The Hissing of the Silent Lonely Room (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 5)

by Paul Charles

  Irvine stared into the face of the fans, looking for something, anything. Then he spotted a fresh-faced, sharply-dressed, curly-haired young man. He recognised the face from the photograph in yesterday’s Evening Standard.

  Chapter 16

  JOSEF JONES was there, mixing with the fans for the second day in a row. He didn’t notice Irvine slip up to him and whisper in his ear, ‘We’d like to ask you a few more questions.’

  Neither Irvine nor Allaway were prepared for what happened next. Without warning, Jones turned on his heels and ran. He ran down Fitzroy Road, narrowly missing a green VW Beetle as he crossed Chalcot Road and turned right into Gloucester Road where, for some reason known only to himself, he slowed to a walk. By the time he reached the gate of 121 Gloucester Avenue, Irvine and a panting Allaway had caught up with him.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Irvine asked, barely breaking sweat.

  ‘God, it’s only you. You scared the living daylights out of me up there. I thought you were someone else. What on earth were you thinking about?’ Jones said looking somewhat relieved.

  ‘We’re doing our work. Do you owe money to someone or something?’ Irvine continued. It would take a few moments more for Allaway to compose himself sufficiently to speak.

  ‘What?’ Jones asked in an obviously guilty manner.

  ‘Who’s after you?’

  ‘Two members of the Camden Town CID as far as I can see.’ Jones replied, his attempt at humour falling short.

  Irvine decided to give up on that line of chat. ‘Anyway we’d like to ask you a few questions. Let’s go to The Engineer and we can have a coffee as well.’

  ‘Or something stronger,’ Jones added as they headed off down Gloucester Avenue.

  The Engineer pub was empty except for an Australian couple; easy to spot, you didn’t have to strain to hear their accents. Irvine and Jones sat in the front corner of the pub and Allaway went off to order two cappuccinos and a double espresso for himself. He needed something to kick-start his engine.

  ‘So, Josef,’ Irvine began, studying his man carefully, ‘you and Miss Bluewood were quite close, then?’

  ‘Well, she was quite friendly with me,’ Jones admitted.

  ‘I’d say taking you to bed with her was a lot more than “quite friendly”!’

  Jones’ eyeballs nearly burst from their sockets. ‘God, keep your voice down in case one of this bunch hears you,’ he urged, nodding in the direction of the staff. ‘Otherwise it’ll be around Primrose Hill faster than Eddie Irvine’s Jaguar.’

  DS Irvine knew now that Jones was rattled. He wondered why the fan had bolted outside Bluewood’s house. It was obvious that he was scared of someone, but who? He wouldn’t have known about the journals, and worrying about Yeats would come later. If indeed he’d ever worry about Yeats. Yeats was playing away from home as well, so the husband would have little justification in seeking revenge on the one his wife was sleeping with, unless, of course, it was a matter of public relations?

  ‘When did you see her last?’ Irvine asked as the drinks arrived.

  Jones waited until the waitress with the ‘I’m also an actress’ air moved out of earshot before answering.

  ‘Do you mean “When did I last see her?” or “When was the last time I saw her?”’

  ‘Look we know all about the relationship so we don’t need your boasting, just some facts please,’ Irvine said, his voice quiet but firm.

  Jones seemed a little disappointed. ‘I was meant to see her on Sunday evening. But she never showed.’

  ‘Showed where?’ Allaway enquired, having found his breath again.

  ‘At my place.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Irvine asked in disbelief.

  ‘That was the thing,’ Jones continued in conspiratorial tones. ‘When she wanted sex, and I know that’s all it was, she’d suggest meeting at my place. If she just wanted a coffee and a chat we’d meet at her place. We never had sex at her place. Never! She was very strict about that.’

  ‘Did she always show up when she said she would?’ Allaway asked.

  ‘Always.’ Jones replied quietly.

  ‘Were you worried when she didn’t show?’ Allaway asked. Irvine thought the recently-promoted constable had discarded more than his uniform with his elevation. His new skin – a dark blue four-button suit and a black button-neck pullover – was giving him an unmistakable air of confidence.

