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

by Paul Charles

  Wouldn’t that be a dream? But on second thought, I don’t want Jens growing fond of Rosslyn. That would be just too confusing for everyone…including me.

  As I hear Emile Ford and the Checkmates sing ‘I’d Love To Get You On A Slow Boat To China’, I wonder when my true love will come. I did think at one point it was Yeatsie. He hates me calling him that, he thinks it’s disrespectful to the master (his claim not mine). I’d have though it was more disrespectful for a bleedin’ failed pop star to be nicking the name. Anyway this is all old ground. I’ve ploughed it so many times before. Enough: I have to end it. the furrows are prepared: they’ve been ready for ages. It’s time for the new seed. We all need a new crop, me more than most. I need to be happy. This time I’m prepared to compromise and not expect to be swept off my feet. I’ll settle for a dependable man who’ll be my friend, look after Esh and Jens and Holmer – a man who’ll care for us. Caring for us would be enough. Well, at least it would be a start, not to mention a change to the current situation. I’ll call Russell in the morning and let him know I’m going to sign and return the papers.

  There… I feel such a relief having made that decision. It shows the absolute power of words on a page, I feel completely rejuvenated. It’s like a resurrection, not as powerful as the first time around, but hopefully it’ll work just as well the second.

  *

  Paul Yeats had checked into a hotel and been considerate enough to leave his details with the ever-reliable and efficient desk sergeant, Timothy Flynn. He was holed up at the Britannia Hotel on nearby Primrose Hill Road. A suite, no less. As Kennedy approached the accommodation, his path crossed with that of a photographer and a hack, heading in the opposite direction.

  ‘They found you quickly enough,’ Kennedy offered as his opening greeting.

  ‘No, no, you’ve got the wrong impression. They’re okay, they’re the good guys. I agreed to do one interview to clear up the details so that the rest of the pack will leave me alone. The record company are paying for the suite, and they wanted their pound of flesh in return,’ replied Yeats, as he lounged on the sofa. The room was trying to be an up-market Holiday Inn. Everything was convenient, functional, but perhaps suffering, Kennedy thought, from ‘bulk-buying syndrome’.

  The suite enjoyed a spectacular view of hundreds of rooftops but, in true Elvis fashion, Yeats had chosen to close all the drapes and turn on some table lamps. The TV was humming in the corner and Kennedy could hear a second one blaring away in the bedroom.

  ‘Does it not upset you to be talking to the press now?’ Kennedy asked, feeling that maybe it should.

  ‘Listen, inspector, the secret of success in the music business is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it made. In other words, I perform. I tell them something they want to hear, the situation’s defused, and they leave me alone,’ said Yeats without batting an eyelid. He then added, as an afterthought, ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘I just thought most artists hated the press,’ Kennedy continued.

  ‘I can’t abide all of that nonsense,’ Paul Yeats said. As he lifted the phone to order some room service, Kennedy noted that he was either dressed in yesterday’s clothes or else he had bought an identical set to change into. Yeats put his hand over the mouthpiece, ‘I’m having some coffee and sandwiches sent up, would you like some?’

  ‘Brilliant. Tea and a couple of hot egg sandwiches would be perfect,’ Kennedy replied, not knowing why he was whispering.

  Yeats concluded his business with room service and replaced the receiver. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Kennedy, ‘as I was saying, I can’t abide all that star crap. Those who complain about the press were happy enough to use them on the way up. Dead grateful for the attention, if they’re prepared to be perfectly honest. For Christ’s sake, the press is the most important tool to get news of your music out to the fans. How else are they going to pick up on you, for heaven’s sake, telepathy?’

  ‘Radio, TV, concerts?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Sorry, no move with this throw,’ Yeats announced loudly in TV quizmaster fashion. ‘In fact, go to jail and you’ll have to throw another six before you can move back into the game. If the press isn’t writing about you, the radio is most definitely not interested in what you have to say. Well, all radio except maybe some specialist show on at three o’clock in the morning in Grimsby, listened to by the odd insomniac and fishermen keen for the weather. If the press isn’t writing about you and the radio isn’t playing your music, then you can bet your bottom dollar there won’t be too many offers for TV work. And, if you’re not in the papers, not on the radio and never on the TV, you can guess how big the audience is going to be at your next concert.’

