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

by Paul Charles

  ‘You seem deep in thought. Esther Bluewood?’

  ‘No, Judy Dillon,’ Coles lied. Well, it wasn’t a real lie. She’d found that the overweight image of Judy Dillon had helped spur her on to swim an extra few lengths that morning, up at Finchley Road. It was handy for her. She lived on Dynham Road, West Hampstead and travelled in to work by moped, all her gear in her backpack. The swimming pool was on her route. Parking was a pain, but parking was a pain for everybody, everywhere in NW1 now that they had a new stupid system. Yes, it was even stupid for the police, but they were not allowed to comment on it or its fairness. But then when was fairness ever allowed to get in the way of the council relieving you of your hard-earned money?

  ‘Oh,’ Kennedy said, appearing a little surprised, ‘and what exactly were you thinking about our favourite nanny?’

  Coles was convinced now that she was blushing. Was Kennedy such a good detective that he could detect what people thought? Don’t be such a dimwit, she cautioned herself.

  ‘Well, I always try to get a fix on someone before I go to talk to them. I try to think of their lives and how their days are,’ Coles replied, this time telling the truth. ‘If I can get a clue about their lifestyle and their daily routines, then I feel it helps me read between their lines.’

  ‘Like if they’re lying, for instance?’ Kennedy offered, nodding in agreement.

  They arrived at George & Nikki’s Golden Grill, known in North Bridge House as the ‘Golden Gorilla’. Kennedy held the door open for Coles. As she passed him she could smell him, smell his cleanness. Not a hint of aftershave or cologne, or smoke, or anything other than pure soap and the intoxicating smell of clean-shaven skin.

  ‘Like they’re lying for instance,’ Coles agreed and chastised herself for the sin she’d just committed – if indeed it were a sin to imagine yourself kissing your superior.

  ‘So how are you and DS Sandy Johnson getting on?’ Kennedy asked, as they hungrily started on their snacks. Coles (ever weight-conscious) had ordered a baked potato with cheese and coleslaw and Kennedy a sweetcorn omelette with hash browns and baked beans.

  Coles swallowed the wrong way and coughed and spluttered. Kennedy rose from his seat, came behind her and patted her on the back six times.

  ‘God, that was hot,’ she lied, taking refuge in a long drink of mineral water. ‘I’m okay now. Thanks.’

  She couldn’t believe it. She had dated Sandy Johnson three or four times a few years back. He was from another section completely, the Fraud Squad at New Scotland Yard. She’d been checking illegal comings and goings in the music industry when Camden CID, led by DI Kennedy, was investigating the disappearance and death of Peter O’Browne, Managing Director of Camden Town Records, located in the blue building directly across the road from North Bridge House. Nothing had come of the relationship. It had been good fun but that was all. And all they had in common was fun. Short term had been great enough, long term it would never have got off the ground. But the man she had just been daydreaming about, the man she spent a considerable amount of her day dreaming about, not only remembered the name of her ex, he’d also picked up on one small point in her personal life. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or disappointed.

  Coles had calmed down again. As she forked another helping of potato she said, ‘Goodness me; Sandy. That was such a long time ago. I’d nearly forgotten about him.’

  ‘It wasn’t serious then?’ Kennedy continued.

  ‘Oh, I could never be serious about someone who wears slip-ons,’ Coles said flippantly.

  She had forgotten how hot the potato was and she found herself taking another large gulp of water. The friendly, cosy café was nearly empty. It was that lull between late lunch and the beginning of early dinner. The great thing about the Golden Grill, apart from its consistently excellent food and friendly banter from Vange, the head waiter and all-round entrepreneur, was the fact that it was open midday to midnight. Perfect opening hours for the local police force and for the employees of the numerous music business companies in the area. People who were always on the way to or from a gig or a recording studio would just about always have somewhere to stop for a chat, a bite and a drink. The walls were adorned with write-ups about the café, photographs of the celebs who had visited it and autographed photographs of cast members of soaps like Eastenders and Coronation Street. Coles searched these photographs now, desperately looking for a distraction from their conversation.

  ‘Really?’ Kennedy pushed.

