat?’ Kennedy asked no one in particular as he continued his examination.
‘Nothing so far,’ Irvine confirmed. He seemed to know instinctively that at this stage Kennedy required only the barest of information; his mind and thoughts elsewhere.
The detective inspector was hunkered down near the corpse’s head with his back to the oven. His black chinos were stretched tautly over his knees and his well-shined black leather shoes cracked along the toe-line, creaking as he steadied hi
mself on his haunches. Normally he hated to be this close to death, but by now he was unaware of anything that wasn’t the body of Esther Bluewood and the grievous loss to the children upstairs. He rocked back and forth on his hunkers, his black Crombie overcoat bunched up on the red and orange patterned oilcloth, changing shape with every swing. Kennedy’s hands were clasped in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees, his green and white tie hanging down five inches below his hands.
What were Kennedy’s thoughts at this stage? How come the towel in the oven still looked so neat? Surely the fold would have been creased or disturbed to some degree with the weight of her head? The head’s a heavy piece of equipment; surely it would have left at least some indentation? If she passed out with her head in the oven surely any additional movement would have caused her head to roll out of the oven and drop to the floor directly below. It wasn’t the weather for the white linen shirt he was wearing today; he wished he’d worn something warmer and more functional. Why was there no suicide note as was supposedly the case with the majority of suicides? Would Esther Bluewood not have dressed up, put on a bit of make-up, tided her hair for her final exit? Was he being a bit of a sexist having such a thought? If she’d had enough of the toils and troubles of her earthly chains what did it matter what she looked like as she escaped them? Would a loving mother either endanger her children or be uncaring enough to let the little ones find her? She must have known the scars that would have left? He thought about how totally devastated his friend ann rea (always lower case) was going to be when she found out about this death. She was continuously inspired by Bluewood’s work and took great solace in it. ann rea could get down sometimes; quite down in fact. She’d always handled it well though, by running to the refuge of her own space at such times. But were there ever any moments when she considered doing this? Considered taking her own life? Was this purely and simply a suicide? How could someone do that, take their own life?
Kennedy shook his head violently a few times to try to snap himself away from such thoughts. Why was he so? Why did he have trouble accepting suicide? Was it just because he spent his life chasing those who took life and maybe he didn’t want to admit that there were some out there who would gladly end something as precious as their own being?
‘You find anything?’ Kennedy now addressed the rotund Dr Taylor, pathologist and friend.
‘Well, there’s no marks or bruising. Looks like gas poisoning but I’ll get back to you when I’ve done the autopsy,’ Taylor began and added unprompted, ‘I’d say time of death was around midnight last evening.’
‘Thanks,’ Kennedy replied. ‘I’m done with the body, you can take it out before it gets too crazy out there.’
‘I’m going to send an empty body bag out first to draw off the hounds and then hopefully steal her away in the unmarked van we also have outside. An undignified exit I know, old chap, particularly on a cold November Monday morning but…’ Taylor failed to finish his sentence, uttering a few tut-tuts as he packed his bag.
Chapter 3
BACK IN the study Kennedy found the nanny, Judy Dillon, engrossed by the noticeboard. Obviously this was not a room she’d been invited into frequently, if ever.
‘Sorry about that,’ Kennedy began, taking up his seat again. ‘They’re going to bring us a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, that’ll be nice.’ Dillon replied as she gracelessly reclaimed her seat, which seemed to groan under the strain.
‘Now, where were we?’
‘I’d been telling you how great Esther was with everything.’
‘Yes, indeed you were. Sorry. Mmmm, before we start again, my colleagues seem to be having trouble tracking down the children’s father. Have you any idea where he might be?’
‘Probably living off the hat of the land,’ Dillon replied rather obliquely. She seemed rather pleased with herself, clasping her hands together and using them as a crane to hike up her right knee. Kennedy was sure he could hear her chair protest with several creaks. She obviously thought better of the idea and folded her chubby arms across her chest. She then used her left hand to cradle her right elbow, raising her right hand to support her chin, forefinger protruding on to her cheek. She always seemed to be using one part of her body to support another. Kennedy figured her favourite position was on her back. For one split second he found himself trying to work out how she would get up again. He ran through a sequence of arm, leg and head movements and had started to consider the possibilities of rolling when she continued.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t really know. I know Esther was expecting him in London yesterday. He’d promised to drop in on the kids. He spends most of his time up at Axis.’
‘Sorry, where?’
‘Axis, it’s their cottage. A beautiful little place they own in the Cotswolds. I believe she bought it with one of her royalty cheques, but he, Yeats, seems to have commandeered it for himself and his floozie.’
