by Paul Charles
ann rea seemed, to Kennedy, to go to great lengths to get that point across, even to the point of repeating herself. He also figured she could be sharing some of the same embarrassment he’d just gone through.
Embarrassment was too strong a word. He and ann rea had (supposedly) just split up for the final time and, all things considered, they both would have been much happier speaking to any other living soul at the moment.
‘Really?’ Kennedy replied. Then, thinking that maybe he’d sounded just a mite disbelieving, he continued, ‘Yes. Yes, of course. And…ahm…what, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘God. This is awkward isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ was Kennedy’s single word reply.
‘Look,’ she announced. Kennedy could hear the confidence in her voice growing, ‘let’s deal with this in a professional way, shall we?’
‘Absolutely,’ Kennedy replied, feeling that some of the charge had been taken out of the atmosphere. ‘Good idea.’
‘Okay, I’m a journalist, you’re a policeman.’
‘I’m with you so far.’ Kennedy forced the one liner to try to ease things up a little more.
‘Good. I always knew you were quick on the uptake.’
Great, Kennedy thought, they’d made it to the end of round one.
‘You’re investigating the death of Esther Bluewood,’ ann rea continued, this time not leaving space for a Kennedy quip. ‘Earlier today we were offered her journal for fifty thousand pounds. We were advised that there was a lot of explosive material in it.’
‘Did you take the call or was it someone else?’
‘It was me. They asked for me by name,’ ann rea answered simply, all nervousness gone from her voice.
‘Who was it?’
‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t say.’
‘Man or woman?’ Kennedy asked. In his greed for information he had forgotten all about his domestic disharmony with this particular journalist.
‘Woman,’ ann rea replied quickly, and then added, ‘but I think her voice was heavily disguised – muffled or something.’
‘No one you recognised?’ Kennedy asked.
‘No. Not really, not at all, in fact. But it must have been someone who knew that I knew Esther,’ ann rea replied, now sounding somewhat distracted.
‘Why do you think that?’ Kennedy asked, doodling with a pencil on a blank page of a notepad.
‘Well, think about it. They rang Camden New Journal. As I said, they asked for me. It’s all a bit amateur really, isn’t it? I’m sure we’d have trouble raising fifty quid let alone fifty thousand! One of the male children of the gutter press would have been a much better bet.’
‘Would any of them pay fifty big ones for the journal?’ Kennedy asked.
‘I should think so. If there was dirt in it the Sun might have gone higher. But going back to my original point. I think if someone knew I’d known Esther, they might also think I’d know what to do with the journal.’
‘Taking that point further…surely they would also know that Paul Yeats would be very keen to get his hands on it?’ Kennedy said, drawing a hangman as he scored off the letters in Paul Yeats’ name, which he had printed at the top of the page.
‘Perhaps they also know he’s one of the few people in this world worse off than the Camden New Journal,’ ann rea replied, attempting to laugh. It didn’t really come off.
‘So if this person knows that you were friendly with Esther and also knows that Yeats doesn’t possess the proverbial pot, then it must have been someone quite close to Esther.’
‘Correct. I knew you’d get there without me having to spell it out for you,’ ann rea said.
‘Which means you can’t really talk. There’s someone there with you?’
‘Camden CID. God bless them…right on the money every time you’ve just kissed the pink—’
‘Judy Dillon?’
‘In the pocket, not exactly a Hurricane Higgins shot, more of an interesting Steve Davis, solid and sure, but eventually gets there.’
‘Okay, then. How did you leave it?’ Kennedy said, recalling how when they first met she couldn’t stand snooker.
‘I stalled them until I’d a chance to make a call, told them I’d have to see if we could raise the money. They’re going to ring back in an hour.’
‘Okay, here’s what we do – I’ve got to go and interview someone,’ Kennedy said, looking at his watch. ‘Tell the mystery caller to call back at, say, four o’clock. Tell them you’re trying to raise the money and they should call you back at four. Okay?’
‘Good, that sounds like a plan to me. Ahm—’
‘Look I really do have to go,’ Kennedy interrupted, knowing he was risking hurting her feelings but he felt he knew where the conversation was going.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. Then in a quieter voice, ‘Tell me, Kennedy, how are you doing?’
Up to that point it had been fine. He’d been dealing with a voice on the phone and not the woman he’d split up with the previous night.
‘Oh, you know, trying to be professional,’ he said and cursed himself for being so flippant the moment the words left his lips.
‘Okay. Bye,’ ann rea said, in a reply she just managed to get out before she returned the handset to its rest.
Chapter 26
FIVE MINUTES later, Kennedy and Irvine were in Josef Jones’ apartment (well, part apartment, part shrine to Esther Bluewood, to be more accurate). Josef let them in immediately. This time he was obviously clear of incriminating substances, Kennedy thought. No need for his, now famous, greyhound impression. Kennedy knew that Josef Jones – his person, his apartment and his work place – would all be totally ‘clean’ until the Esther Bluewood investigation was done and dusted.
