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

by Paul Charles

  ‘A good question,’ Kennedy enthused as he rose from his desk to add another name card. Before pinning it to the board, he added, ‘A very good question but we don’t have enough information just yet to go tackling big questions like that. Let’s move on to the next suspect on the list.’

  Under Yeats’ card he pinned a new card, this one bore the legend, Josef Jones.

  ‘What do we know about Josef?’ Kennedy asked his team.

  ‘Evil-sounding voice, I can tell you,’ Irvine began. ‘A fan, a groupie in fact, and for some reason Esther Bluewood took him to bed.’

  ‘She took him to bed for the same reason Paul Yeats took Rosslyn St Clair to bed,’ Coles surmised. Kennedy noticed that her voice was slightly shaky. ‘Esther had her needs too. He was available, he looked good – well, he looked youthful at least – and I think Esther would have thought, being so much of a fan, she could have controlled him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ was Irvine’s only concession. ‘Either way, maybe he was looking for more out of the relationship than she was? Male rock stars have married their groupies, there are some extremely famous cases, so perhaps Josef Jones was thinking it was time for a role reversal! Perhaps he saw Esther as his gravy train?’

  ‘Interesting concept,’ Kennedy said, quite deadpan. ‘What was he up to on Sunday evening?’

  ‘He claimed he stayed in waiting for Esther and then when she didn’t show he went into work,’ Allaway offered, rifling through the notes from the meeting he and Irvine had with Jones. ‘He behaved very suspiciously when we approached him outside Esther’s flat.’

  ‘Yes. He hightailed it, big time,’ Irvine agreed.

  ‘Did it take you long to catch up with him?’ Kennedy enquired.

  ‘A matter of minutes,’ Allaway said proudly.

  ‘At any time during the chase was he out of your view?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Just a few seconds as he turned onto Gloucester Crescent from Fitzroy Road,’ Allaway confirmed.

  ‘Did he seem to slow down when he turned the corner?’

  ‘A bit, yes…’ Allaway began.

  ‘I see what you’re getting at sir,’ Irvine said, interrupting. ‘We were idiots.’ He looked at Allaway to find the penny still hadn’t dropped. ‘Sorry, I was an idiot. He was obviously taking the opportunity to dump his stash of drugs the second he was out of our sight.’

  ‘Exactly. But it’s not important. This time we’re not interested in his drugs and in the cold light of day these things are always easier to assess. When he started to run, no doubt your adrenalin was pumping and you were thinking you’d found the killer of Esther Bluewood,’ Kennedy replied.

  ‘He was also outside Esther’s flat on the day she died. He’s unmistakable in the Evening Standard photograph, in his regular outfit of a four-button black suit and white shirt, top button done up,’ Coles added.

  ‘But there were a lot of other fans in the same photograph,’ Lundy suggested. ‘Perhaps we should check everyone who appears in it?’

  ‘Can’t do any harm,’ Kennedy said, encouraging Lundy to do that very thing. ‘Next name, Edward Higgins.’

  The detective wrote out another card.

  ‘We spoke to him too,’ Irvine started. ‘Didn’t give much away really. He’d originally had a bit of a gripe when Esther took the flat he was waiting for, but I’m not sure that would be sufficient reason to drive him to kill her. As a matter of fact he seemed to quite like her.’

  ‘And she him,’ Kennedy revealed, recalling Esther’s journal. ‘However, she did note him standing outside her door one night behaving a bit suspiciously,’ Kennedy said, recalling another bit of information from the precious journal. ‘A long shot, but what was he doing on Sunday night?’ Kennedy asked, writing another name on a card.

  ‘Watching telly,’ Allaway confirmed.

  ‘Must have been a great night for television,’ Irvine announced.

  ‘Judy Dillon,’ Kennedy announced as he stuck the newly-written card on the board.

  ‘Yes, she was also watching television on Sunday,’ Coles confirmed, looking directly at James Irvine.

  ‘She’s a bit weird, if you ask me,’ Irvine said in response. ‘I know it’s much too early in the case but if I was a betting man, which I am, I’d put a few bob on our Judy as an each-way bet.’

