by Paul Charles
Kennedy stood, staring opened-mouth at the room’s far wall. It was covered, ceiling to floor; with photos, posters, flyers, leaflets, magazine articles and adverts of Esther Bluewood. The floor was carpeted in royal blue, the wall to their right had a makeshift bookcase-cum-shelving unit, made up from boxes, bricks and planks of wood. The do-it-yourself unit contained three or four hundred albums, roughly the same number of compact discs, a record desk, a double cassette recorder, a CD player, a radio and an amplifier. The equipment was a mismatch of Sony, Hitachi and other names ending in ‘Y’ or ‘I’. The rest of the unit contained what looked like thousands of magazines, packed to overflowing on the shelves. At either end of the shelving-unit-cum-fire-risk stood a large Grundig speaker cabinet which was gently purring and begging to be filled with sounds again.
In centre spot on the third wall, and pride of the room, was a large framed, autographed poster of Esther Bluewood. The singer was uncharacteristically heavily made-up, collar pulled high and hiding some of her famous mane, and she was looking at where you imagined the photographer’s knees would be. In the background was water. Kennedy couldn’t exactly place the shot, but he thought it might have been taken near the lake in Regent’s Park. He thought he could make out, although blurred and somewhat obscured by Esther’s coat, the air duct that’s become something of a landmark. The exact same air duct which is visible for about a minute as Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson row past in the famous boating scene in David Lean’s classic Brief Encounter.
The poster had Esther’s name at the top in blue lettering highlighted by a black drop shadow, and along the bottom the legend: ‘Songs from the Heart. The music of Esther Bluewood exclusively on Camden Town Records. Available in all good record stores now!’
The poster had been signed ‘To Josep’, using a gold magic marker. The ‘p’ had been converted to a fallen ‘f’, whether by the author or by someone else wasn’t obvious. The inscription continued: ‘A prince of a boy! Well done! Esther Bluewood.’ The handwriting was extremely neat, tidy and very readable. Josef Jones was almost in a trance, staring at the face in the poster as if he too was looking at it for the first time. Below the poster was a shelf, holding a couple of envelopes, three or four bills, a Royal Mail ‘while you were out’ card, along with a paperback copy of Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor.
‘Sorry I took so long to answer the door,’ Jones began, offering the policemen a seat on the green and blue sofa below the shelf. He sat opposite on a dining chair, no arms. He seemed to want to position himself there so that he could steal a glance occasionally at the autographed poster. The sofa position afforded Kennedy and Irvine a good view of the Bluewood wall.
‘I suppose it’s a difficult day for all her fans,’ Kennedy began. ‘But one tends to feel more sorry for the family.’
‘We were her family, you know, but some more than others,’ Jones said in his inimitable voice.
He was dressed only in a white T-shirt and pair of black suit trousers. His feet were bare and to Kennedy’s eye his hair looked much as it had in the current edition of the Standard. And like the Standard photo he looked like he was wearing eyeliner. Kennedy remembered now who Jones reminded him of: Posh Spice, but Posh Spice with curly hair. His small nose, thin neck and large Adam’s apple all conspired to give him a high-pitched whine while speaking. In an American accent, as with the Disney characters, this would have sounded funny but with an English voice Kennedy thought it sounded positively evil.
If Kennedy hadn’t already read the journals he would have pursued this line but he let it drop for now. If Jones was so obviously prepared to drop such blatant hints about his closeness to Bluewood, Kennedy wondered how long it was going to be for the story to be splashed across the middle pages of one of the tabloids.
‘I don’t have long to talk,’ Jones began, his voice chilling Kennedy’s spine and causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand to attention. ‘I’ve got to be at the Jazz Café by six thirty. That’s why I was trying to get some kip. I’m on until it closes tonight and by the time we tidy up and close up, it will be nearly three o’clock before I get back to my bed.’
‘You’re going to go to work today?’ Irvine asked.