Kennedy had heard all about the battle of the sexes but he hadn’t expected such precise military action.
‘Yes, we found the number for the cottage on the kitchen noticeboard,’ he said, ‘but all we got was an answering machine.’
‘I don’t really know where he is then, but I can tell you one thing, wherever he is, you can bet your bottom pound that he’s not working.’ Judy replied, not even trying to hide her feelings for the man.
‘Are there any other family members?’
‘Just Yeats’ sister, Victoria Lucas.’
‘Is Lucas her married name?’ Kennedy asked automatically.
‘Good heavens, no! Tor will never find anyone to marry her. She’s destined to stay a spinster. She’s been grooming herself for a lonely old age all her life. No, no. Yeats is not Paul’s real name. It’s his stage name. God knows the last time he appeared on stage, though. No, his real name is Paul Lucas. Anyway, Tor usually sticks her nose into everything. She just can’t help it. She’s always instructing me on how to deal with the children. As if she’d know! I always think it’s unbelievable that the people without children of their own are always the ones who claim to know the most about bringing them up. Esther’s an American so her relatives are over there. I’ve never met any of them but I know her father died when she was young and her mother is still alive. They have a troubled relationship but they are in touch regularly.’
‘What about friends? Did Esther have any friends in London?’ Kennedy asked just as the tea arrived. They both helped themselves to milk and sugar – the nanny three, Kennedy two.
‘My very own James Bond as a manservant, complete with tweeds,’ Judy gushed, flirting blatantly with Irvine. Irvine offered but a mere polite smile and returned to the kitchen. Judy batted her eyelids coyly before continuing. ‘I can’t believe him. Close your eyes and you’d swear it was Sean Connery talking to you. Is that his real accent or is it put on?’
‘That’s his very own,’ Kennedy smiled.
‘Oh, it makes me go weak at the knees just thinking about that beautiful voice. And doesn’t he dress well?’ Judy broke into a warm smile then added, after a pause that was just a wee bit too long, ‘Mind you, look at yourself as well, smart as a sin. I didn’t realise the police force was so cool. Is that just because its Camden?’
‘It’s certainly not because of a clothes allowance, I can tell you,’ Kennedy replied, realising his remark fell flat. He didn’t mind that, he was just trying to find a way to get their conversation back on track. ‘Could we just go back a bit? Ahm, yes I was asking you about Esther’s friends, did she have any close friends in London that you know of?’
‘Well, there were the Becks, the Islington couple, Jill and Jim Beck. They seemed to have adopted Esther, Jens and Holmer as their own family. I don’t know how they met and the Becks rarely came over here. I’ve only talked to them a couple of times, but Esther was forever going over there. They were as good as silver with Esther and the kiddies. Esther was always telling me that they tried to make her life as normal as possible by having the ki
ds in Islington for sleepovers and forcing Esther to have a social life. They’re good people. I think you’ll find their number by the phone.’
‘Okay. Good. Thank you. Could you tell me what your normal day would be like?’
‘Nannies don’t have normal days; they look after children,’ Judy said proudly.
Kennedy rarely came into contact with children. He wasn’t married and he was an only child so there were no offspring of siblings to be uncle to. He tended to think that children were good as gold and didn’t need a lot of looking after or attention.
‘Okay,’ Judy continued, sighing ever so slightly, ‘I would usually arrive here just before eight o’clock, help dress Jens and Holmer and give them breakfast. Mind you, Esther always helped. She wasn’t one of those, “Oh thank God the nanny is here!” types, dumping the children in your arms on the doorstep and heading off in the opposite direction. No, she liked to spend the morning with us. She liked to send Holmer out to school. He’s just turned six and has been at Primrose Hill School for just over a year now. She likes him to go off to school glowing from a fun family morning. None of this rushing around bawling at each other, nibbling at a bit of toast which never gets finished. She’s a very loving mother… Oh sorry… I mean she was…’
‘I know what you meant,’ Kennedy comforted.
‘But she was, sir. She was such a great mother. They were very close, she and the children. He really, literally, left her to get on with bringing them up. Esther always said Paul was terrible with babies, because they couldn’t communicate back to him. Shows how much he knows. But she felt that the older they became the better the father he would become. She kept saying she could see that Holmer was starting to engage his father. Paul could see this little person taking shape. Esther always thought, and never complained about it, that it was her role to bring up the children and then Paul would educate them to the finer things in life. She said she was happy with that, as he was such a well-travelled and well-read man. I knew her theory would get her into trouble; well-travelled and well-read men always seem to be frequently-bedded men,’ Judy asserted, moving around in the chair. Kennedy really was worried now, as the chair seemed to shake, rattle and groan with her every move.
