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

by Paul Charles

  Yeats really threw his all into the car and driver sketch. Kennedy imagined it was one of his regular routines.

  ‘And that was Esther. Yes, she was a woman of the people but she still liked to be pampered like a star and boy did she throw a wobble or three when things didn’t go the way she wanted them to. She’d be nice as pie and then quietly go off on one with one of her menials and she’d read them the riot act about what was wrong. Then she’d come back into the room as if nothing had happened and as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Meanwhile the poor “yes man” would be scurrying around trying desperately to right the wrong. And if his actions crept into the group consciousness she’d put him down with an “of course that’s all fine, please leave things just as they are. I don’t care for any of that star attention stuff”. Yes, very demanding I can tell you. And the reason I know all this is because I was the “yes man” if no one else happened to be around. Agh! She could be so dammed infuriating when she wanted to be. But in spite of myself I wanted to help her. I wanted to try to make her life easier. I wanted to try to ensure that she didn’t make the same mistakes I did at the beginning of my career. And mine were expensive mistakes. And, bit-by-bit, I was helping her get it together, putting everything in order. I was trying to set it up so that eventually Tor could run the business stuff for both of us, a little cottage industry. She could have saved so much money. All the copyrights would have been under one roof and under our control.’

  ‘Was Esther happy for Tor to do that?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Well, we were still talking about it to be truthful. And it was hard, especially for me. I’m a brother and I’m a husband; really I was just a middle man,’ Yeats replied. Kennedy noted which of the two roles he mentioned first.

  ‘And so, inevitably, all the goofier stuff began to creep into our personal life,’ Yeats continued. ‘I wouldn’t treat a servant, let alone a spouse, the way Esther treated me. Yes, as an artist I was from an older generation. There wasn’t really too much difference in our ages but five years in this business is like two generations in any other. The thing is I really do like to look after myself. All this help doesn’t come cheap you know and they’re all on their own little power trips. You know, they don’t feel they’re really important enough until they have to have an assistant or two of their own. And who pays for it? Muggins. And all it does is put two or three interpretations of what you want done between yourself and the person who actually does it. It’s so much easier to do it yourself, and of course it’s a lot less expensive. I don’t sell out Wembley but I can bet you, with my one-man operation, I come home from my gigs with a lot more money in my pocket than some of the boys who play Wembley take home in theirs. I pay an agent to get my gigs, that’s it. He’s on ten per cent. That’s my most important relationship. He gets me my work and I’m civil to him and thankful for the work he puts my way. I pay a solicitor by the hour to do the rest. And that’s it.’

  Had Yeats, through this tangent, been trying to steer Kennedy off the track? If so, what track was Yeats trying to divert him from?

  ‘Did you know that Esther was about to instigate divorce proceedings against you?’ Kennedy dropped what he hoped would be a bombshell.

  ‘Oh, that’s been floating around for… You’ve been reading the journals. I warned you, I’ve been co-operating with you and here you are breaking our trust, not to mention my legal instructions. Sir, I have to tell you that this interview is terminated!’ Yeats shrieked at the top of his voice.

  With that the singer jumped up and pushed his chair back with such force that he knocked it hard against the table. Kennedy just about managed to save the empty sandwich plates from crashing to the floor. Yeats stormed out of the room, slamming the door violently behind him.

  ‘Well,’ Kennedy said to himself, ‘you certainly blew that one, old son. I guess that means a signed CD is out of the question.’

  Kennedy heard a few gentle taps on the door a couple of seconds later. Shit, he thought, it must be the hotel management come to see what the disturbance was all about. Kennedy rose from his chair, crossed the room and opened the door, whilst simultaneously searching inside his jacket for his warrant card. As he opened the door he was more than a little surprised to see Yeats standing there. He’d composed himself in a classical theatrical pose; one foot raised on the toe and stretching across the other leg, one hand on hip, and the other outstretched, resting on the door post. He looked like he was one degree this side of breathing. Paul Yeats stood there frozen in his pose as though Kennedy was a photographer and he was impatient to be captured before the inner thoughts and the outward expressions were lost forever. The outward expression was ‘I’m seriously pissed off’. The inner thought, Kennedy guessed, was somewhat more humiliating.

