by Paul Charles
During the night, as Kennedy and ann rea lay in each other’s arms, she, just like Dr Watson, had claimed, no – claimed was too weak a word for it – ann rea had positively asserted that Esther Bluewood had not committed suicide. She didn’t have Watson’s expertise to prove her case. She hadn’t known the songwriter for long but she’d liked her and she’d seen her with her children and that was enough to convince her that this woman would not have taken her own life.
The last time ann rea had seen Esther Bluewood had been when they had watched the Brit Awards together on television, when Esther had smashed the screen with her tin of baked beans. That was only just over a week ago and ann rea said she’d seemed mentally and physically strong. She’d discussed plans for her next album and had claimed she had a dozen new songs. Esther had played ann rea some of them, trusting the journalist’s instinct as a sounding-board. ann rea said Esther had been very enthusiastic about the new direction of her songs. She had been writing for some time but all the new songs had sounded like material she’d done before, saying things she’d already said. The record company had loved them because they were in the same vein as the hugely successful Axis. But Esther had shelved them, not content to furrow the same ground again.
She told ann rea she’d had a troubled six months following this decision, when no songs would come. During this time she’d written more and more in her journals and had happened upon an idea for a novel. She was going to make a new record, because there was someone inside her bursting to get out. Then after the album, she was going to write the novel and try to find a publisher for it. She was very enthusiastic about this and drew a promise from ann rea that she would read it for her before it went to an agent or publisher. ann rea felt confident Esther would get her book out.
Just before Christmas, Esther was playing songs for the children on her guitar. Singing silly songs with simple singalong melodies for Jens and Holmer to join in with. Maybe it was because it was so close to Christmas but the first song she sang to them – which she later played on cassette to ann rea – had a joyous and infectious sound. Esther claimed it had just come from nowhere and had literally taken as long to write as it had taken her to sing. She tidied up the words afterwards but, basically, how it came out of her mouth was how it ended up. She was so pleased with it that she fetched her Sony Walkman and recorded it on the spot, with the kids in the background, singing along, and their mother getting more and more confident as the song progressed.
Then, according to ann rea, a very strange thing happened. In the space of the next thirty minutes or so, encouraged by her two young children, Esther Bluewood had written another five songs. And there she stopped. She didn’t try to push it to write a seventh. Two days later, the same thing happened and a further six songs flowed out of her. The ones ann rea had heard were short, snappy, uplifting songs, with something of the feel of the poppier Paul Simon, with hints of The Beatles and Cat Stevens’ “Tea For The Tillerman”. They were the kind of songs you were convinced you’d heard before, known all your life, in fact.
The singer was so enthusiastic about these new songs and this new direction that she couldn’t wait to get into the studio to record them. ann rea loved the songs and had Esther Bluewood play them over and over again. She was convinced Esther Bluewood was going to make a great album. ann rea’s point was that even forgetting this new bunch of songs, if you just took Esther at face value, it appeared she was dealing with whatever demons she had. Then, taking the tone for the new songs into the equation, there was absolutely no way the songwriter was of a mind to have considered taking her own life.
Kennedy loved the passion ann rea had displayed when she told him this. At the time, he also felt that Esther’s enthusiasm could have been a proud front for ann rea. However, Dr Watson’s corroborating conviction added weight to the argument, and Kennedy found himself wondering just how Esther might have been murdered. How would it be possible to make it appear as though someone had gassed themselves? And who’d want to go to such lengths? Was the method of murder a clue in itself?
Kennedy remonstrated with himself as he passed the Feng Shang restaurant. He was breaking his own golden rule by getting ahead of himself. He was trying to solve the puzzle before he had the pieces in place. A few minutes later he reached North Bridge House. He immediately buzzed Irvine, instructing him to get the troops together and meet in the basement conference room in thirty minutes.
