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

by Paul Charles

  ‘Does that mean Paul knows the gentleman in question?’ Kennedy felt compelled to ask.

  ‘I’m afraid so. You see Roger, Roger Walker that is, well he’s a good friend of Paul’s. It’s all so long and complicated and sordid and I don’t really see that it’s of any relevance whatsoever. But I’m sure if I don’t tell you, you’ll go poking your nose around until everyone finds out about it.’

  But is it relevant, Kennedy thought to himself. He said nothing.

  ‘You see, Roger, Paul and I grew up together. We were chums. All hung out together. When we got to a certain age, well Roger and I took a different kind of interest in each other, and then he and Paul went off to college together. I went to university. When we met up again, Paul and I continued our affair—’

  ‘You mean Roger and you, of course…’

  ‘Yes, stupid, that’s what I said.’ Victoria replied.

  ‘Ahm, no…sorry, yes, please continue,’ Kennedy said, deciding mid-sentence to change course. ‘So you and Roger met up again?’

  ‘Yes, we resumed our relationship. It was very serious. At one point we decided to get married and I told Paul. He’d been unaware all those years that Roger and I had been seeing each other. Roger was as keen as I was to keep it quiet. He was even scared of telling Paul we were getting married. He said we should just run away, do it quietly and then tell everyone when we got back. But it was going to be my big day, for heaven’s sake. Anyways, I told Paul and he went absolutely ballistic. Totally ape! He started ranting and raving about how Roger had behaved at college with a non-stop stream of girls. He went off and had a bloody fight with Roger. He persuaded me that it would be unwise to marry Roger…and we called it off.’

  ‘Just like that?’ Kennedy asked in disbelief. He was wondering what happened to the course of true love and all that.

  ‘Of course it was more complicated than that. Life is always more complicated than that. We can’t always put ourselves first can we? Anyway, to cut a very long story short, Roger went off and got married to someone else. I didn’t. I never really got over it to be honest,’ Tor said sadly. She sounded so sad, Kennedy started to feel sorry for her.

  Tor Lucas looked like she needed time to compose herself.

  ‘Oh, how silly of me. Do you have a handkerchief?’ she asked, as the beginning of a tear rolled down her cheek.

  Kennedy never ceased to be amazed at what baggage people carried around with them. Here was this wannabe aristocratic woman with an apparent attitude. She’d been well brought up, was obviously not short of a few bob, dressed well. Yet her history was as intriguing as any movie you could see or any book you might read. Everyone had a story; we all have regrets. Every one of us carries stuff around, Kennedy thought. If he was to swap the story of his relationship with ann rea, would that make her feel good or would it make her feel worse? Nah, he decided, she’d never believe it; she’d just think he was trying to make her feel better. Even he had trouble believing what he and ann rea had been through sometimes.

  And then there were always two sides to every story, both told with equal passion and both told to sympathetic sets of ears. ann rea’s friends would console her with: ‘Really, how could he be so inconsiderate? Men they’re all the same really, when you get down to it.’ And his mates, if there were any, would say: ‘Women! They just don’t know what they want, do they? Treat them mean and keep them keen. That’s what I say.’ But there wasn’t really anyone Kennedy would confide in about the ann rea story. He didn’t have that kind of blokey relationship with any men.

  It seemed to Kennedy that everyone was wandering around in minefields of domestic and social disharmony. Did Paul Yeats’ inability to have a long relationship with a single woman have anything to do with his sister? Even James Irvine – definitely a better chap than Yeats in that he never cheated on his women – but for him the chase seemed to be the most important part of the relationship. Once he’d won his woman, once she’d committed to him, he lost interest. Irvine knew it was a flaw, but he was unable to do anything about it; he hoped it was because he’d never truly been in love. Kennedy knew that Irvine was getting fed up making a career out of saying goodbye.

  And Rose Butler. Kennedy hadn’t thought about Rose since the Ranjesus affair. That issue was still unresolved but Kennedy was convinced that their paths would cross again some time. Camden Town was a village in that respect. Dr Ranjesus was another case in point. Outwardly respectable, beautiful wife and family, successful career and there was the good doctor, pursuing a non-stop series of affairs with young nurses, some of whom he’d even managed to get pregnant. One of whom he had murdered – well, Kennedy and Rose Butler were convinced he had.