  Kennedy was about to try the line, ‘But what about building up a live following through word of mouth?’ In his mind, this was a valid approach and ann rea had told him how effective it could be. Paul Yeats, however, seemed to think he had a fix on all aspects of the music business and given an opportunity to step up to that particular microphone Kennedy was sure he’d be there all night without answering any questions regarding Esther Bluewood’s death. Time to move on to a more personal level, Kennedy thought. And he did.

  ‘I have to say you don’t look too upset to me, you know, for someone who has just lost his wife,’ the detective began. Then, deciding it was perhaps a wee bit insensitive, he took the sting out of the tail with, ‘I’d have to say you’re coping well.’

  ‘That’s exactly it, inspector,’ Yeats said, leaning back in his seat. The basketwork support to the lush cushions creaked under the strain of the movement. ‘That’s exactly it, I don’t look upset. I’m trying to deal with it in my own way. I’m trying to get beyond this. I didn’t kill myself. I’m not going to let this hurt me. Why should I suffer because of what my wife did? Her final grandstand, attention-seeking act has only served to deprive her children of their mother. Don’t get me wrong, they’ll be fine. My mother absolutely adores them, as does Tor.’

  ‘Who are they with now?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘My mother came into town yesterday and took them to her place. She lives near our cottage in the Cotswolds; she’s in Burford, we’re in Fulbrook. They’ll be in the country. It’s a small village but there are other kids to play with and we have a few cats and a dog and some ducks, and they always get a hoot out of the ducks. Esther’s mum absolutely dotes on them as well, and I’m perfectly fine for them to go visit her as often as she wants them. As long as they get their education in England, they can go to Boston during the holidays. I spoke to her, Mrs Bluewood, on the phone yesterday evening. She’d not as upset as I thought she’d be. She’s a very strong woman. She’s had to be. Her husband died when the family was very young. Esther had a very troubled childhood. She tried to kill herself before, you know. She’d cut herself a lot when she was a teenager, but nothing life-threatening, and then, about three years before I met her, she took an overdose of pills and hid in the basement of her house waiting to die. Fortunately, her brother found her on that occasion.’

  Yeats paused for a time. Kennedy felt more was to follow, so offered no interruption.

  ‘You know,’ Yeats continued, ‘I keep thinking about what would have happened if she’d been found by Holmer. Or worse still, what if the silly cow had gassed the lot of them in her search for immortality. That’s the problem with all these Sylvia Plath/Virginia Woolf types, they glamorise suicide. They make it seem like an elegant literary event, where their grandiose performance supplies the final answer. For heaven’s sake, the only thing it supplies is food for the bleedin’ worms six feet under. There is no glory in any of this. You don’t even get to read your final reviews, those glowing obits. You don’t get to see the TV specials or hear the radio tributes. You don’t get the royalty cheques all this new attention generates. All you do is put an end to your own life and cause untold misery to those you leave behind.’

  Kennedy was going to ask, ‘But what about her pain?’ but decided against it. It would probably ha
ve brought on another tirade, perhaps at a later time.

  ‘You are talking as if your wife committed suicide, sir,’ Kennedy started, about to offer another side of the coin, ‘when, in point of fact, Dr Hugh Watson claims that she wouldn’t have.’

  ‘What? Is he now convinced that divine intervention caused Esther to stick her head into an oven and keep it there until she was dead? Where’s that man’s head?’ Yeats said, sitting up rigid in the seat. Just then the door chimes announced the arrival of their snack.