*
Thirty minutes later, just as the eleven o’clock news bulletin was beginning on BBC Radio London Live, Kennedy’s team were milling around the conference room. Kennedy was uncharacteristically late as he’d wanted to hear London Live’s news update on the Esther Bluewood story. The Bluewood section of the news bulletin was short and sweet: the music business was coming to terms over losing one of its greatest writers, shocked fans gathering around songwriter’s house, police were still investigating the death but understood from the gas company that they were called out to turn off the gas, implying a suicide. In other words, a ‘no news’ news story.
‘Okay,’ Kennedy began, noticing that Superintendent Castle had crept into the room and had found a high-profile spot in the centre. ‘I’m not convinced that Esther Bluewood’s death was a suicide…’ His statement drew sharp intakes of breath and whispers from the team.
Those present were WDC Anne Coles, DS James Irvine, recently promoted DS Derek Allaway, WDC Jane West, DC Donald Lundy, Castle and Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy himself. Kennedy noticed Coles nod positively in apparent agreement with his assessment. At the other extreme Castle was giving it one of his ‘wait until I get you into my office!’ looks. Everyone else’s reaction was somewhere in-between.
‘So, are we treating this as a murder inquiry?’ Irvine asked, clearing the air.
Kennedy looked to Castle for a sign. Surprisingly, Kennedy’s look was returned with a shrug. The super was giving nothing away. Actually, Kennedy didn’t have the usual relationship with his Super. Castle wasn’t a horn-rimmed Harry. No, generally he was very supportive of his team. Perhaps that was why Camden CID was one of the most successful teams in London; Castle allowed his detectives to detect.
‘No,’ Kennedy began, awkwardly returning the smile. ‘At this stage we are still carrying out a general investigation into the death of Esther Bluewood. Let’s gather as much information as we can before we start looking at possible charges. People out there assume she committed suicide. Perhaps under the cloak of that particular darkness we might be able to pick up some valuable information. If her death was anything other than suicide, then we are obviously meant to think otherwise. So let’s use this red herring, if red herring it might be, to quietly compile as much information as possible. What I’d like to do is put together a picture of Esther’s last days alive, focusing particularly on Sunday, from her waking up to evening.’
‘There’s going to be plenty of leg work. We might need more people,’ Irvine suggested. ‘The longer we take, the colder the trail will grow.’
Practically everyone in the room attempted to steal a look at Castle, all very casual, but the nonchalance evaporated when everyone did it simultaneously. Castle merely nodded to Kennedy.
‘We’ve got the help we need, DS Irvine. I’ve made a list of people who can give us background and hopefully more.’ Kennedy revealed his mental list:
‘The nanny, Judy Dillon,
‘The neighbour, Edward Higgins,
‘The husband, Paul Yeats,
‘The fan, Josef Jones,
‘Friends from Islington, Jill and Jim,
‘The doctor, Hugh Watson – though I’ve already spoken with him twice.
‘We’ll also need to chat with Tor, Victoria Lucas, Yeats’ sister and Rosslyn St Clair, his new lover. Then you’ll need to interview the usual neighbours and local shopkeepers, as well as people at her record company, Camden Town Records. DS Irvine here will give you details and allocate duties. Let’s get through as much of this as we can toda
y. As Irvine said, the longer we sit here, the colder the trail becomes. We’ll regroup here at the end of the day and pool our information. Let’s go to it.’
Kennedy left his team mingling around Irvine, awaiting instructions. He was halfway to his office when Castle, hands deep in pockets, caught up with him.
‘Very sad, this matter, isn’t it?’ Castle began. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘So you don’t think she took her own life?’
‘No, I don’t actually,’ Kennedy replied, not elaborating, and crossing his fingers behind his back in the hope that Castle wouldn’t push.
‘Well, see where you go with it and keep me posted,’ Castle replied, head bowed, staring at the red-tiled corridor as they walked along. ‘I wanted to talk to you about another matter, Christy.’
Oh no, it had been too good to be true, Kennedy thought, sighing inwardly.
‘Do you have a minute?’ Castle persisted.
