by Paul Charles
‘So, how would Holmer get to school?’ Kennedy continued.
‘Oh we’d – that’s Jens and myself – would take him in my claptrap. It’s a genuine Mini Minor, one of the old ones. It just about manages to get me about but the children absolutely adore it. They call it Tigger, you know from Winnie the Pooh, because of the way it chugs along when it’s cold in the morning and I always leave the choke out which means it’s chugging forever and they just love that,’ Judy said, brightening up again.
Kennedy wondered about the logistics of Judy Dillon fitting herself into a Mini Minor, and whether these manoeuvres were the source of the children’s amusement. He kept his counsel on the matter.
‘We drop Holmer off at the school and then Jens and I come back here, by which time Esther is usually in her study, working. She’ll either be answering her mail – she gets a lot of fan mail – or she’ll be on the phone to her record company or her publisher or her solicitor finalising some deal or other. She doesn’t have a manager – does it all herself. Other times you can hear her gently strumming her guitar and singing along as she works on something. We never disturb her when she’s doing that. Sometimes, if Jens is having her nap when it’s happening, I sit out there by the kitchen door and listen to her. It’s so beautiful. Her music is very sad, but at the same time, very moving. When I listen to it at home I always find I have to be in the right mood. Do you know her work?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact. I listen to Axis quite a bit. I too find it very moving,’ Kennedy confirmed. He’d been introduced to this wonderful music by ann rea and he’d found it very comforting.
‘Sorry, I was meant to be telling you about our day…’ Judy continued, breaking a silence apparently created by both of them considering Esther Bluewood’s music. ‘I’ll make us all a bit of lunch around one. After I’ve cleared up the dishes from that, Jens and I will be off again to pick up Holmer. I bring Holmer and Jens back home, play with them until I leave at about four, by which time Esther has finished her work in the study. And that’s it until the next day.’
‘But you always get here about eight o’clock?’
‘I’m never late!’ Judy chipped back.
‘No, sorry, I didn’t mean that you were. I just meant that you would have been expected to arrive here just before eight o’clock,’ Kennedy found himself apologising.
‘Definitely.’
‘Good. Look, I think that’s all for now. We’ll obviously have more questions for you later. Could you leave your details with DS Irvine?’ Kennedy asked, happy to have avoided the bit of awkwardness about whether or not she was late.
‘Oh, you mean the Sean Connery sound-alike.’ Judy momentarily perked up but then seemed to crash in flames just as suddenly. ‘He’s been the only good thing about this sad state of affairs.’
For once, Kennedy wondered, had the nanny unconsciously put her words in order?
Chapter 4
KENNEDY LEFT what remained of the SoC people tidying up their work and headed back to North Bridge House, the home of Camden Town CID. He figured he’d better ring ann rea and tell her the news. Mind you, being a journalist at the local Camden New Journal, she was probably already way ahead of him on this one. Either way, she was going to be very low.
It’s funny how someone you’ve never even met can leave such a hole in your life when they die. Kennedy had felt it when Otis Redding had been killed in a plane crash in 1967. He remembered being devastated on that occasion. Perhaps it was because the classic album, Otis Blue, had brought him such comfort, and part of the comfort disappears when you know that the person singing those soulful songs is no longer there.
ann rea had used Axis by Esther Bluewood to get through many of her own personal crises.
‘Aye, he is now,’ Desk Sergeant Timothy Flynn said into the phone as Kennedy entered North Bridge House.
The two-storey building, on the border of Camden Town and Regent’s Park, is the oldest in the area, built as a monastery at a time when the monks used to tend flocks of goats on nearby Primrose Hill. The building had been through many conversions in its 250-year history, and had been a school immediately before becoming home to the Camden Police.
‘Ah, it’s DS Irvine, sir,’ Flynn told Kennedy. ‘He says it’s urgent.’
Kennedy took the phone and no sooner had he placed the handset against his ear than he could hear a rather anxious Irvine, barely restraining himself from shouting.
‘You’d better get back here as quickly as possible, sir.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Paul Yeats arrived a few minutes ago and all hell has broken loose. We’ve been trying to restrain him from removing stuff from the study. Look, sir, I’d better go, he’s ranting and raving again. He’s on about his civil liberties and stuff,’ Irvine reported, clearly concerned.
‘Okay, I’ll be straight back up there. Where exactly is Yeats now?’
‘He’s in the study. Locked himself in,’ Irvine replied, apparently distracted.
‘Right. See you in a minute.’
The ever-efficient Flynn had been busy on one of his other phones and, by the time Kennedy returned the telephone to its cradle, there was an unmarked car at the door of North Bridge House. Just under two minutes and four blatant traffic violations later, Kennedy was running in through the front door of 123 Fitzroy Road.
Irvine came to greet him.
‘He just forced his way in and ran straight into the study. When I went in he’d started to pack notebooks, journals and cassettes into a holdall he had with him. Obviously I told him he couldn’t remove anything from the scene of a crime. He replied, “What crime? She’s gone and topped herself, hasn’t she? No crime there.” He further claimed that he was her husband and that legally it was his property and that he could do whatever he wanted with it. I was trying to reason with him, telling him there was still an ongoing police investigation and nothing could be removed from the premises without permission when he suddenly shoved me out of the study, slammed the door and locked it from the inside,’ Irvine said.