  ‘You don’t get paid for backing second or third on a possible murder inquiry,’ Kennedy reminded him. Then, addressing everyone, ‘What do we know about Judy Dillon?’

  ‘She was the children’s nanny, also a member of the inner fan club. Perhaps she pinched the journals. She claims she was protecting them, but in the fan club circle it could have counted as a major coup to have Esther Bluewood’s final journal,’ Coles started.

  ‘Esther was concerned about her as well, I think,’ Kennedy said, taking up the thread. ‘Judy used to hang around outside her study door while Esther was working. There were also several times when Esther caught her standing at the bedroom door, staring in.’

  ‘She’s obviously not very fit, so if it was her, it couldn’t have been any kind of physical murder.’

  ‘Unless she had an accomplice,’ Irvine said, apparently thinking out loud. ‘Maybe a few of the fans got together.’

  This gathered a few mutterings from around Kennedy’s packed office.

  ‘Okay, okay, I know. Far-fetched,’ Irvine continued, raising his voice a little to dispel the mutterings. ‘But stranger things have happened at sea. I mean, let’s be serious here. Anyone who focuses their entire lives around a celebrity can’t be all there in the first place. Scouring dustbins for trinkets, hanging around stage doors for an autograph. Now come on, what’s that all about? Does it get them closer? If I’d a few grand to spare, I could buy an autograph of JFK. Wouldn’t mean I’d ever met him. Wouldn’t mean I was ever close to him. It would just mean, as my mother would say, “A fool and his money are easily parted”. These artists release their music on records—’

  ‘CDs these days, Detective Sergeant Irvine,’ Coles jibed, raising a laugh from all in the office.

  ‘Fine, whatever, I’m sticking to my record player and my vinyl, so if they want to get me to buy their music they’re going to have to release it in record form. But my point is that artists release their music on records, CDs, cassettes, bleedin’ eight-track – if that keeps you happy – and the fans should be content to go into a store and buy the music and take it home and play it. Why do they want more? How much better does it make the music if there’s a squiggle, which is meant to be an autograph, on the front cover? Does it raise the enjoyment factor? I’ll tell you something about music and then I’ll stop, sir…’ Irvine continued, looking in the direction of Kennedy, who waited in good humour for his DS to continue.

  ‘…For years I’ve collected the works of Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Tony Bennett, Dean Martin, Paul Anka, Brendan Quinn, Matt Monro and I have to say, they’ve given me so much pleasure, but, I’ve absolutely no interest whatsoever in doing anything but listen to their music. I’m not connected to these people, I’m moved by their music. The point is, when Frank Sinatra died I wasn’t upset, I wasn’t particularly hurt. I didn’t even know the man. I couldn’t abide all this public grieving by people who’d never even been on the same continent as the man. I found it all a wee bit sick to be truthful. People are who are prepared to act that way in public must have something drastically missing in their personal lives. Me, I’ve still got all the classic Frank Sinatra albums and I know they will continue to give me pleasure as they, quite simply, just get better with age…’ Irvine paused. No one spoke so he continued.

  ‘…My point would have to be that obsessive fans like Judy Dillon and Josef Jones have so much shit going around in their heads, stuff we can’t even imagine. You know, in the normal course of your day someone does something to upset you, steals a parking space, takes your seat in a busy bar, nearly runs you down when you’re trying to cross the road, and you swear under your breath. Of course we don’t me
an it. But then we’re a well-balanced group of people, aren’t we?’

  Irvine swung his outstretched arm, with its finger pointed, around the room.