  Why is he pushing this, Coles thought, or is it just my imagination?

  ‘Yes, and grey slip-ons at that,’ she continued, trying to up the humour level and thereby (hopefully) turning the spotlight away from herself.

  ‘No! Never,’ Kennedy said, now laughing. ‘I bet he wore white socks with them too?’

  ‘Yes. In fact he did wear white socks.’

  ‘Oh, that’s it then. I’ll have the fashion police pick him up immediately,’ Kennedy said, much to Coles’ relief.

  *

  Seventeen minutes later they were buzzing Judy Dillon’s doorbell. Judy opened the door, showing no sign of surprise at their visit.

  ‘Goodness, it never rains but it snows. Oh, come in, why don’t you?’ The nanny said, walking away and leaving them standing on the doorstep.

  Coles looked at Kennedy as if to say: what’s up with her?

  Kennedy hiked his shoulders as if to reply: I don’t know.

  ‘I’m in here,’ they heard her voice announce from the book room, as Kennedy closed the door.

  ‘Will this take long do you think? You see, I’m just about to listen to something important about childcare on the radio, and if you’re going to be here for a while I’ll tape it. A stitch in time saves the crime,’ Judy said, hovering around the radio-cassette recorder.

  ‘I’d tape it if I were you,’ Kennedy said.

  Coles thought that she was wouldn’t have chosen that option. She would have said that they weren’t going to be long. That way Judy would have been impatient to get the questions over with, so she just might have allowed something to slip out.

  It became apparent that Kennedy had picked up on something she hadn’t. Dillon appeared to be upset. Perhaps that had been it. Perhaps her boss had picked up on this and had decided not to risk upsetting her further.

  They started with questions about Esther Bluewood and were getting nowhere fast. Judy Dillon’s answers were short and snappy, nothing of substance was being given away. Coles noticed Kennedy give a slight twitch of his head at the way Dillon answered a question about Paul Yeats.

  ‘Have you seen Paul Yeats since yesterday?’ had been Kennedy’s starter for ten.

  ‘Oh yes, I have. Large as life and twice as shitty,’ came the deadpan reply.

  ‘Where did you see him?’ Kennedy asked. Coles noted the casual way he kept the conversation going, his voice always gentle, soothing, encouraging. He’d obviously sensed something in the air and was homing in on it. Not that he was being transparent about it. Judy, in her state, would have thought it was merely the flow of conversation.

  ‘He came around here, didn’t he? Pretends to be the nice guy all the time. But I can tell you he’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing if ever there was one,’ said Dillon.

  Coles was losing count of the number of times the nanny mixed her metaphors. The last one was also quite amusing, the thought of a good guy posing as an asshole. Could there be some clue there to the real Paul Yeats? He didn’t seem to have many supporters in the Bluewood camp, but could he really be all that bad?

  ‘What was he after?’ Kennedy continued.

  ‘He only came around to give me the sack, didn’t he? Said my services were no longer required. “Who’s going to look after Jens and Holmer?” I asked. “None of your business,” he replied. “Don’t come around to the house any more,” he said. “What about my stuff?” I said. “I’ll send it around,” he said. “Just make sure you don’t come around Fitzroy any more,” he said, as he
turned around and walked out. “What about my wages?” I shouted after him. “Take it out of all the things you’ve helped yourself to over the years,” he shouted, slamming the door. I swear to you on my mother’s grave, I never took anything which wasn’t mine or that I wasn’t given as a present. The jumped-up, sixth-form poet.’

  ‘Did they owe you any money?’ Coles asked.

  ‘Well, she paid me every Friday, but they must have to give me some kind of notice, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘Was it all through the books?’ Kennedy asked, while Coles was thinking that it probably wasn’t.

  ‘No, of course not, I could never afford to pay taxes on what she could afford to pay me. But if he’d not been using her money to keep him and his fancy woman on, well, it would have been a different thing wouldn’t it? Oh yes, there was enough money for all of that. But money for clothes for the kids and food and all of that, well now, he didn’t give a shit about any of that. Let me tell you, what comes around goes back again.’