  Everyone Kennedy could focus on carried some baggage or other around with them. Kennedy found himself wondering, not for the first time, about Anne Coles. What was her story?

  Tor Lucas interrupted his mental free-fall with a little sniffling and a blowing of her nose, courtesy of the Kleenex supplied by Kennedy.

  ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me,’ Tor continued, pulling Kennedy back from his thoughts.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ he replied, his voice as kind and soft as ever.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never really discussed this with anyone before,’ Tor said, composing herself, a signal that she was ready to continue. ‘Roger got married. It was all very civil, Paul and I went to the wedding, and then about five years ago I literally bumped into Roger in the street in Chelsea. We went for a coffee and then to a bar for some wine. He told me how unhappy he was. We drifted back into the relationship, which of course now had to be classed as an affair. I see him once a week. To be truthful that is enough for me. I haven’t dated any other men. After Roger married, I lost all interest in men. So this affair is really the perfect compromise for me. I escape all the grief of a full-time relationship.’

  She paused, reached across the desk, took Kennedy’s notebook and pen and wrote down the name Roger Walker and an out of town telephone number.

  ‘Please be discreet,’ she said.

  The interview had reached its natural conclusion. Kennedy helped her on with her coat and saw her to the door of North Bridge House. She turned to face him and kissed the air beside his cheek, before turning on her blue high heels and running off down Parkway.

  Kennedy, hands deep in pockets, watched her go. He couldn’t help wondering if maybe that had been one of the best theatrical performances he’d ever witnessed.

  Chapter 24

  MEANWHILE, WDC Anne Coles, her trusted DC Lundy in tow, was making her way by train to Fulbrook, in the wilds of Cotswolds. Her intention was to interview Rosslyn St Clair, who had mysteriously reappeared according to Paul Yeats’ mother. Actually the local police in Witney had advised them that there was no railway station in Fulbrook. They’d have to catch a train to Charlbury (one of England’s best kept stations), where a local squad car would pick them up and ferry them on to Fulbrook.

  Yeats’ mother was conspicuous by her absence. Particularly as Coles and Lundy had found the back door of the picture-postcard cottage open, hinge creaking ominously, when they’d knocked. Coles pushed the door open further and called out. There was no response. She called out louder, pushing the door fully open and stepping into the cottage. Coles was sure she could hear groaning from somewhere deep within. Lundy shadowed her every movement.

  Gingerly they walked through the kitchen, with its low oak beams, and opened a rickety latch door into a hallway. The groans were growing loader and seemed to be coming from behind a door to their left. Lundy tapped on the door and announced that they were from the police. Again, someone groaned, this time louder. Coles pushed open the door with some force to find a young woman lying full length on the sofa. The only part of her body visible above the Black Watch tartan woollen rug, was her head.

  Her long black hair was matted with perspiration.

  ‘Is that you, Paul?’ a weak and obviously delirious voice said, ‘I’ve done what you wanted�
� I got rid of it.’

  The room was cold, cold in colour and cold in temperature. The walls were a light blue and the wood – rafters, skirting boards, doorframes and door – were all dark, varnished pine. Coles figured the room, and probably the cottage, was more Yeats than Bluewood. His rebellion against her natural taste, perhaps. Even the sofas and two floral-patterned easy chairs were mostly hidden under dark grey and brown covers. The hearth was still wealthy from a previous day’s ashes, cold and grey and smelling somewhat damp. A blue earthenware vase filled with dead flowers was placed on a wooden sideboard. Coles figured Yeats used the place as a stop-off rather than as a home. Or perhaps he was just incapable of creating a homely atmosphere?

  ‘There, there,’ Coles said, as she sat down on the edge of the sofa to comfort the girl. Lundy meanwhile was busy on his mobile telephone, calling for an ambulance. Coles feared the sickly-sweet smell could be the smell of blood. She gently removed the blanket to reveal the body and breathed a sigh of relief to not find a speck of blood. The girl was drenched from head to toe in sweat, which accounted for the earthy, salty smell.