  ‘Well, no, not really, really worried. You see I knew she wanted me for the one thing only. I knew she thought I was harmless. Esther was a beautiful, passionate woman with needs and quite frankly she wasn’t scared to go chasing those needs. I also realised if Yeatsie came back to her, I’d be dropped like a hot potato. Hey,’ Jones said, ‘I certainly wasn’t complaining.’

  ‘Did you try to contact her?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘No, it was also part of our agreement that she’d always contact me. I wasn’t going to break our agreement, was I? I’d too much to lose.’

  Allaway again, ‘So what do you think happened?’

  ‘I kinda thought she might possibly have been writing. I’d been with her a few times when she’d started to write and when she did she blotted everyone and everything else out. She just went somewhere else.’

  ‘Where, her study?’ Allaway interrupted, in search of his facts.

  ‘No!’ Jones replied, annoyed and just about keeping the word ‘fool’ from his short reply. ‘No. I meant she went somewhere mentally when she was writing. It was like she was in a trance. She’d keep her tape recorder running and the songs, the music, would just flow out of her. She told me afterwards, after I’d seen this happen once, that she felt she was just the channel through which these songs flowed. She told me it happened two or three times a year. She didn’t know when it might happen but she felt all her attempts at playing bits and pieces and messing around in the meantime, all of this helped for when the songs came flowing through. When the time was close she became aware that it was close and when the songs started to come they would flow through her for sometimes up to a month, and then nothing…’

  ‘So you thought she’d gotten lost in her writing and that was why she didn’t make your rendezvous?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ Jones replied, taking a sip of his cappuccino. Irvine joined in, the very hot drink was frothy, with just the correct amount of chocolate on top…a perfect cappuccino.

  ‘When was the last time you did actually see her, then?’ Allaway asked.

  ‘That would have been one day last week. Let’s see… It would have been Wednesday. Yes, she told me to come round about seven thirty, saying the kids would have been in bed by then. She usually fancied a chat at that time of the day. She loved her children but she said she also loved the peace that fell when they went to sleep. She spent a lot of time on the phone in the evening, talking to her friends. She complained that on some days, such as Wednesday, she couldn’t get them on the phone until after eight o’clock because every one of them watched Coronation Street on TV. That was one of the reasons she liked me, so she claimed. I had no interest in Coronation Street. Can’t stand the programme. Never watched it in my life.’

  ‘Did she seem okay on Wednesday?’ Irvine asked, wondering how Jones couldn’t stand the programme if he’d never watched it in his life.

  ‘Oh, God, you’re not going to, how shall I put this, you’re not going to ask me to assess her mental state?’ Jones asked quietly.

  ‘No, no nothing like that, but generally did she seem, happy, sad, up, down? Just her general mood. Did anything seem to be bugging her?’ Irvine searched for the key that would start Jones rolling again.

  ‘What exactly is all this about? Surely she committed suicide?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Well, we don’t know for certain,’ Irvine began.

  ‘But Judy said she was found with her head in the oven,’ Jones said in a matter-of-fact tone. Irvine felt that if he’d been seeing someone, even if it was just a physical relationship, he’d surel
y be more cut up about it than Jones was. But Mr Jones seemed to have all his emotions in check. He was either a very well-balanced individual, Irvine thought, with a chip on both shoulders, or else a man too busy dealing with his own demons to bother much about others.

  ‘You know Judy Dillon, then?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘All fans know each other. It’s a little network. We all keep in touch,’ Jones said. He finished his drink and glared over his empty cup towards the bar, hinting he’d like another one. Irvine noted this but chose to ignore the hint and pushed on.

  ‘But Judy’s the nanny, not a fan.’

  ‘No. No, she was a fan who became the nanny. Lucky cow,’ Jones replied, his cup still in his hand.

  ‘And when did you last speak to her?’ Irvine asked sensing a wee breakthrough.

  ‘Yesterday evening, a pile of us got together down in The Lansdowne. Nice place, but the cappuccino’s not as good as it is here.’

  Allaway offered another cup, but as Jones was about to accept, Irvine said, ‘No. No need, Derek, we’re nearly through here and we don’t want to detain Mr Jones any longer than we have to.’ And before Mr Jones had a chance to speak up on his own behalf, Irvine had continued, ‘Tell me Josef, exactly what did Judy tell you about the scene of Esther’s death?’