‘Yes, I was about to start on the Bluewood interviews but of course I’ve got time, sir.’ Kennedy was worried about Castle’s tone. Whatever was troubling his superior, he didn’t appear anxious to spit out the details.
‘It’s my boy,’ Castle began cautiously, ‘he’s…’
At that point he stopped talking having spotted someone approaching from the opposite direction.
‘Why don’t we just nip into my office, sir? We’ll have some privacy there,’ Kennedy offered hopefully.
‘Yes, yes. Good idea, Christy,’ Castle replied, enthusiastically.
Kennedy was intrigued and fearful of the worst. Had the superior’s son found himself in trouble? If so, how serious was it? Drugs? Armed robbery? Why was Castle coming to him about it? If it was a professional issue, his superior was putting him in a compromising position. Kennedy had a reputation for doing everything by the book and had no sympathy for the ‘soft-shoe’ brigade who policed his or her own.
He adamantly believed that members of any police service should not feel above or beyond the law. The general public certainly would be happier if internal investigations were independent and were carried on from outside the force. There were enough private firms around these days for the government to hire one to carry out any necessary investigation that may arise. But Kennedy worried who would take responsibility for financing it. The government? And then who’d police the government? The Met? And on and on it would go until, if we weren’t careful, we’d be back at square one.
Much as he hated the ‘soft-shoe’ boys and all they stood for, he hoped that Castle wasn’t about to put him in an embarrassing position by either asking him to get his son off something or other, or expecting Kennedy to sit in judgement on Castle himself, because of something his son had done.
Once back in his office, Kennedy automatically headed straight to the sanctuary of the tea-making area. Castle opted for the comfort of Kennedy’s leather chair. Contrary to his normal disciplined posture, Castle just flopped into the chair like a lifeless puppet.
Kennedy had always thought that, for a sixty-year-old man, his superior was in incredible shape. His thick and full head of hair might have turned grey and yes, he did have a whiskey flush around his nose and cheek, but he was still as sharp as a needle. Castle, uncharacteristically, unbuttoned his jacket and Kennedy noticed, for the first time, the beginning of a paunch attacking his belt.
Kennedy slipped his Super an extra half spoonful of sugar; he looked like he could use a bit of a lift. Castle held off as Kennedy prepared a couple of demon cups of tea, served up in white bone china cups and saucers.
‘Very civilised,’ Castle offered in appreciation. ‘I have to say you’re very civilised, Christy. Always have been.’
Oh Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph, Kennedy thought, civilised! He now thinks I’m civilised. That probably means he’s found out that his son is in trouble and he is going to ask me what he should do about it.
‘Oh, I like what I like, sir,’ Kennedy replied, choosing his words carefully.’
‘Ah, but it’s more than that. I’ve noticed you. I’ve observed things. You have impeccable manners. You like your rituals. You like your systems. You see, just now, you were enjoying the whole procedure, the ritual, of making your tea, maybe even as much as you enjoy drinking it. I feel—’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, sir,’ Kennedy cut in. He always disliked talking about himself. It made him feel extremely uncomfortable to be the centre of attention, even when there was just one other person in the room. This dislike of attention even extended to the way he dressed. He was always smartly turned out, as his mother would have said, and, yes, his ‘clothes awareness’ was a lot keener since he’d met ann rea, but even then he always liked to be dressed in as low-key a fashion as possible. Kennedy didn’t like to draw attention to himself when walking into a room. He’d also (conveniently) found that being this way generally ensured people ignored you, which helped greatly when you wished to observe others. Whether or not that was the reason for his reserve, or a result of it, he’d never really worked out. He didn’t choose to figure it out. His logic was that if he’d come this far in life without that particular knowledge, then he could pretty much continue to survive without it.
Kennedy took a generous gulp of his tea and continued, ‘There’s nothing good as a refreshing cup of tea.’ He was screaming with all the body language available: can we get on with this please?
Castle must have picked up on it, because he said, ‘You might be correct there, Christy. You might very well be correct. Look, I wanted to talk to you about Tommy. You met him a couple times, didn’t you?’