  ‘But surely he must have been okay for money?’ Kennedy asked. Coles noticed the way he was upping the pace of the questions, not so much fishing for specific answers, but more to see what else came out.

  ‘Please,’ Dillon replied, raising both her hands and making claws with them in front of her, ‘he’s never sold a record in anger. It was an insult even to Michael Bolton to call Paul Yeats a singer. He’d have been better off a bin man; and that’s not a slight on bin men. It’s just that Yeats was no stranger to rubbish. Perhaps it was time he collected it rather than tried to sell it. Yes, that would have been a pleasant change.’

  Coles felt like asking the nanny how she knew Yeats made so little money, but Kennedy seemed to be going somewhere, so she sat back, observing Dillon. Strange thing was that the nanny rarely, if ever, looked at Coles. All her answers and body language were directed towards Kennedy. Coles was aware, however, slightly at first, then more and more blatantly, the nanny was flirting with Kennedy. A wee smile here, a pose there, a come-on stare. How could someone so obviously overweight, Coles thought, fancy her chances with the detective? Not just any detective either, but – in Coles’ eyes, at least – the most eligible bachelor in London. The brass-neck of her, Coles snarled to herself.

  ‘I thought Paul Yeats was moderately successful?’ Kennedy asked, oblivious to the vibes being given out. Was that how he did it, by ignoring what wasn’t relevant to the questioning? How was it Kennedy was so good at questioning witnesses? By breaking the police stereotype and being a genuinely nice bloke? He always seemed to care about the people he met, to be concerned about them, to listen to what they had to say. Yes, Coles confirmed to her inner self, Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy actually listened to people. He was warm, he was friendly and he didn’t come across as the enemy. How had he been in the force for so long and not become as jaded as everyone else? Coles had been a member of Camden Town CID for a relatively short time and even she found herself regularly losing her patience with obvious offenders. She found herself thinking: you’re lying, you know you’re lying, I know you’re lying, and you know I know you’re lying, yet you still persist with this whole charade.

  But Kennedy never seemed to adopt a similar attitude. It’s not that he believed everything he was told. He didn’t, Coles knew, but he was prepared to take it all in. He was forever telling his team to amass information, as much information as possible. ‘Don’t try to guess the identity of the criminal, or the method of the crime until you have as many facts on the table as possible,’ he’d say. ‘That way you won’t be trying to fit your facts on to the suspect or the crime.’ And here he was, collecting facts, right in front of her eyes, with the generously-built Judy Dillon flirting with him, and he was too much of a gentleman to acknowledge it.

  ‘Oh please, he was as successful as a cabby in a candy store,’ Dillon replied to Kennedy’s question about Yeats’ supposed success.

  That one nearly cracked Coles up and she was sure Kennedy would burst out laughing. Incredibly, he continued undeterred.

  ‘So, you don’t think he was selling many records any more?’

  ‘Well, firstly forget the “any more”. He never sold many records. And who do you think his record label, Goodwords Music, was?’

  Kennedy shook his head with a ‘I haven’t a clue’ look.

  ‘Paul Yeats was the chief, and the only, executive. That was apart from Esther who had to write all the cheques. I saw the bills, you know. I know a lot about that man, a lot he may not want me to know. Him and his vanity records, he was playing the part of the pop star even down to the dolly bird on his arm. Well, he’s not advertising the fact that his dolly bird, Miss Droopy Drawers, Miss Rosslyn St Clair, is up the shute,’ Dillon blurted out, her fury now in full flow.

  ‘Up the shute?’ Kennedy said, a question mark raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Preggers, with seed, a bun in the oven, impregnated, about to drop one, with child,’ Dillon taunted proudly.

  That certainly got Coles’ attention. Kennedy, however, never batted an eyelid. He continued, his voice soft and friendly as ever.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Dillon replied.

  ‘Did Esther know?’ Kennedy continued.

  ‘No, not as far as I was aware.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking how you found out?’ Kennedy continued. Coles was proud of him. His continued fishing into the unknown had turned up an important clue, possibly the most important clue in the case.