  Kennedy barely managed to keep a straight face as he said, ‘You’ll be looking to come into your room, then. I’ll leave you to it, sir.’

  With that, Kennedy left the star furiously spluttering. As he entered the lift, he heard another ferocious crash come from inside the hotel room. As the thunderous sound echoed around the corridor, Kennedy said aloud to the row of almost identical bedroom doors, ‘Now that would have been a classic scene from the Elton John documentary.’

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday Morning

  Tuesday 18th March

  WHAT WOULD I do without you, darling Jim and dear Jill? You’ve just been around to collect the children. You give me some space, and enable me to sit in this tiny room and write. I’d like them to be funny, these jottings in my journal. Should they ever be published? How pompous is that? ‘Should they be published?’ I’d hate to think they would ever be published. If anything ever happens to me, these writings are to go directly to Leslie Russell, and Leslie, you are to destroy them. There is too much hurt and pain and spite in these pages. I’d love them to be witty and sharp and colourful like Alan Bennett’s ‘Writing Home’. But they’re not. So there. I want them to go to Leslie because I can trust that Leslie will destroy them as per my wishes. I don’t trust anyone else as much.

  Welcome to the nineties. I’m a married woman, thirty-two years old, two children, one mother, one mother in-law, one sister-in-law, one father in-law, one husband, one lover, and yet who is the only person in the world I can trust? My lawyer. Well, that’s not strictly true. I do trust Jim and Jill, too. But I know they’d buckle under pressure from Yeatsie and Tor. Tor is so desperate to have a successful career and, unfortunately for me, the only way she can see of having one is by using mine.

  I suppose Jim and Jill have unofficially adopted me as the daughter they never had. That would then make Jens and Holmer their surrogate grandchildren. They are so wonderful with them. If I was really their daughter and anything happened to me, I’d be content knowing they’d be looking after my children. I know Jens and Holmer would be happy with them. I love the way Holmer is so protective of his little sister. That’s such a beautiful thing to see. Where does he get it from?

  Not from me. I’ve been preoccupied with myself since I first became ill and that is for as long as I care to remember, if not longer. Yeatsie doesn’t even pretend to care about them. He’s never even changed a nappy. He’d just hold them away from himself at arm’s length and say, ‘It’s soiled!?’ expecting me to clean up the offending child and present ‘it’ back to him, as good as new.

  Jim and Jill, they prove that ‘someone up there’ has concerns about me. I know ‘someone up there’ orchestrated our meeting so there would be someone out there to care for me. We met, bizarrely, in Sainsbury’s in Camden Town. Holmer was misbehaving because I wouldn’t buy him more chocolate and he ran off. As ever, when he loses me he starts to cry. He wondered around crying and wiping his eyes, until we met up again. He bumped into Jim and Jill, who comforted him and stayed with him until I turned up. It was as simple as that: a thoroughly modern meeting.

  That was over a year ago and we’ve spent so much time together since. We meet up most weekends and occ
asionally they babysit for me during the week. They have this wonderful old house overlooking Myddelton Square in Islington. It’s just opposite the church. And sometimes when I’m over there at the weekend I’ll go into the church and just sit. I find it very spiritual. I don’t know if I’m just confusing a bit of peace and quiet for spirituality, but it’s spiritual to me. Just outside the church is a children’s playground with lots of multi-colored apparatus to occupy Jens and Holmer. Occasionally they’ll take the children there and if I’ve just been in the church, I come out into the sunlight and find the kids happily enjoying themselves, not needing or missing me, and that in itself is like a religious experience.