  Kennedy had prepared himself for the worst with regard to the tea and sandwiches. But to his pleasant surprise, the tea was superb and the egg sandwiches were not only hot, but freshly made. The brown bread was soft and the eggs were half scrambled, half fried; exactly the way Kennedy loved them. He rarely asked for hot egg sandwiches in cafés or breakfast rooms, preferring to enjoy them in the privacy of his own home. It was his father who had first shown him how to make the perfect hot egg sandwich and it was one of the mysteries of the world he was happy to have mastered. Like he was sure that it would have been great to know all about the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, you know, really great, but it wasn’t the same kind of pleasure you got with washing down the perfect hot egg sandwich with the perfect cup of tea. His father’s method began with melting a generous amount of butter in the bottom of a saucepan. When it sizzled, he’d break in two eggs per person and once they’d started to fry he’d scramble them. You could add a few scallions or herbs to taste, but basically that was it. Kennedy preferred it to a hanging garden any day of the week.

  In comparison, Yeats’ cheese and ham looked positively boring, but Kennedy was careful not to show too much enthusiasm about his stash for fear of having to share it. The drinks and sandwiches had arrived at the perfect time for Yeats, Kennedy thought. Assuming he needed to, he was able to use the interruption to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Watson is definitely sure Esther didn’t commit suicide?’ Yeats enquired, mid-munch.

  ‘Yes, I mean as far as he can be sure,’ Kennedy replied.

  ‘So, that means you guys are convinced it was murder?’ Yeats said, finishing his first cup of coffee and refilling his cup.

  ‘Well, we have to keep an open mind until we’ve concluded our investigation. I’d like to ask you about the last time you saw Esther.’

  ‘That would have been on Saturday. On Saturday at lunchtime. I dropped in on them all over in Islington.’

  ‘How did you get on?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Well, okay, you know, we were in company, Jill and Jim’s, so we were civil. I mean, in all of our dealings, particularly in front of the children, we’ve always tried to be civil to each other. In front of the kids, we were very well behaved. We’d actually gotten to the point in the relationship where it was over, emotionally and physically, but there were other things that tied us together. In a way, we were both trying to tread the path of least possible resistance with each other.’

  Was that what it always came down to in a relationship, Kennedy wondered, the path of least possible resistance? Paul Yeats and Esther Bluewood had once shared such strong feelings for each other that they’d gone through a marriage ceremony in front of their friends. On two occasions they had loved each other enough to want to create a child together. How could the relationship have possibly ended the way it did? They were both – apparently – intelligent adults. Where had it all gone wrong? More importantly, when had it all gone wrong? Could either of them, when pushed, have been able to pinpoint the exact time they realised that their partner was no longer the one they loved or the one they wanted to spend the rest of their life with?

  It was obvious from the journals that Esther was going to instigate divorce proceedings. Had Yeats hurt her one time too many? Had she perhaps finally decided that he wasn’t her perfect partner? What could she have done to avoid making such a terrible mistake? Should she have spent more time getting to know him? Or was it predestined that their time together was not forever? If Esther hadn’t met Paul Yeats, would she have met her genuine soulmate and avoided her untimely death? Or maybe without Yeats’ support in the relationship, would she have tried, perhaps successfully, to end her life earlier?

  Kennedy knew he could not afford to forget the fact that Esther Bluewood had once before tried to end her own life. Dr Watson may have been convinced that at the time she died she was not in a suicidal state, but neither he nor Kennedy – not even ann rea with her heartfelt conviction – could be absolutely certain that Esther had not taken her own life. Quite possibly Watson, Kennedy and ann rea, for their own reasons, didn’t want to believe that Esther had not taken her own life. Why was that? Might it have made their own journeys through life more precarious?

  Paul Yeats, for all his faults, had come into Esther’s life and had loved her at a point where, more than anything else, she needed to be loved and feel wanted. Yeats had certainly fulfilled that role, so did that mean that because of Yeats’ involvement, Esther Bluewood’s life had been prolonged? Or was it simply a case of when the Grim Reaper comes calling, appeals are useless?

  ‘Tell me, sir, ‘Kennedy began, ‘when you saw Esther on Saturday in Islington, did she leave at the same time as you did?’

  ‘No, no. I was just visiting. I left about five o’clock. That was the last time I saw her alive,’ Yeats replied. ‘I find it weird, you know, thinking about the possibility that Esther may not have committed suicide. That creates a whole different field of possibilities. Like who, for instance, could have wanted to murder her? Do you have any suspects yet?’

