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

by Paul Charles

  My father didn’t. Seek attention that was. And something simple developed into something complicated, and by the time he was taken to hospital, unconscious, it was too late – he died the following day on the operating table. My father had always wanted to be an actor so he would have been happy to die in the theatre. Cruel, Esh, cruel.

  My father’s other claim to fame? He was born on the same day as Mickey Mouse! Top that!

  That says a lot about my father, he was born on the same day as Mickey Mouse, the creation that had possibly given more joy to children throughout the world than anything, or anyone, else and my father couldn’t even communicate with his own daughter. And he died and left me alone, but not so alone that he doesn’t terrorize my thoughts each and every day.

  So today, I’ll toast you my father, and I’ll also raise my glass to Mickey Mouse!

  *

  Kennedy was back in his house later that evening, rereading Esther Bluewood’s journal. Although it pained him, he listened to her music as he read. He listened to her voice and could almost feel her breathing though his Sony speakers. This voice singing the songs became the voice that now spoke the words of the journal into his mind’s ear. He imagined she was right there beside him, talking to him, pushing herself to catch her breath so she could deliver her words. It was that breathlessness which gave her voice such a charm and soul; a voice so much deeper and richer than most other female voices, Kennedy observed.

  It was intriguing for the detective to listen to her singing, whilst simultaneously imagining her speaking voice. The singing voice vehemently throwing out the words she desperately wanted the world to hear. The speaking voice reciting only the most intimate thoughts of the writer. It was interesting to try to parallel the words of her songs with the words of her journal.

  Kennedy felt that all Esther Bluewood’s pain originated with her father, or at least her father’s inability to communicate with her and convince her that he loved her. Could any of this have been Esther’s fault? True, she was a child when all this was going down, but maybe her father could see something in her eyes that scared him off. Could he have sensed that, even as a child, Esther was one who could only deal with honest feelings? Maybe he saw that it wasn’t ever going to be enough for her to be kissed and cuddled and told: there now, dear. Everything is going to be okay. Did Esther Bluewood know, even as a child, that everything wasn’t going to be okay? Did she know that a kiss and a cuddle weren’t going to make everything okay? That the bogeyman wasn’t going to disappear just because her father blew him away?

  Or maybe his never even taking the trouble to try to blow the bogeyman away was what started her feeling of inadequacy and vulnerability. Esther was trying to equate her own children with her own childhood. Perhaps that’s why the relationship between her mother and herself had thawed in recent years. Perhaps now, looking at Paul Yeats, she saw his inability to be a good father to their children and, more importantly, her complete lack of power over the situation made her understand her own mother’s powerlessness during her childhood years. The saddest thing for Kennedy was that we, none of us, learn from the mistakes of our parents. We all have to make our own mistakes. But then no one taught Holmer to be scared of the dark, or to be even more scared of sleep. Why should he develop this phobia? Was it in his genes? Was it passed down to him through his granny, then his mother? Who might Holmer pass it on to? Is it possible ever to break away from the cycle?

  Why, Kennedy wondered, was he one of the well-balanced ones? Or did he just think he was well-balanced? Maybe this was his foil. That he considered himself sane, in no need of the mind doctors? He wasn’t exactly cynical about them but his opinions weren’t far short. Was it in fact that he could see the wood from the trees – the simple vision Esther Bluewood was always struggling with – did that set him apart and make him a stronger person? He didn’t think so and knew that without the music he was then listening to – Esther Bluewood’s stunning Axis – his life would not be as full or as beautiful.

  Kennedy was desperate for a sign, confirmation from the journal, from the music, that he and Hugh Watson were correct in their certainty that Esther Bluewood had not taken her own life. The confirmation for him was that Esther had lived her life for her children. Every decision she made seemed to be based on how it might affect her children. She knew, better that most, exactly what it would mean for Jens and Holmer not to have their mother around as they grew up. She must have known that, in her absence, Tor would have a major influence in their upbringing. She must have known that Paul Yeats would only ever be a figurehead kind of father.