‘Why yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got to eat. I’ve got to earn money in order to live. I’m not like Lord Corduroy – Paul Yeats. I’m not going to be able to live off Esther’s estate and lie around on my back for the rest of my life, watching the money flow in. Now that she’s dead, I have to work more than ever. Mind you,’ Jones said, seemingly realising something for the first time, ‘the price of all the memorabilia will have shot through the roof now that she’s dead.’
‘Esther Bluewood was accessible for her fans, wasn’t she?’ Irvine asked.
Jones kind of smirked at that question. ‘Yes,’ he smiled knowingly, ‘to the real fans. Not to the autograph slags.’
‘Sorry?’ Irvine leaned forward in his chair.
‘You get a lot of slags hanging around stage doors waiting for stars. They’re more interested in getting star-fucked but asking for an autograph is a good way of getting an introduction. Some of them are so brazen. They’ll stick their hand down the front of the celebrity’s trousers as they’re signing and say something as subtle as, “Is there anything happening later?”. There’s a lot of that goes on. And mostly the pop stars are up for it, and even if they aren’t there’s always a roadie who’ll do the business. But in the stories to the fan’s mates the next day, the roadies will have miraculously become leading members of the band.’
‘Really?’ Irvine continued.
‘Oh, you’re such an innocent, or you’re having me on,’ the high-pitched whine continued.
‘No, it’s just you hear the stories, but I’ve never heard first-hand.’
‘First-hand, that’s a good one. It’s what the second one’s doing you’ve got to worry about. Just hang around a few stage doors for a while, that’s a real fly-opener.’ Jones barely got his line finished before he burst into laughter. It was as you’d imagine a gay wolf howling would sound.
Kennedy was a little upset. He couldn’t really work out why. He figured it might be because Josef Jones didn’t seem in the least upset at the death of a woman he’d been so obsessive over. Who’s been using whom, the detective wondered. Kennedy decided to play it dumb.
‘Did you by any chance ever meet Esther Bluewood?’
‘I’d say,’ Jones sniggered.
‘At stage doors?’ Kennedy pushed.
‘I knew her, detective. I knew her well.’ Jones boasted.
‘Is that why you were at the house this morning?’
‘I wasn’t at the house this morning. I was here. I was here all the time,’ Jones said.
‘But,’ Irvine claimed incredulously, ‘there’s a photo on the front page of today’s Evening Standard, taken this morning outside Esther Bluewood’s house, and you’re in it.’
‘No! No?’ Jones shrieked. ‘GOD! Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Kennedy replied simply.
‘That’s wonderful, that’s great. All the slags will be soooo jealous,’ Jones ripped. Kennedy was convinced he was about to tear his vocal chords.
‘But you said you were here all morning,’ Kennedy persisted.
‘I was here in the early morning and then I heard on the news about Esther so I went over, but that would have been just before lunchtime. Is it a good picture? Can you see me clearly? Are there any of the Pink Posse mourning in it, too? God, they absolutely worshipped her. I suppose they would, wouldn’t they, strong woman and all of that?’
‘I’m sure you’ll still be able to get a copy. I forget all the details. But you say you were here all morning until you went out to visit Esther’s house. What time would that have been?’
‘Probably about noon, maybe about ten to twelve, why, what’s the mystery?’ Jones asked.
‘Nothing, really. Just checking our facts,’ Kennedy said and looked at Irvine, prompting
his next question.
‘Did you meet Miss Bluewood personally much, sir?’ Irvine dutifully enquired.
‘You know, now and again. But what’s this all about?’ Jones asked, a little panic appearing to creep into the proceedings.
‘Well, it’s just that we’re investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Esther Bluewood and…’
‘But why? There’s no mystery. She topped herself, didn’t she? Just like we all knew she would one day. Listen to her music for heaven’s sake. It’s all there!’ Jones suggested, slightly irritated at having to explain it to the detectives.
Chapter 11
KENNEDY AND Irvine returned to North Bridge House shortly thereafter, Josef Jones blagging a lift to Camden High Street from them. Just as Kennedy was climbing the steps into North Bridge House, he met Dr Taylor travelling in the opposite direction. The friendly doctor had dropped off the autopsy report and didn’t take much persuading to accompany Kennedy to his office for a cup of tea.