  If I’m not around, Jim and Jill mostly keep Holmer in the back garden, which is large and rambling and offers endless opportunities for adventure. The children actually leave some of their books and clothes over at Jim and Jill’s. I notice Jim and Jill never tidy them away. It’s like they like to leave them lying around the house, maybe they get comfort from them. Whatever, it’s great, they’re great. They’re very unselfish and I love them lots. They are the reason I can afford the time to write this.

  I’ve just now felt in the mood to work on my music. The muse – or whatever it is – comes as fast as the next elevator and it vanishes even quicker, so I’m going to go and get started before it vanishes…

  *

  Immediately she met them, Coles realised exactly what it was Esther Bluewood liked so much about Jill and Jim Beck. The second she walked through the door she felt totally at home in their house. Coles imagined Esther and her two children would have wandered around the spacious home in Islington like it was their own. It was the kind of place you could fantasise about visiting for the traditional family Christmas get-together.

  At the same time they were the only witnesses in the case, so far, who showed any signs of grief over the death of Esther Bluewood. Both seemed equally upset, but not so upset that they forgot their manners. Jill left WDC Coles and DC Lundy in the sitting room with Jim, before returning five minutes later with a tray laden with a pot of fresh coffee, warm milk, brown sugar, homemade biscuits and a delicious-looking layered sponge cake.

  The room was very light, very airy, with a high ceiling, and cream-coloured walls and curtains. One end had a built-in wall unit. The bottom section had a brass grille hiding a radiator. Above that were two glass doors with red curtains on the inside, guarding what could have been rows of rare books. Or perhaps the only providers of wisdom inside came in the smooth shape of bottles of malt whisky. Each side of the cupboard contained wall-to-ceiling units neatly packed with books: paperbacks, hardbacks, old and new, Dickens to Dexter. Above the fireplace were prints of plants and vegetables, probably more suitable for the kitchen. On the far wall, lit by natural light that shone from the window during the day and from its own spotlight at night, was a beautiful Tom Carr painting. It was a winter seaside scene of a small crowd, including a nun and a dog, presumably going to church.

  A number of pale-coloured vases holding dried flowers were dotted around the room and against the wall stood a three-legged oak coffee table on which sat three stacks of antique books. A flower vase and a needlework box were cleared away to make room for the refreshments tray. The whole room was spotlessly clean, from the straw-coloured woven carpet to the floral-patterned three-piece suite. It was, however, noticeably without a television, or a hi-fi system. It was a room for conversation.

  ‘This is just lovely,’ Coles said, as she took the first sip of coffee. ‘And your room is just beautiful. You’ve done amazing things with it. All so simple but very effective.’

  Lundy wriggled uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Aye, you’re right. That’s Ma for you,’ Jim announced proudly. ‘She does have a good eye for colour. Always did.’

  And Ma Beck blushed ever so slightly beside him.

  ‘Esther and the children just loved it over here…’ Ma started, setting her coffee cup and saucer back down on the table and helping herself to a generous portion of the cake.

  ‘…And we’ve had them over here as often as they’ve wanted.’ Pa Beck completed Ma Beck’s line, and showed a little more restraint than his wife by choosing a plain digestive biscuit.

  Their respective figures bore testament to their choice of food. Jill, if not exactly plump, was full-figured, with rosy cheeks, blue eyes and blonde curly hair, which Coles was convinced was a wig. She was dressed in a grey skirt which was stretched to the limits, a white frilly-collared blouse and a red cardigan, completely buttoned up with the exception of the bottom one. Jim was wiry and fit. His brown, fading to grey hair was thinning on top. Coles was intrigued by how aged his hands appeared. He was dressed as a favourite grandad should dress, in light blue shirt, dark blue and green school tie, and green V-neck pullover. He sat beside his wife on the sofa, and as he crossed his legs, you caught a glimpse of brown and cream as areas of his golfing socks emerged out of his brown leather shoes and disappeared under white chino trousers.

  ‘The children were over here a lot, then, were they?’ Coles asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jill said.