  On the other hand, Watson had told Kennedy that sometimes people who consider committing suicide feel that they will be doing their family, parents and/or children, a favour by getting out of their lives. This would definitely not be the case with Esther Bluewood. She knew too well the alternative. She had already made plans to get Paul Yeats out of her life and, by direct association, out of their children’s lives, at least to some degree. She had already made it known to all who would listen that she did not want Tor Lucas involved in her career and she certainly didn’t want her involved in any way in the lives of her children.

  But who would have wanted to murder this woman? Kennedy wondered about this as he put the journal down, allowing the music to take over. Was there anything Esther was saying to him through her music? How could its creator become mixed up in anything that might have cost her her life?

  Was Josef Jones a spurned lover? Perhaps he’d been cut off in his prime just once too often. But then, surely such an obvious act of frustration would’ve resulted in a brutal on-the-spot murder? Strangulation? Stabbing? But was this crime of passion? No, it certainly was not. This was most definitely a calculated, cold-blooded murder. Time had taken over the planning and execution of Esther Bluewood’s murder. Kennedy wasn’t even sure exactly how it had been carried out. He had a theory or two but none of them fitted the facts, so far.

  Could Paul Yeats have planned and executed such a murder? Could he have found out that Esther was planning to divorce him? He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to tie their business dealings together. That coup, if he’d managed to pull it off, would have set him up for life. As her sole legal heir, he’d have been able to achieve the status he’d been unable to achieve whilst she was alive. But surely, if he were so calculating, he wouldn’t have taken a lover? Everyone, including Esther and even the kids, knew about Rosslyn St Clair. He’d not even tried to conceal it. Or was he just a baboon with his brain in his trousers?

  Maybe when Rosslyn became pregnant it brought matters to a head? Could Rosslyn have planned the pregnancy for that sole reason? Did that action move Rosslyn into the frame? What if she still couldn’t draw a commitment from Yeats, even though she was about to bear his child? Perhaps she thought the only way to finally win this man was to remove what she considered to be the obstacle. Kennedy knew Rosslyn St Clair must have known she would have been a prime suspect in any murder investigation. But in an apparent, credible suicide, she could have covered up her tracks well enough.

  Did the killer think up what they thought was the perfect murder? A murder they were convinced they could get away with? Did the murderer have the victim in their sights first of all, or was it the method of murder that came first?

  If Esther Bluewood was always the intended victim, as Kennedy suspected, who could have wanted her dead enough to kill her? Tor Lucas? She seemed to be quite the schemer from the little Kennedy had heard. He was due to see her the next morning. Out of the blue she’d rung in to North Bridge House and fixed up an appointment to come and see Kennedy. That should be interesting. Then there was Rosslyn. Kennedy was determined to speak to her too by the end of the following day.

  That left only Esther Bluewood’s mother. Kennedy felt it was vital to speak to her. He would have tried to call her then and there but he knew she was on a transatlantic flight, expected to land at Heathrow in the morning. He reopened the journal and searched o
ut a bit where Esther wrote about her mother.

  *

  Mother’s Day

  Sunday 22nd March

  Another of Ma’s rambling letters arrived today. It was so long I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been still writing the end of it on her kitchen table in Boston when the beginning arrived in England. Doesn’t she realise that it is too long? I’ll never start, let alone finish it. I wouldn’t mind, but she never actually says anything. She writes and writes away, I don’t know anyone who can go on for so long without saying anything. I can picture her scribbling away in her tidy kitchen in Boston. I can nearly hear the sound of the nib as she scratches across the paper.

  Why am I still without feelings for her? Now, with Jens and Holmer, I realise the importance of a mother in a child’s life. Is it because of my earlier illness that I ceased to be a child, and, no longer a child, she thinks I have no need of a mother? Or is it that I blame her for my father’s demise? God this is such old territory and all straight out of Doc Watson’s textbooks at that. But when I think of my own children I wish I could feel differently. But I don’t feel differently. That’s a fact I can’t ignore. I’m avoiding a guilt trip on all of this. I was so relieved when Doc Watson gave me permission to hate my mother. He said it was fine, okay, to hate my mother. That was like a ton weight lifted from my shoulders. Why couldn’t someone have told me that fifteen years ago? And if they had, would things have turned out any differently?