  ‘Well,’ Jones began, ‘she said when she went into the house it smelled of gas. She closed the door and ran downstairs to the ground-floor flat. As she couldn’t get a response from Higgins, she rang for the police. The police rang the gasmen. They all arrived at once. She let them into the flat and when they went into the kitchen they found Esther lying with her head in the oven, her chin resting on a lemon towel. Just said she collapsed in a heap with shock when she saw Esther.’

  ‘That’s exactly how she described it, Josef?’ Irvine pushed.

  ‘Yes, words to that effect. Yes. But what does it matter? Surely the point is that Esther committed suicide. Why all the fuss?’ Jones persisted with his earlier line.

  ‘No matter how it might appear, Josef, we still have to investigate her death to ascertain exactly what happened. Appearances can be deceptive, you know. Tell me, what did you do with yourself on Sunday evening?’ Irvine asked in his politest tones.

  Jones smiled an enigmatic smile.

  ‘Look,’ he began slowly, ‘how should I put this? By the way, has anyone ever told you that you sound just like Sean Connery?’

  ‘It has been mentioned, Josef, yes. Just once or twice. Now back to my question. What were you doing on Sunday evening?’

  ‘But I’ve just told you,’ Jones moaned. ‘I was at my place, waiting for Esther to show up.’

  ‘And you waited in all night for her?’ Allaway asked.

  ‘Well, when I realised it was a no-show I decided I didn’t want to sit around my flat all night so I called the Jazz Café and went in for a shift.’

  Irvine considered Jones carefully and let it be known he was considering him. He didn’t say a word. Allaway must have sensed something was going on because he too kept shtoom. The only noise was the clink, clink as staff washed glasses.

  Josef Jones was not fazed even a little. He sat at the table, hands clasped in front of him, returning Irvine’s stare.

  After about two minutes, Irvine announced, ‘Oh well, that’s all for now. We may need to talk to you again. But if we—’

  Before Irvine had time to finish his sentence Jones was up and out of the bar, leaving the door swinging behind him.

  ‘Ah, no, Josef, it’s okay, we’ll pay for the drinks,’ Irvine announced, deadpan, to the door. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Chapter 17

  Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting

  Saturday 14th January

  I’VE JUST put down my guitar. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Today I’ve been trying to make it work. I’ve put on someone else’s music, my favourite song in fact: Emile Ford singing ‘What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For’. Should there be a question mark there? It is a question. What do you want to make those eyes at me for? Are you trying to hurt me? Are you trying to turn me on? Or, are you just being downright silly? Emile sang it so sweetly. My mum used to play this record all the time. That’s where I first heard it. It’s such a simple song, but it gets me close to sobbing every time. I don’t know why, but it does. So there.

  I’ve just checked the label and there is no question mark, just ‘What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For’ by Emile Ford and the Checkmates, Pye Records. I recognise the label because it’s the same one all the classic Kinks hits were on. I just love Emile’s song though; it is so moving. I’ve just put it on again. Why does it connect so with me? I liked it before I met Yeatsie. Although when I met him first, I have to admit those words were the first words which sprang into my mind. His eyes! No wonder his Ray-Bans are never far away. He has such power with his eyes. It was like he could summon up and concentrate all his energy through his stare.

  Even in the early days he was always kidding around about hypnotizing me and I’d let him try. I’d kind of go a bit woozy and pretend to be dropping under. But then when I was having Holmer he did something to me with those eyes. I was in such pain. You try having this nine-month growth removed from your body through that orifice! God, I get the shivers now even thinking about it. I know mothers-very-soon-to-be are meant to be the salt of the earth, Earth Mothers or whatever, and pop out the old man’s heirs at the drop of a hat, but I was dreading it. The pain was excruciating, getting worse and worse, when Yeatsie grabbed my hand very tightly. At first I thought it was to distract me from the pain, but he moved his face until it was about eight inches away from mine, we were literally eye-to-eye, and I was yelping with the pain, and he caught my stare and held it. He started whispering to me. I found that I’d stopped crying just so that I could hear what he was saying. His voice was as smooth as the Fifth Dimension’s harmonies. He was telling me we were together and we were lying on the beach at Martha’s Vineyard. The sky was a sweet, pure blue, apart, that is, from the occasional fluffy cloud that gently floated by. The breeze was gentle, but enough to take the sting out of the sun’s rays. The water was lapping gently at our feet. We were lying in each other’s arms looking up at the bluest of skies, just the two of us, perhaps the last two people in the world. He said we were together and we’d be together for always, and very soon a miracle would take place and this miracle would change our lives. The miracle, he said, would complete the healing process and everything would be perfect.