  ‘All the time,’ Jim added.

  ‘We loved to have them,’ Jill said.

  ‘They were always more than welcome,’ Jim added.

  ‘When were they here last?’ Coles asked, nudging the conversation in a slightly more specific direction.

  ‘Saturday…’ Ma opened.

  ‘…afternoon,’ Pa closed.

  ‘Were you babysitting, or was Miss Bluewood here as well?’

  ‘Oh, all three were here. In fact…’ Mr Beck started.

  ‘…at one point, the whole family was here,’ Mrs Beck finished, successfully completing her first sentence since they arrived.

  ‘Really?’ Lundy felt compelled to say. Coles could see he was happier now the conversation stood at least a chance of providing them with a few facts.

  ‘What time would that have been?’ Coles enquired, nodding in the direction of Lundy’s notebook in the hope he was recording the conversation.

  ‘Around five o’clock, I’d say,’ said Jim, showing the slightest hint of remorse.

  ‘You know it was five, Pa. You’d just sat down to watch the football results…’ Jill smiled at her husband and patted him on the leg.

  ‘You see,’ Jim continued with a hike of his shoulders, ‘I love to do the football pools…’

  ‘It’s his one vice,’ Jill prompted.

  ‘It’s my one vice.’ Jim smiled at his wife.

  Coles felt she could hear Lundy’s subconscious voice scream: oh for heaven’s sake just get on with it!

  ‘So, Paul Yeats was here at five o’clock?’ Lundy checked, betraying a hint of irritation.

  Jill and Jim raised their eyebrows at each other in a well-rehearsed routine which probably meant: who rang his bell?

  ‘Yes,’ Jill replied, stretching the word to a full three syllables.

  ‘Yes,’ her husband confirmed, with a shorter, snappier version of the same word.

  Coles worried that Lundy’s impatience had thrown the conversation, so she tried to smooth the troubled waters.

  ‘Was that a usual occurrence, you know, for Paul Yeats to come over when they were here?’

  ‘Well, he most certainly would never have been made welcome on his own,’ Jill replied quickly.

  ‘Oh, Ma, it’s not for us…’

  ‘Don’t, “Oh, Ma” me, Jim Beck,’ Jill replied sternly, ‘Paul Yeats was out of order in the way he treated the three of them. That’s a fact and it needs saying, police or no police.’ As she finished her sentence, she stared straight at Lundy.

  ‘We don’t know all that goes on…’ Jim started. He uncrossed his legs and sat back into the full comfort of the sofa and the support of the cream-coloured cushions generously scattered about it, as on all the chairs in the room.

  ‘How can you say that, Pa? A man and a woman, a husband and a wife, that’s sacred. But the kiddies, what he has
done to them is unforgivable if you ask me, totally unforgivable.’

  ‘Oh come on, Ma,’ Jim said, as he reached out to give his wife a big hug, ‘not everyone has been as lucky as we have.’

  ‘Luck doesn’t come into it. You’re a good man, Jim. That’s the plain and simple fact. That’s the difference.’ Ma replied, softening a little and allowing herself to surrender to the effect of his cuddle.

  Coles and Lundy looked on as the couple snuggled up close and kissed each other gently on the lips.

  Jill Beck pushed Jim off playfully and brushed down her skirt.

  ‘Did Paul Yeats stay for long?’ Coles asked. For the time being at least, Lundy had tuned into her line of questioning and had obviously decided not to interfere.

  ‘Same as usual.’ Jill replied.

  ‘He’d come over here…’ Jim said.

  ‘He’d never sit down…’ Jill prompted.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Ma,’ Jim replied, as if realising it for the first time. ‘He would never sit down.’

  ‘He’d always stand over there…’ Jill said.

  ‘By the fireplace…’

  ‘Yes, by the fireplace,’ Jill continued. It was as though they were both duelling to take up the thread of the conversation. ‘Hands deep in pockets…’