Kennedy knocked politely on the door.
‘Hello, it’s Detective Inspector Kennedy here from Camden CID. I realise how distressed you are sir, but I have to advise you that you are interfering with our investigation and unless—’
‘How can I possibly be interfering? My wife and I own this apartment and these are our possessions,’ a self-important baritone voice replied from inside the study.
‘Nonetheless, sir, we’re still carrying out an investigation here and nothing can be removed. You’re not even meant to touch anything; your fingerprints are going to be all over the place.’ Kennedy was keeping as patient as possible. He knew sometimes police rules seemed to get up people’s noses but they were there for a reason. Just then he noticed a whiff of smoke drift from under the door of the study.
‘I’m going to count to ten, sir,’ Kennedy said, raising his voice to be positively sure that Yeats was hearing him, ‘then we’re going to break the door down.’
‘Go to hell!’ the voice replied.
‘Ten!’ Kennedy shouted, missing nine digits as he took aim near the keyhole on the pine door and kicked with all his might. The lock gave way more easily than Kennedy had imagined and he was surprised at how little damage had been done.
Irvine, Kennedy and Allaway charged into the study where Yeats was tearing up a black leather-bound journal and tossing the loose pages into a wastepaper basket that had flames licking the rim. Kennedy didn’t want any more evidence destroyed.
‘Could you please give me that book, sir?’
‘Frightfully sorry, old chap. It’s mine and if I can’t have it, you certainly can’t,’ Yeats replied, his fiendish eyes glaring at Kennedy and a smirk covering his entire face.
Kennedy raised his foot and came down with all his might on Yeats’ fawn shoe. The Hush Puppy didn’t live up to its name, nor did its owner. Yeats screamed with all his might. Something about where Kennedy’s
father was when his mother conceived him. Yeats dropped the book and grabbed his foot with both hands, falling back into the swivel chair. Kennedy grabbed the journal and the wastepaper basket and ran to the kitchen. He was in time to quench the flames before too much damage was done.
On inspection, around a dozen pages were either charred or destroyed in the bottom of the wastepaper basket. Kennedy was sure forensics would be able to retrieve something from them. Irvine, who was standing at his shoulder, lifted the offending journal and flicked the pages. He let out the briefest of chuckles.
‘It would seem in his haste, sir, he started at the back of the book. It looks like the book was only a quarter used. All the writing is in the front twenty or so pages. It doesn’t look like there was anything at the back. You got him in time,’ the DS stated proudly.
‘I’ll bet there’ll be something in these journals. Box absolutely everything up and take it all back to North Bridge House.’
When Kennedy returned to the study a few minutes later, Yeats was seething. ‘I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got, you bastard.’
‘But I was merely reacting to the smoke, sir. I thought you were in danger,’ Kennedy offered innocently.
‘You might get away with that for the door but not for breaking my toes. You wait and see.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find I wasn’t overstepping the mark. I thought I saw some burning paper fall on to the carpet. I was simply extinguishing it before the carpet caught light. In the meantime, sir, I’m going to take you down to North Bridge House to answer some questions.’
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘No, sir, I’m not. You could say that you’ll be helping us with our enquiries,’ Kennedy replied and, on noting Yeats’ apparent lack of co-operation added, ‘I’m sure you’re aware there are numerous media people outside. I want to avoid them noticing the deceased’s husband leaving here in anything other than a proper fashion.’
The mention of the word ‘media’ seemed to have an immediate transformational effect on Yeats. He ran his hand through his dishevelled jet-black curly hair and forgot immediately about his injured foot, although he did limp a little for five or six steps. He was wearing a dark brown corduroy suit and a black woollen polo-neck jumper. He placed the forefinger of his right hand under the collar and ran it back and forth to smooth it out.
‘You realise, of course, I was protecting Esther and her estate. I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories about people running amuck in the Dakota Building when Lennon died, helping themselves to his possessions, which, by the way, mostly ended up sold at sky-high prices in the main auction houses. We don’t want that happening with Esther’s stuff.’
‘But you were destroying it yourself. We saw you trying to burn one of her journals,’ Irvine said incredulously.
‘Well, two of her books have been nicked already so, as I said, I was trying to protect her,’ Yeats replied. He had now calmed down considerably and his voice was very authoritative. He had the air of an educated man. It was just those manic eyes that unnerved Kennedy. They looked…well, Kennedy thought they looked like you might expect Rasputin’s eyes to look.
Kennedy broke away from his stare and concentrated on what Yeats had just said.
‘What do you mean, “two of her books have been nicked already”?’
‘Exactly that, her journal from this year is missing, as is another journal with notes and bits and pieces, and ideas for new works,’ Yeats claimed.
‘Couldn’t they just be somewhere else?’ Kennedy enquired.
‘No. They never leave this room. Esther insisted on it. She usually kept the room locked. I’ve checked all the shelves and drawers and they’re nowhere. That’s probably why I flipped. I thought it had happened already, the rummaging had started and the body’s not even cold.’