Kennedy nodded positively.
‘Well, it is my fault, I suppose, but really, Mrs Castle and me…well we’d been hoping he’d follow me into the police force. He just won’t hear of it, though. He wants to quit university immediately.’
‘Oh,’ was the only word Kennedy felt appropriate, but he spoke it as much out of relief as anything else.
‘Yes, he wants to throw away all his educational opportunities. And you know, Christy, you and I are the last of the old breed. We’re the last to have been able to work our way up through the ranks. These days you need a degree in the A to Z before they’ll let you be a bobby on the beat and even more if you’re going to be ambitious and seek promotion.’ Castle was slumped in his chair and in great danger of spilling his cuppa over his crisp white shirt. ‘He’s a good boy, is Tommy,’ he continued, the pride glowing through again. ‘He’s given Mrs Castle and myself little or no trouble so far. But on this one, he’s firm. He wants to quit university. Drop out.’
Castle pronounced the final two words with such utter contempt and distaste that Kennedy was sure this was his superior’s worst nightmare.
‘Tommy seems a sensible enough lad to me. Has he mentioned anything he’d like to do instead? Has he made any plans?’ Kennedy asked. He felt sorry for being so relieved the conversation had taken this turn. Up to a few minutes before, he’d ideas of drugs, police corruption, and a life of crime.
‘Oh yes, he has. That’s one thing about Tommy, he’s still very ambitious. He wants to get into some sort of show-business management.
‘Oh,’ Kennedy said.
‘Yes. He’s always had a passion, particularly for music and loves some of these new groups. Ahm, let me see now he was telling me about some of them over the weekend. Oasis, he reckons they’re the new Beatles, better than The Beatles, he claims. Could anyone be better than The Beatles, Christy?’ Castle asked in all innocence.
‘If there is anyone, sir, I certainly haven’t heard of them.’
‘Quite. Exactly. Let me see if I can remember some of the others Blurred, Pup, Verve and Stereophones, do they sound familiar? Anyway, Tommy’s point is that they’ve all burnt themselves out. He reckons it will soon be time for a new wave of bands and he wants to be in on the new wave.’
‘Right. Well, that seems like very sound logic to me, sir.’ Kennedy offered encouragingly.
‘But he doesn�
��t know how to start. He wants to try to get some experience first, working for a record company or something similar. He’s written off to a few companies but none of them have even bothered to reply.’
‘I see,’ Kennedy said, but he could see where the conversation was going.
‘So, Christy, I was wondering, this young lady of yours, you know, the one without any capitals, the journalist…’ Castle was on route through his mind trying to locate her name.
‘You mean, my friend, ann rea?’ Kennedy offered, casting Castle a lifeline.
‘Yes, that’s her. She knows all these people?’ Castle asked a slight hint of distaste creeping into his voice again on the ‘these people’.
‘Some of them sir, yes.’
‘Well, I was wondering, could you possibly ask her if she could check out whether there were any positions going in any of these companies and, you know…maybe put in a word for Tommy? He doesn’t mind starting at the bottom. He’ll work hard, Christy. I can guarantee that,’ Castle concluded, the proud father once more.
‘Yes. I mean, of course. I’m sure she’d be happy to ask around. You know, ah…yes,’ Kennedy said. It was all he could think of to say.
‘Good!’ Castle declared. It had been another of his famous ‘one cup’ meetings. The minute the super got to the end of his cup of tea the meeting would be over, whether the other party liked it or not. He jumped to his feet and buttoned up his uniform jacket. His few moments of vulnerability had vanished along with the dregs of his tea. Kennedy was left standing in the middle of his office, holding both his own cup and saucer and that of his boss, wondering exactly what had just happened.
Castle stopped at the door and turned. ‘You know,’ he began, as if remembering an order of his own, ‘you and miss ann rea must come over and have tea with Mrs Castle and myself. Sometime soon.’
At that, Castle turned on his well-polished heels and was gone in a heartbeat.