  ‘At this stage we are merely collecting information, sir, and trying to make sure we keep an open mind over the whole affair. I am sure once we are in possession of all the relevant facts we will be better equipped to consider any suspects and methods that may arise. What did you do for the rest of Saturday, sir?’ Kennedy enquired, looking to collect an important piece of information.

  ‘I caught a train to the cottage, Axis, immediately after I left them. I rang Rosslyn from the station in Charlbury and she collected me. We had a quiet night in,’ said Yeats, in a matter-of-fact manner.

  ‘And Sunday, sir?’ Kennedy pushed.

  ‘Lay in bed. Read the papers,’ Yeats said, leaning forward in his seat. ‘I’m aware that this could turn out to be my alibi, inspector, so I’m trying to remember the sequence of events in detail. I went down to the pub, the Mason’s Arms, had two or three pints while Rosslyn made lunch, returned around two o’clock for lunch and a couple of glasses of wine. Then I had a snooze in front of the telly. It’s all a bit hazy – EastEnders or something was on. I’m afraid I’d a bit too much to drink if the truth be told. Then I went out for a long walk around five to clear away the cobwebs.’

  ‘Did your girlfriend go with you?’

  ‘No, ah, you see, the point of the matter is we had a bit of a row. She was annoyed I’d been to see Esther the previous day. She wouldn’t believe that I’d only gone there to see the kids. She said if I wanted to see Jens and Holmer I should bring them up to the cottage for the weekend. So you know…’ Yeats rolled his head from side to side and clicked his teeth in a ‘you know what women are like’ way, before continuing. ‘I couldn’t be having all of that. I’d been down to London to see the kids and Esther gives me a hard time for not spending enough time with them; then I come home and Rosslyn gives me a hard time about spending too much time with them and not enough with her. It got to me and I just had to get out of there. So I tore off in a rage, you know.’ Again Yeats hammed it up.

  ‘And you were out for the rest of the evening?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Yeats replied.

  ‘Did you see or speak to anybody?’

  ‘God, this really is turning out to be my alibi. I saw a few people. No one I specifically remember…as I say, it’s all a bit hazy. Probably down the pub for the major part of it I suppose. God, it’s sad, isn’t it? I mean, if there were more happy marriages the pubs would probably go out of business.’
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  Kennedy felt that nothing would be gained by taking this line any further for the time being. It was time to change direction of the questioning.

  ‘Was there ever a chance that you and Esther would have gotten together again?’ he asked.

  Yeats looked slightly relieved at this new line of enquiry.

  ‘I have to be honest here and tell you that I had hoped so, but the more time that passed the more I doubted it. I’m sorry to have to admit that. I always thought we’d be together forever. I kept saying that. Even when our relationship was cracking at the seams I kept telling Esther not to worry, that it would all work out, that we’d grow old together. And for the sake of the children I wanted that to be so. But the truth of the matter is that we had both changed from how we were when we met. That happens.’ Yeats stopped talking and stared at the detective for a few seconds. He seemed to be considering his next words carefully.

  ‘Look, inspector,’ he began, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘the truth about Esther Bluewood was that she was hard work, really hard work. She was selfish. She required too much attention. She gave absolutely none back. Take, for example, a star like Elton John. By reputation he is meant to be demanding, and moody, and temperamental, and everything else. Did you see that TV documentary on him? I thought he was very courageous to allow that to go out. But at least with a star like Elton what you see is what you get. You can deal with it. You always know where you stand. But the Esther Bluewoods of the world, well they’re a different kettle of fish altogether. The impression they give is one of “I just love my fans. I haven’t changed. I don’t want to be treated any differently to anyone else.” But at the same time Esther would be screaming about her limo. You know…’ and here Yeats effected a high-pitched whine, ‘“Oh, by the way, I know I told you I didn’t want a limo to meet me, but the next time you’re going to send a car to pick me up at the studio, at least you could try to make it one from this decade. And could it possibly also have air conditioning and a scratch-free bumper? And I know I said I didn’t want a chauffeur with a peaked hat and all, but could you possibly get me a driver with a suit and a shirt and tie? And could you please tell him I prefer not to talk?”.’