  My mother ignores all this negativity. I can see her sitting there thinking, ‘Daughter. Oh yes, I have one of those. Now, what should a dutiful mother do for her daughter? Yes, of course, I’ll write a letter. Just jot a few things down and send it off to her. Yes, that’s what a mother would do.’ Then she could go to her PTA meeting with a clear conscience and even drop into a conversation about the devotion she has to her daughter.

  I just had a flash while thinking about my relationship with my mother: she never hugged me, or held me, or kissed me. Isn’t that so sad? I cannot remember a single occasion when she hugged me. When we meet up again after a time apart it’s like I’ve just been down to the shops. She behaves so awkwardly, rarely looking me in the eyes. Is she scared of me because of what I’ve done? Does she fear what I might do to her? I have no wish to hurt her mentally or physically. It’s just that she is called my mother; it’s only a name I suppose. But I have to accept that she bore me; through her pain she gave me life. She was a vessel. Maybe I should treat her like that, like a milk jug. I actually like our milk jug, but I’d never go around all day feeling guilty about it. I dwell on my problems and I accept that there are more than a few of them, but I can’t help feeling that if I had a mother, a real mother and not a vessel, I wouldn’t feel this way. These are not problems; these are her problems, all of this shit. I’ve got all this weight on my back because of her. I thought she’d be sad when I left America. My considerations, the last I had, were for her. She was the only reason I didn’t leave immediately after the basement illness. I needn’t have worried; she was happy for me to go. Sure, I was taking all her problems – or most of them, at any rate – away to a foreign country. How considerate of me. Is that a sign of my love for my mother?

  I simply adore Jens and Holmer, I love them to death. They’re so cute you could eat them. What a bizarre thing to say. I love my children so much I could eat them. I’m sure they appreciate that – not the cannibalistic tendencies – the love. I so much want them to grow up to love me in a way I can never love my mother.

  I tore her letter into little pieces and put it in the box with all her other torn (and unread) letters.

  *

  Kennedy seemed to expect the piece to be a little easier on her mother than it turned out to be. Perhaps he assumed, because of her love for her own children, she must have had a soft spot for her mother, however hard she appeared to be on her. Why tear every letter she’d received from her mother into little pieces and keep them together in a box?

  Just then two things happened.

  The Esther Bluewood CD finished, plunging Kennedy’s little study into silence. He enjoyed the silence for only a few seconds before the telephone rang.

  It was ann rea and she sounded upset.

  Chapter 22

  IN THE thirty minutes it took ann rea to reach Kennedy’s house in Primrose Hill he had prepared some food. In that short time he’d done them proud, well, thanks of course to Mr Marks and Mr Sparks. Sadly, though, Kennedy’s enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by ann rea’s lack of appetite. She seemed to be seeking solace in one of the two bottles of Saint Veran she had brought with her.

  ‘I still can’t get over the fact that Esther is dead,’ ann rea said as she finally stopped playing with her food and pushed her plate, still piled with minced meat pie, potato gratin and peas, to one side.

  She poured herself a second, equally generous, glass of the crisp dry white wine and topped up Kennedy’s with a thimbleful of the same. Kennedy was hungry, but he found himself picking at the pie – normally one of his favourite treats.

  ‘We’re convinced she didn’t take her own life,’ he began.

  ‘Oh my God,’ ann rea cried out, ‘that means she was murdered.’

  In some ways she was stating the obvious, but in ann rea’s state it was being uttered in self-realisation.

  ‘God, Kennedy I can’t believe it. What’s the world coming to? Who’d want to murder Esther Bluewood, knowing they were leaving two children without a mother?’