Kennedy froze. He was about to say something when Yeats continued.
‘In view of this I would like to remain here to log all the material. You’re welcome to witness me or vice versa. Then, at least, it will all be protected.’
Kennedy couldn’t, and didn’t want to, refuse. He would have liked to see Yeats express some regrets about his wife or, at the very least, to check into the well-being of his children. He left Irvine and Yeats to complete the logging and appropriated WDC Anne Coles. Very soon they were heading in the direction of Judy Dillon’s flat and, Kennedy hoped, the missing Esther Bluewood journals.
Chapter 5
‘DO YOU know any of Esther Bluewood’s songs?’ Kennedy asked his WDC as they ‘set the dials’ for the centre of Park Village West.
‘No, can’t say I do. I know her name obviously but not the songs. What were the song titles?’
‘Oh, let’s see… “New Way, New Day” and “Resurrection” and “Axis” and “Autumn Poppies” but I really love the entire Axis album.’
‘God, I’m impressed,’ Coles began as she negotiated the difficult traffic lights at the junction of Parkway and King Henry’s Road. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a fan.’
‘Well, it’s ann rea really,’ Kennedy began, breathing a major sigh of relief once they’d crossed the junction and were turning into Albany Street, ‘she’s totally into that album. She’s got a few other Bluewood albums as well but we mostly listened to Axis.’
‘Have you told ann rea yet, about the death?’
‘Ah no, I’m…actually, I haven’t spoken to ann rea for a while.’
‘Oh!’ Coles said, just a tad too quickly.
Kennedy thought perhaps he should ring ann rea. He should be the one to make the call. He also thought that he should close the topic of ann rea before Coles asked an awkward question.
She didn’t in fact. She asked a very sensible question, and a professional one at that.
‘Do you think Esther Bluewood committed suicide?’
‘I find it hard to believe that such a committed mother would take her own life. I find it harder still to believe that she would take her own life when her children were in the flat with her,’ Kennedy replied quietly, the picture of the two children silhouetted hand in hand at the top of the stairs still burning clearly in his mind.
‘But surely if we believe she took her own life we must also believe she couldn’t have been of sound mind. She was not thinking clearly, or normally, so there has to be the possibility she wouldn’t have given the children the same consideration she would have had she not been ill,’ Coles offered as she took a left and parked the car directly outside the second block of houses in Park Village West.
‘Fair point,’ Kennedy agreed, ‘fair point. Let’s see if we can surprise the nanny and retrieve these journals.’
‘Talk of the devil…’ Coles replied, nodding in the direction of the rear-view mirror.
And there, larger than life and with a spring to her step, was the same Judy Dillon, mincing along with a Marks & Sparks carrier in one hand and a Regent’s Bookshop trademark blue bag in the other.
‘Oh!’ Judy gasped.
Kennedy figured that she’d been miles away – this was good, no time to think or hide.
‘I suppose you’ve come for the journals?’
Clever, Kennedy thought, attack is always the best form of defence.
‘Yes,’ the nanny continued, ‘they were lying around in the kitchen and I thought they’d be safer with me, you know, with all those people running around. There’s no point bolting the stable door when it’s raining. To be perfectly honest, I was more worried about Yeats or Tor helping themselves and rewriting history. Come on in, why don’t you? The journals are as safe as blouses. I’ll get them for you.’ The nanny opened the front door of her flat.
‘Why do you think Yeats would have been after them?’ Coles asked, as they followed her in to the bright hallway.
‘He’s obsessive, jealous, a moron, a crap songwriter and he’s been struggling for years to emerge from behind her creative shadows. Perhaps he’d even nick a few of her unused ideas. It’s the ideal opportunity fo
r him to effect a change. He’s always been trying to get Esther to work with Tor. He claimed she’d look after all the stuff a manager would, allowing Esther more time for the children and writing. And because Tor was family, blood as it were, Esther would never be taken advantage of and her work would be looked after properly. That’s complete tosh. All he wanted to do was indirectly get control of his wife’s work. Work he knew was far superior to his own,’ she concluded as she led them through into a little sitting room to the right of the hall.
Bags still in hand, she nodded them in the direction of a sofa and headed back out into the hall.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ she called through from an echoey room Kennedy assumed to be the kitchen. Then they could hear her rattle about in the bags and open and close cupboard and fridge doors.
‘Let’s risk it,’ Kennedy said in a stage whisper to Coles. In a louder voice he called out to the nanny, ‘That would be nice, ah we’ll have…’ and he raised his eyebrows at the WDC, encouraging her to make a choice.
‘I’ll have coffee please,’ Coles replied.
‘And I’ll have a tea, please,’ Kennedy said, finding his voice rising to nearly a shout because he couldn’t physically see the person he was addressing. They heard water being poured down a sink. They heard a tap being turned on, kettle being filled, lid being replaced and a switch being flicked. They sank back into the sofa.
Suddenly Kennedy had a horrible feeling. He sprang up, half running towards the noises and then, hands deep in pockets, slowing to a casual pace as he ambled into the kitchen area. He found Judy Dillon innocently packing Marks and Sparks’ life-savers into the freezer section of the fridge.