‘So what did you find? Anything suspicious?’ Kennedy asked, as he set about brewing the tea.
‘I’m afraid not, old chap,’ Taylor began, stretching out in the one easy chair in Kennedy’s office, the chair Superintendent Thomas Castle always considered his own. Kennedy had positioned it at the far side of the office from his desk. Sometimes he would sit in the chair to see if another angle of view at the Guinness Is Good For You green felt noticeboard – which is usually generously peppered with information on the case in hand – might inspire another angle on the case. Now the leather armchair groaned under the strain of Taylor’s ample girth.
‘Spoon, spoon, who’s taken my spoon?’ Kennedy moaned as he searched around his tea-preparing area.
‘Allow me old chap,’ Taylor said as he sat bolt upright and searched around through the numerous pockets of his brown check pattern three-piece suit. The ability to produce, at the drop of a hat – usually his own, a green felt trilby – vital odds and sods was one of Taylor’s specialties. He rarely disappointed.
‘Thanks a million,’ Kennedy said as he gratefully took the spoon. Not only had the doctor produced a spoon, and a silver one at that, but it was clean, polished and sealed in a polythene bag.
‘Oh, don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do. What was I saying? Oh yes… No, we found nothing really out of the ordinary. I’d say she died as a result of gas poisoning around eleven thirty yesterday. Apart from old scars, and there were absolutely loads of those around her arms, legs and lower abdomen, there was no bruising and no suspicious marks on the body. We did find traces of barbiturates in her blood. Not a particularly high dose – a regular amount for someone who would have popped a couple to help get a good night’s sleep. I’ve checked and she had them on prescription.’
‘So you’d say it was a simple case of suicide?’ Kennedy asked, bringing Taylor’s cup and saucer across to him.
‘Was there a suicide note?’
‘No. At least none we could find. But that doesn’t mean a lot. Contrary to popular myth, only about one in twelve suicides actually leaves a note. Though from the little I know about her domestic politics, I am sure she would have left something, if only to instruct the authorities as to who she wanted to look after her children and how she wanted her work treated. Apparently she had a sister-in-law, Tor, who was always trying to meddle in her career,’ Kennedy said, realising that he was speculating wildly.
‘Could a person or persons unknown with an ulterior motive have discovered a note and removed it?’ Taylor asked, settling cosily into his chair, obviously enjoying his tea.
‘The nanny, Judy Dillon, found Esther this morning. We caught her helping herself to a couple of the dead woman’s journals but she claims she was thinking of their safety with all the strangers who were running around the apartment.’
‘Do you think she could have removed a note?’ Taylor asked.
‘Oh, she could have, I’m sure. But why would she?’ Kennedy said, apparently distracted. ‘Let’s consider the kids. I have a hard time accepting that Esther Bluewood would have killed herself, particularly when her children were upstairs and, potentially, could have been in danger from the gas. Not to mention that there was a good chance they might have discovered her body.’
‘The little I know about it, old chap, and it is a little, is that when you’re suicidal you’re not thinking logically. They say…’ Taylor paused for a little chuckle, ‘you should never kill yourself when your mind is disturbed by suicidal thoughts.’
Kennedy enjoyed the lighter moment. ‘Well, her analyst, Hugh Watson, is studying her last couple of journals this evening to see if he can pick up any clue as to her stability so I guess there’s not much we can do until then.’
Chapter 12
KENNEDY DIDN’T have time to go home before meeting ann rea in the rarely crowded but always customer-friendly Albert. He had walked to the pub, situated on the corner of Kingstown Street and Princess Road, from North Bridge House, his Crombie collar pulled up high to shelter him from the cutting winds. But the cold of the night was nothing compared to the chill he felt about Esther Bluewood’s death. Particularly vivid in his mind was the scene of the two motherless children standing hand in hand at the kitchen door looking in on their dead mother. Kennedy’s preoccupation about Jens and Holmer was broken when he spotted ann rea sitting on a sofa facing the pub door.
ann rea was staring towards the door, but her stare was so concentrated that she didn’t notice her sometime-lover arrive. She continued looking at him as he walked towards her but she still didn’t register it was him. He was right up beside her and leaning over to kiss her before she snapped out of her trance.