  It wasn’t really a question that needed to be answered, at least not in the short term, and Kennedy figured ann rea was asking herself as much as she was asking him.

  ‘It just suddenly hit home this afternoon. You know, that she wasn’t around any more? We weren’t great friends, we probably couldn’t even be termed friends in the true sense of the word, but we always got on great and recently we’d been meeting up at least once a fortnight.’

  ‘How did you meet?’ Kennedy asked gently. He too had given up on his food, only half finished. He’d eaten all of the potato gratin though; it was just too delicious to waste. He took both their plates, emptied the contents into the rubbish bin behind the kitchen door and placed the dirty dishes in the sink. As he did this, ann rea, ignoring his movements, appeared to slip into a trance, and began to talk.

  ‘I’d been sent to interview her. It was a complete disaster, due to a domestic crisis. Her nanny hadn’t showed, apparently a regular occurrence. Rather than not come to the interview at all, she’d brought the kids along with her. She was in her battered Morris Minor Traveller. We tried to do the interview in the offices of the Camden New Journal, but the kids were too distracted by the noise and activity going on around them, and Esther was distracted too. I was so in awe of her. Here was the woman who’d created Axis, probably the best album since Astral Weeks or Blue. For me she was the missing female link between Joni Mitchell and the New Wave. You know – Suzanne Vega, Tracy Chapman, Joan Armatrading and Tanita Tikaram. We’re talking here, Kennedy, about a time when “girl power” was judged by how short their skirts were. Here was this near genius – in my book, at least – and I’ve got all these vital spiritual, mystical questions to ask her, and she was more concerned with wiping her children’s noses or making sure that Holmer was taking proper care of Jens. She wasn’t exactly tatty, but equally she didn’t fit the look of a glamorous pop star.’

  Kennedy smiled at the picture ann rea was painting. He felt happier now that she was occupied recalling her story. He quietly tidied up and fired up the kettle, just in case ann rea should decide she needed a coffee to dilute the wine. His kitchen was comfortable, very comfortable. It had the country cottage kitchen look, centred around a large table.

  ann rea continued uninterrupted, ‘Instead of me asking her questions, she was asking me what it was like to make a living out of being a writer. What it was like working for a local paper? Did I choose my topics or was I assigned them? Why did my newspaper byline have no capitals? She was a
mused when I told her it was a steal from kd lang and it was just a way to draw attention to myself. She told me that she’d been listening to kd lang for the first time recently because all her friends had been talking about kd’s music. She said she loved her voice but that she didn’t quite get the original songs. I told her about Shadowlands, the album produced by Patsy Cline’s producer, Tom Bradley. I told her about the amazing duet kd sang with Roy Orbison on his song “Crying”.’

  ‘You turned me on to that one as well,’ Kennedy said in encouragement. He sat down again at the table to enjoy his wine. He enjoyed seeing ann rea relax and uncoil from the tight wire ball she’d been when she walked into the house, almost an hour before.

  ann rea continued, ‘The next time we met, she’d listened to both recordings and was more convinced about kd’s voice, but…well, let’s just say she was merely polite about kd’s self-penned lyrics. Anyway, on that first day I’d decided we weren’t going anywhere with the interview so I suggested we take the kids out somewhere, and so we headed to the children’s play area at the foot of Primrose Hill. And that was fine, it was a nice spring afternoon and we bought them a couple of lollipops, we even treated ourselves as well. I remember Holmer wanting to taste everybody’s before he eventually returned to his own. We sat on a park bench in the play area and watched the children leaping and running around. She talked mostly about them and how she could never have guessed how important these two little people would become in her life. She said she still loved writing songs, but whereas writing songs was once her life, it was now secondary to her being a mother. She didn’t even feel it to be a sacrifice; she didn’t think she was giving anything up for them. First and foremost she wanted to be a good mother. All the time we were talking, her eyes followed her children around the playground. Holmer was fearless and was tackling everything successfully. Esther had to persuade Jens she shouldn’t be trying to follow her brother until she was at least a couple of years older.’