  Coles did what she could to make the young woman as comfortable as possible. She wondered where Yeats’ mother was. Who was meant to be looking after this young woman? If Coles’ assumption was correct and the young distressed woman was in fact Rosslyn St Clair, then Mrs Yeats senior definitely knew she was in the house. She had informed Sergeant Tim Flynn of this while he was engaged in telephonic backup work for Kennedy’s team.

  About twenty minutes later an ambulance arrived, responding to Lundy’s 999 call, lights flashing, siren shrieking like a CD player stuck on some obscure Beatle harmony backing vocal. A neighbour, attracted by the racket, invited herself into the cottage to see exactly what all the commotion was about. She positively identified the young woman as being Rosslyn St Clair.

  The paramedics advised Coles that the young lady had recently undergone what had all the appearances of a backstreet abortion. They complimented the members of Camden police for alerting them, stating further that if they hadn’t been called out when they were, it was certain Miss St Clair could have died from internal bleeding. That said, they made her comfortable and transferred her by stretcher to the ambulance, snugly wrapping her in a red blanket. Coles realised that the blanket would act as camouflage to patients who might otherwise panic when they saw the sight of their own blood, particularly if smeared on something as betraying as, say, a virgin white blanket. She sent Lundy off with the ambulance to monitor proceedings and to make sure Miss St Clair was off the critical list before he returned to London.

  The train carrying Coles back to London passed a never-ending parade of back gardens. They varied in size, shape and what they revealed, but even these numerous glimpses into people’s lives could not distract Coles from the image of Rosslyn St Clair lying helplessly on the sofa, her life draining away from her. Paul Yeats’ new girlfriend had nearly died from the effects of having their baby aborted, and all of this only two days after the murder of his wife. Her mind went through an endless stream of possibilities.

  Every time she passed a new row of rear gardens, another theory hit her. But the main thread, the one she kept returning to, was: what is it with this man? What did he have that made all these ladies in his life jump through hoops so?

  Could he possibly have told Esther Bluewood that Rosslyn was with child? Surely not. Maybe Esther had found out of her own accord and confronted him about his sordid life. Either way, a quarrel had ensued which had resulted in Esther Bluewood losing her life and Rosslyn St Clair nearly having lost hers.

  Had that been the plan? Had Yeats organised the low-key abortion so that he wouldn’t be publicly connected? Or could the second part of his plan have been to be ‘careless’ with Rosslyn during her convalescing period in the hope that she too would expire? Thus solving another of his problems.

  Had Esther threatened to cut him off? Maybe she’d even warned him that she was considering taking the children back to her mother’s home in America. Had his usual effective powers of persuasion not worked with her on this important occasion? Kennedy had advised Coles and the rest of the team that Esther had claimed in the journal that Yeats had hypnotic powers. Had these powers stopped working? Desperation can help destroy natural powers. Coles followed that train of thought for a time, only to replace it with an equally vivid memory from her youth.

  The memory involved an older man, a much older man, in fact – a widower who was a friend of her father. She had always been comfortable in his company and he was always quite fresh with her. She liked that. She was seventeen at the time and she remembered he’d made her feel like a woman. He was fifty, not quite ancient, but definitely old. Sandy was his name. She always felt in control. Once, when her parents were out and she and Sandy were alone in the house, she asked him to kiss her. Just straight out of the blue, she couldn’t believe the words she was saying herself. She’d been with boys before, but she wanted to see what it would be like to kiss a man, a real man. She felt so naughty, but at the same time she yearned to get away from her immaturity. She felt that for the young, sex was such a long and complicated process. You hold hands, you hug, you kiss, you feel, and that entire process can take two months to achieve. When you get older – well now, that’s a different thing altogether. Sometimes a single kiss can unlock the doors of mystery all at once and in seconds, without those months of planning and scheming, you can end up in bed together, making love. When she and Sandy kissed, she was completely turned on. So was Sandy. It seemed he was as eager for her young, fresh, firm body as she was for his older, more experienced one. She surrendered to her desires, but was vexed to hear a few minutes later, ‘Sorry old girl, there appears to be no lead in the pencil.’