  ‘But what if we were the kind of people who spent their lives hanging around stage doors, waiting for a glimpse of our idols? The glimpse is not important. The documenting of the glimpse with a quick snapshot, a quick autograph, that’s the thing isn’t it? That’s the big thing. Now believe me, I’ve seen some of these fans with their idols at the Odeon when I was working the Hammersmith patch. They are not pleasant – actually some of them are downright rude. Ordering the stars about, shouting at them. Letting the air out of their car tyres just so they can’t effect a speedy getaway. These people do not lead normal lives, they live their lives for someone else, but it’s not really for someone else. It’s for themselves and for the other people in their circle, so that their talking points will be bigger and better than those of their mates. That’s got nothing whatsoever to do with the music. These people never actually go into the concert venues. They just hang around the stage doors, for heavens’ sake. Yes, there are genuine fans that will buy the records and the concert tickets and they will also, sometimes, try to come backstage to pay their respects. Nine times out of ten, if the real fans ever manage to get through the security, they’ll be scared off by these weirdos and believe you me, they are one weird bunch of misfits. They are obsessed with their own ideals of their idols and if they, the stars, don’t live up to these high standards or do anything, directly or indirectly, to upset these fanatics then my point simply is, who knows what they’d do to get their revenge?’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Kennedy said in agreement.

  ‘Thank you, Robbie Coltrane,’ Coles added, lightening the atmosphere by the one or two notches it needed.

  ‘Nah, he’d be too big for my shoes. When they film my life story they’ll have to get Sean Connery to play me. He wouldn’t have to change his accent the slightest,’ Irvine laughed.

  That was the first time Kennedy could ever remember James Irvine himself drawing attention to the fact that his voice sounded identical to the best actor to ever fill the 007 shoes.

  ‘I suppose,’ Kennedy began, as the laughter died down, ‘we should also add both Tor Lucas and Rosslyn St Clair to our list.’ And Kennedy did just that. He added each name to a card and pinned them up on the noticeboard.

  ‘We need to speak to them both urgently,’ he continued. ‘They are both connected with Paul Yeats. I think it’s going to be easy enough to find Tor, but Yeats is keeping Rosslyn out of the way. He says she’s upset and he doesn’t know where she’s disappeared to. I’m not so sure I believe him, however, and we do need to talk to her and to Tor as soon as possible. Okay? How have we been getting on with the scene of the crime? Any new witnesses or any new information come to light?’

  ‘Nothing sir,’ Irvine started, ‘absolutely nothing, apart from…’

  ‘Yes?’ Kennedy said, outstretching one of his hands, trying to encourage his DS to spit out his little titbit. Every little helped at this stage they couldn’t afford to discard any information, no matter how trivial it may appear.

  ‘Well, I have to say that absolutely every single person we speak to is of the same opinion…’

  ‘Which is?’ Kennedy asked. In a court of law they say you should never ask a question unless you know the answer. But this wasn’t exactly a court of law and Kennedy was prepared to risk not having a clue what Irvine was about to say.

  ‘Well, sir, everyone is of the opinion that Esther Bluewood committed suicide,’ Irvine said, in rather more subdued tones than he’d employed on his previous monologue.

  ‘Yep, I got that feeling too. And that, I believe, is the cloak our murderer is hiding behind. So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get out there and lift this cloak and find out who exactly is lurking behind it. We’ve a long way to go, and although the killer has won the first couple of rounds, we’ve got the stamina to see it through to the bitter end.’

  Chapter 21

  Happy Birthday To You!

  Wednesday 18th November

  IT’S MY father’s birthday today, Wednesday 18th November. He was born in 1928. He died when I was only five and still not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I remember sitting on his knee, the knee of his good leg. He was always tense and awkward with me, a wee bit like I see Yeatsie behaving with Jens and Holmer now. It’s kind of like, ‘This is my child so I should be close to her; I don’t feel anything, but I’m going to act as though we’re close in the hope that we might become close.’ Is that why I wanted my father’s affections so much, because I didn’t have them?

  Here I am, all these years later, twenty-seven to be exact, and I’m still anxious for his affections. Is that why I feel, still feel, mad at my mother? Do I blame her? And if I accept the fact that I blame her, does that mean that I must therefore accept the responsibility for the fact that Yeatsie behaves exactly the same way with Jens? He’s a bit more parental with Holmer, particularly the older Holmer becomes. There’s a bit of bonding going on there now. Is that because Yeatsie can see this small child forming into his own person with his own mind and independence and that intellectually stimulates him? His creation is developing a mind that won’t accept everything that is said and is not scared of questioning. Yes, that’s it, I’m sure. I’ve noticed the look in Yeatsie’s eyes and it’s pride, I’m sure of it!