‘Kennedy, it’s you,’ ann rea said, ringing out the ‘you’ into at least three syllables.
‘It’s me,’ Kennedy said quietly, concluding their greeting of old. Somehow tonight it lacked its usual fun and came across as very hollow. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, glancing at her empty wine glass.
‘Yes, a glass of white would be great. The house stuff is fine.’
‘How about some food?’ Kennedy asked, stopping and looking back over his shoulder as he headed for the bar.
‘Maybe later, right now I just need some alcohol in my blood.’
Kennedy resumed his journey, like a film that had been frozen on a frame and then, as the projector restarts, comes back to life.
‘God, Kennedy, whatever will the children do?’ ann rea continued a few seconds after Kennedy’s return.
‘Won’t Yeats look after them?’
Glasses touched and, first of the crisp wine downed, they sat back into the sofa, half-facing each other, their knees almost touching.
‘Esther wouldn’t have wanted that because she knew he’d just palm them off on Tor.’
‘Who would she have wanted to raise them?’ Kennedy asked.
‘Oh, there’d be a few; her brother, her Islington friends, Jillian and James, her mother, perhaps – but she’s quite old and they weren’t very close. As things are I expect the authorities will have to hand them over to Yeats, won’t they?’
‘’Fraid so,’ Kennedy said at the end of a long swig. He could tell ann rea was relaxing, so he moved back into the corner of the deep red sofa a few minutes after she’d made a similar retreat. They were now facing, one leg each up on the sofa.
ann rea was dressed all in black. Tight-fighting pants and thick woollen polo neck jumper, with a black nylon scarf still tangled about her neck. Her trusted black duffel coat was draped over the back of the sofa between them, serving as a border of sorts. She wasn’t wearing a touch of make-up. Nor did she need to. Her sharp features – Beatle bob hairstyle; brown hair recently washed and full and shining (just like in the adverts maybe even a little better); generous lips, (Kennedy knew exactly just how giving they could be); heavy eyelids, perfectly capped with strong, defined, eyebrows, slightly darker in colour than the hair on her head – all combined to create a picture so breathtakingly s
ensational no one could ever have done better with make-up.
They both finished their wine at the same moment and a split second later Kennedy felt a warm flush come over him. It could have been the wine successfully eking its way into his bloodstream, but he preferred to think it was the connection, that particularly deep bond which he felt was starting to draw them back to each other.
ann rea reached her hand, which had been resting across her coat on the back of the sofa, towards Kennedy. As she did she leaned over and ran her fingers through his hair. The detective’s hair was black. It had a natural middle parting and fell about around his ears (barely). He rarely combed it, preferring mostly to do as ann rea had just done and run his fingers through it when he wanted a tidy. He had started the day, as with most days, clean-shaven, but the five o’clock shadow had arrived early and now there was a light growth about the bottom of his face. Kennedy wasn’t really handsome, not at all in fact, but neither was he bad looking. It was just…well he had the kind of face that was going to look great in another ten or so years, when his age would begin to show.
Most women were attracted to his hands. They, and his green eyes, were his best features – according to ann rea anyways. She’d described his hands as kind. She couldn’t explain why. When pushed she’d say that they just looked kind and then she’d giggle and add that she also liked what they did to her; what he did to her with his hands. He claimed his hands had a mind of their own. That was his story and, as a policeman, one of the things he had learned was that when you have a story you should stick to it.
Neither ann rea nor Kennedy were thin people; neither were they plump. Kennedy had a sweet tooth and claimed to have to watch his belt. But dressed as he was tonight, in black trousers, grey shirt, black waistcoat under his Crombie – which he still hadn’t removed – black leather shoes and grey socks, he looked fine. No embarrassing bulges where bulges shouldn’t be. ann rea, in Kennedy’s eyes (not to mention a few others around North Bridge House) had the perfect figure. Perfect in a Rosanna Arquette kind of way.