  Yeatsie kept on painting his picture, our picture. I wanted to hear his voice forever. I wanted to lie in his arms on that beach forever. He’d taken away my pain. I remember waking from my dream and being disappointed, then I heard the nurse slap Holmer’s bottom and the little cry from him. At the time I didn’t think I’d been hypnotized but the doctor said that Yeatsie had put me under. The doctor said he was relieved that he’d done so as I was making such a racket.

  So that’s when I started to believe that maybe he could hypnotize me. Perhaps he was a very clever hypnotist who said to me as I was about to go under, ‘When you come to, you will think I have only pretended to hypnotize you.’ Okay, okay, I know what you’re thinking, but just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean that there aren’t people out there trying to get me!

  It was so beautiful at the beginning with Yeatsie, I suppose I realised it wouldn’t last forever. I think a man and a woman together are like a river’s bed and banks. The marriage is the water that flows through them. No matter how sound the banks of the river are, if the river flows too quickly it will surely burst them. Some little twist or turn will appear from nowhere and the river will fight to hold its course, but in the end the water will go with the path of least resistance. Sadly, once a river bursts it banks you can never get it back in there again. No matter how much you want it, or how hard you try, it just won’t work. That’s when the powerful river transforms into feeble water. I’ve often tried to work that into a song, but I’ve
never quite managed it.

  Songs like that, that never quite get written, are the great songs, the ones that got away. Yeatsie’s more mercenary about it. He claims all the songs are fodder to fill what is the true work of art: the CD pack. I don’t think he was always like that. I wonder, does he think like that about marriage, about our marriage? That it’s only to fill up a few years of his life. He keeps saying that we were meant to be together. That’s fine for him. I’m stuck here in a tiny apartment raising the kids, while he’s away, doing Ross in my cottage. So listen, Paul Yeats, your words are not a comfort to me any more. I don’t believe you. This sham may be a career move to you, but it’s become purgatory for me. I need to end it. I have all the papers from my lawyer, Leslie Russell. He says all I need to do is sign them and serve them and the marriage is as good as over.

  That seems much too simple a way to end the meeting of two minds, doesn’t it? The new Romeo and Juliet, the Melody Maker called us. Eff them, what would they know, don’t they realise that Romeo was a little shit who wore tights and poised his lover before taking the strange brew himself? Do you believe that? I don’t. She probably told him to get real, forget getting in touch with his feminine side and be a man for a change. He couldn’t take the criticism, or the rejection, so he did both of them in. Yeatsie as Romeo, I can’t see it. He has the voice for sure, but he was more interested in us talking about him than he ever was in love. Mind you, two out of four is not a bad batting average. Hey now, there’s a juicy piece of gossip for the fans to exchange. I wonder what that one would be worth? But he’d never forgive me for it. Even Josef thinks Yeatsie is a super-stud.

  Yeatsie has other things going on for him, I’m sure – and when I find out what they are, I’ll tell you. Ha! So, I suppose I should just end this sham, I feel strong enough now to sign those papers and end it. I should do it. I couldn’t bear him coming to me when I’m on medication, looking to end it because he wants to wed Rosslyn. He wouldn’t do that to the children, would he? He seems aware of his responsibilities on the one hand, but on the other he is quite prepared to leave them here with me, despite the fact I’m struggling on all fronts. They’re his kids (for definite), so come on, Yeatsie, it would be brilliant if you rolled up here some Friday evening and told me you wanted Jens and Holmer for the weekend.