  ‘The fan network. There’s not much that goes on we don’t know about,’ Dillon boasted.

  ‘Was Paul Yeats aware you had this information?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘I think he might have been,’ Dillon replied, looking a little worried for the first time.

  ‘Really?’ Kennedy said, acting surprised. Coles was convinced it was staged surprise.

  ‘Yes, I think he might have a connection with one of the fans,’ Dillon replied, still concerned.

  ‘Oh, and why’s that?’

  ‘Just that some of the information we get, it seems just a little bit too “insider”, if you know what I mean, and there’s rarely any bad stuff about Yeats floating around.’

  ‘This fan club, are there many members?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘You realise here I’m not talking about the official fan club where you send in your eleven quid and you get your ten-by-eight and a news sheet twice a year?’

  Kennedy nodded; this wasn’t the club he was thinking about, either.

  ‘There are about fourteen regulars in the inner circle,’ the nanny boasted. Coles thought that as nanny to the star’s children, she must have been their most prized member. She was yet to share Kennedy’s information about Esther sleeping with Josef Jones.

  ‘And you’re pretty sure Esther didn’t know?’ Kennedy persisted.

  ‘When I last saw her, which was Friday, she definitely was not aware of this information,’ Dillon replied

  ‘Where would you have been on Sunday evening?’ Kennedy asked as Coles stared around at the hundreds of books.

  ‘I was here by myself, reading.’

  ‘All evening?’ Kennedy said, a hint of firmness in his voice.

  ‘All evening,’ Judy replied, making a feeble attempt at fluttering her eyelids. ‘Quite a sad state of affairs for a single girl I know, but there you are.’

  Coles couldn’t believe the nanny was actually fluttering her eyelashes at Kennedy.

  Kennedy either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it, and pretty soon he and Coles were out on the street, walking back up towards Parkway.

  ‘Bit of a conquest there, sir,’ Coles said, plucking up a certain amount of courage to cross the line between personal and police business.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh yes, she was like putty in your hands. Surely you noticed?’ Coles said, taking another step over, and away, from the line.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure that our nanny was giving anything more th
an what she wanted us to know. Her motive for telling us that Rosslyn St Clair was pregnant, now that’s what interests me.’

  Two minutes later, they were bounding up the lamp-lit steps at North Bridge House. They were slightly late for the information-sharing with the rest of the team.

  Chapter 20

  ‘OKAY, LET’S look at what we’ve managed to ascertain so far,’ Kennedy pronounced. As he started to speak, those gathered in his office quickly brought their conversations to a halt. The following forty minutes were spent going through the information gathered thus far.

  ‘So,’ Irvine said, ‘our suspects are plentiful.’

  ‘Apparently so,’ Kennedy agreed, moving across to his Guinness Is Good For You noticeboard. ‘Okay, let’s list them…’

  Under the main heading, Esther Bluewood, written in green felt-tip pen on a white cue card, Kennedy placed a second card, headed up with Paul Yeats’ name.

  ‘Okay, Paul Yeats… Let’s hear about Paul Yeats. What do we know about him?’

  ‘Failed pop star,’ Coles offered, adding, ‘deserted Esther and their two children.’

  ‘Took up with a young girl, Rosslyn St Clair,’ Kennedy continued, picking up the thread. ‘And Miss St Clair is supposedly carrying Yeats’ child. Esther had begun divorce proceedings against Paul Yeats. He was keen for his sister, Victoria (Tor) Lucas, to become his and Esther’s management, but Esther resisted this. Yeats appeared quite desperate to deny us access to Esther’s journals. Motives are plentiful but mainly he was about to have his primary source of income cut off and I believe there was also a good chance – considering there were two kids involved – that he would be thrown out of the cottage.’

  ‘When he called at the Beck’s place in Islington on Sunday evening he was acting very suspiciously and looking for the car keys. This would have been the same time at which he told us he was in his local pub in the Cotswolds,’ Coles offered. ‘Could he have been trying to get a lift home? Was there something of Esther’s in the car he badly wanted? Was the car meant to be part of his alibi? But how could he have committed the murder and made it appear she had gassed herself?’