  Yeatsie keeps telling me that he doesn’t like putting Holmer to bed, because not only does he (Holmer) want stories read to him but even when they’ve been read, Holmer doesn’t want to surrender to the night, to sleep, to fall into darkness, to slip into unconsciousness. Yeatsie says that the more tired Holmer becomes, the more positively he fights against sleep and, the more inevitable it becomes the more dangerous it is. His eyes get heavy and he knows he is falling asleep but for some reason he doesn’t want to. Why is he so scared of sleep, Yeatsie asks. Holmer’s not scared of the dark, he’s not scared of what’s under the bed, he fears neither what’s in the wardrobe nor what’s out in the hallway. So why then is he so scared of going to sleep? Then, when Holmer is about to drop off, he insists on having his father lie in the bed beside him so that he can intertwine his little legs with his father’s. He won’t hug his father as he falls asleep, he usually lies with his back against him Yeatsie tells me, but he always makes sure their legs are intertwined. Is that a safety net for when he falls deep into slumberland? Does he believe his father will soften the blow of sleep?

  Yeatsie wants to know what Holmer sees when he goes to sleep. He says it’s such a drain to take him to bed. He’d like to be able to just tuck him in, kiss him on the forehead and say, ‘Goodnight son, sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.’ This hurts me because I remember it being exactly the same with my father. Even through all my counselling and therapy. Then it all came back to me. I remember me when I was going to sleep. I have vague memories of him saying goodnight. But I also seem to remember that it was my mother’s chore to put the kids to bed.

  Isn’t that sad? It’s considered a chore to send your children off to dream. These little people want so much from us as parents, but we are so intent – and I’m equally as guilty here as Yeatsie – on wanting them to have their independence. I try to learn from my own father. I try to celebrate my children’s childhood. I’m never going to say to them, ‘Be a big girl or be a big boy. It won’t bite you’ or ‘You can do it yourself now’. We have just one childhood and it’s much too short for the small time we have on this earth.

  I try to remember how much my father disappointed me by not showing me a father’s love. Oh, how that would have helped me. I would have been the best daughter for him. I would have made him proud. I spent my life trying to make him proud, even though he wasn’t there. Then I spent the darkest years trying to hurt him by hurting myself. I didn’t feel like a person then. I felt like someone or something else. I would watch myself as a black and white character in a movie, but it was
bizarre because everything else in the movie was in color. Then for some reason, I wanted to make him feel proud again.

  I remember wanting to be a clever girl for my father but equally I remember him not even noticing it when I was. I remember how bad that made me feel. How empty it made me feel. It was as if there was no reason for my life because my father didn’t see me as special. And even with all my success in writing songs and selling records, Yeatsie says it is all to prove to my father that he was wrong. ‘Look at me,’ Yeatsie claims I am shouting with my songs, ‘I’m special and I’m proving it!’

  He probably got that bit of wisdom from the back of a beer mat!

  But my father went so quickly. He just died one day, out of the blue. In my dreams it has to do with his leg. In my dreams he only has one leg but my mother keeps telling me both his legs are perfectly okay. He died, she says, because he wouldn’t look after himself. He was meant to go into hospital for an operation, something to do with his insides. It was a simple operation but he kept putting it off, he just wouldn’t go. He couldn’t! It was a simple case of adults behaving like children. In some instances we are no better than our children, at least they have the excuse of not knowing. But my father, he just wouldn’t listen to his doctor. Apparently the operation would have been simple and non-life-threatening. But he kept saying to my mother, ‘Don’t worry I’ll be okay, it’ll get okay by itself.’ He was a great believer in the healing powers of the body. That’s one of the things my mother goes on about in her long rambling letters: ‘Remember your father,’ she warns, ‘he wouldn’t look after himself, or go to hospital and look what happened to him. Make sure you keep up your treatment, Esther. You may think you feel better but I’m afraid you may still be ill. So take good care of yourself and get attention.’