  She supposed the one positive thing about it happening with one so experienced was that, on his part, there was little or no embarrassment. A mere: ‘Oh, these things happen, old girl’, would do. The barrier had been broken, and it was only a matter of time, two days in fact, before they did make love. Their love making was sweet, the sweetest thing of her teens. She was lost in thoughts of such pastimes when the image of Paul Yeats flashed into her head as quickly as the telegraph poles flashed by her train window.

  The big niggle Coles had about the case was the ginormous jump between Bluewood finally losing her patience with Yeats and him killing her. Yes, he’d behaved a bit suspiciously. What was all that rigmarole about Yeats up in Islington on the Beck’s doorstep, demanding the keys to the Morris Minor Traveller? There was obviously something going on, but what on earth was it?

  On and on the train thundered. Coles tried to tune back into her Sandy daydream but found that daydreams occur naturally or not at all. Instead, other ideas on the case flashed through her mind. As they pulled into Oxford station, she wondered how Kennedy’s team were getting on back in London. She’d spoken to him on the phone and told him about her discovery. He agreed Lundy should stay behind but said he needed her back in Camden Town.

  The thought that Kennedy needed her in Camden Town made Coles feel good. Before she managed to become too hung up on that thought – pleasant though it was – Kennedy had qualified it by saying he needed her to talk to Esther Bluewood’s mother who’d just arrived at Heathrow. Kennedy had also advised her that he and Irvine were going to be tied up for several hours talking to Josef Jones and then Judy Dillon, who even Paul Yeats had referred to as, the nanny from hell!

  Chapter 25

  KENNEDY HAD never been an admirer of the mobile phone. He figured humans were meant to be free from technology for at least part of their time. If this were not the case, then surely God would have fixed an aerial beside those ineffective wings he’d stuck on the sides of our head for us to hang our spectacles on. Kennedy was lucky enough to be passing through the reception area of North Bridge House when Coles rang in. Eagle-eyed desk sergeant Tim Flynn called to Kennedy, just as he and DS Irvine were about to descend the steps.

  ‘R
ight, we’re off!’ Kennedy announced, handing the phone back to the silver-haired sergeant. The call had taken a matter of two minutes.

  ‘See you later, then,’ Flynn called after them, as he automatically and unconsciously picked up the recently-replaced receiver, answering another in a never-ending audience of calls. ‘Hello, Camden Town Police Station, Sergeant Flynn here, how can I help you?’ Then a pause… ‘Oh, just hang on a moment, please.’ Then another pause, this time no more than a heartbeat, and, ‘Detective Inspector Kennedy!’

  Kennedy turned around for the second time in as many minutes, sighed and shouted, ‘Who is it? No, whoever it is, tell them I’ll ring back later.’

  ‘Mmmm, it’s miss ann rea for you, sir,’ Flynn called back, hiking his shoulders in a ‘What should I tell her?’ manner.

  Kennedy hesitated.

  ann rea obviously knew he was there. So, if he didn’t take the call she’d read something into it. Kennedy didn’t know exactly what she would read into it, but he didn’t want it to be rudeness. He was still running through the various possibilities of what to do when Irvine made his decision for him.

  ‘Look, I’ll go get the car, sir. You go back to your office and take the call, and I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.’

  ‘Yes, good,’ Kennedy stammered, still hesitating. ‘Yes, why don’t you do that. Tim, give me a few minutes to get back to the office and put the call through.’

  It had been an awkward and embarrassing moment for Kennedy, but he imagined most of the self-consciousness was down to his personal guilt. In reality neither Irvine nor Flynn would have given the incident a second thought.

  ‘Hi,’ Kennedy said tentatively, now comfortably seated in his chair.

  ‘Hi Kennedy. Look, sorry to ring you and it’s a little bit weird to be honest, but I should tell you up front it’s nothing whatsoever to do with us. It’s not about us at all, it’s about business. This is an official call.’