Jones invited the police into the living area.
‘We’re here to clear up a few facts with you, regarding Esther Bluewood,’ Kennedy began, looking for something that resembled a comfortable chair. When he thought he’d found it, he sat down.
‘Oh!’ Jones said. The host was the last to be seated and he chose to sit cross-legged on the carpet between Irvine and Kennedy, completing a lopsided triangle.
‘Yes, we want to know more about your movements on Sunday,’ Kennedy continued.
‘I’m happy to go through it all again,’ Jones replied, betraying no sign of impatience. If he felt aggrieved, he was certainly doing a great job of hiding it.
‘So, let’s recap,’ Irvine began. ‘You were meant to see Esther on Sunday. She didn’t show, you didn’t try to make contact, you hung around waiting for her and eventually you went into work to do a late shift?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you didn’t go out socially on Sunday?’ Irvine persisted.
‘No.’
‘Then if someone told us you’d been in the Spread Eagle, they’d have been mistaken?’ Irvine said, appearing not only to have a list of questions, but to have them racked up in order.
‘I mean, I was out before I was supposed to see Esther, of course I was. But I was back here by seven thirty to tidy up before she was supposed to arrive at eight. She was a stickler for tidiness you know. It would put her right off if the place wasn’t spic and span.’
‘Let’s just backtrack a wee bit here,’ Kennedy said, picking up Irvine’s thread and showing that he wasn’t particularly worried, at this stage, about Esther’s fetish for tidiness. ‘You got back here at seven thirty?’
‘Yep.’
‘So, what time would that have made it that you left the Spread Eagle?’ Kennedy asked.
‘What’s all this crap about the Spread Eagle? It’s a pub, man, nothing more. Surely your spies told you what time I left. I wasn’t exactly looking at my watch. Probably about half an hour before I got home which would have made it about seven o’clock.’ Josef replied. He appeared bemused with the questions, perhaps a tad cautious as to where they were going.
‘How did you get home, then?’ Kennedy asked.
‘I travel home from Camden Town so often, if I told you I remember which way I travelled on Sunday I’d be lying. Could have been a twenty-nine bus, which you catch just outside Rock On Records, or it’s one stop on the Overground from Camden Road, or maybe I walked. I really can’t remember,’ Jones sighed.
‘If you walked, what way would you have walked?’
Jones looked like he was getting worried. ‘Look, what’s this all about? What does it matter which way I travelled home? I travelled home some way. If I had realised it would have been important for me to get an alibi, I would have hired an open-top double-decker bus and got Frank Bruno to join me, and I would have waved at everybody, and then maybe you’d be happy. Hey, I got here around seven thirty, maybe ten minutes either way, and I was ready for her to be here at eight. She didn’t show.’
‘How did you feel when she didn’t show?’ Irvine asked.
‘It’s the worst feeling, isn’t it, being stood up?’ Jones started. ‘Initially you give them the benefit of the doubt. You know, kids playing up, she couldn’t get them to bed. Ahm, she couldn’t get a taxi. The nanny wouldn’t babysit. It could have been any one of a million good, legit excuses. But all that vanishes after, say, ninety seconds and you start to have doubts. Lord Corduroy is back, she’d decided to dumb you. But you really feel the pits. It’s incredible how early in the wait it hits you that you’ve been stood up. As a rule of thumb, my gut instinct is always spot on, but you keep giving them the benefit of the doubt, as I say. You know, you say to yourself, “I’ll give her another fifteen minutes and that’s it”. And the fifteen becomes thirty, and then becomes an hour. After an hour, you are usually forced to accept the worst. I mean, any more than an hour and you’d be silly to wait around, wouldn’t you? I mean, if I thought someone was prepared to wait around for an hour for me, I’m not sure I want to go out with them any more. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Mmmm,’ was the only reply Kennedy could think of, mainly due to the fact that his mind was elsewhere. ‘Yeah. Look, I don’t think you told us which way you would have walked home.’
Jones sighed. Now he was impatient and he wasn’t scared of showing it.
‘Okay. I would have come out of the Spread Eagle and immediately crossed to the other side of Parkway. The reason I would have done this is that if I had walked down the same side Parkway and crossed Arlington Road I still would have had to cross to the other side of Parkway at the bottom. Now, if it was in the middle of the week with the heavy traffic, I would have walked down Parkway on the same side, because there is a zebra crossing just before Arlington Road. So, now we go down to where Camden High Street crosses Parkway. I cross to the tube station, turn left, walk up Kentish Town Road, past Rock On Records, keep on up Kentish Town Road up to Highgate Road, and right into my street.’
‘Very interesting. You’re right, that’s probably the best way to go, and would you mind telling me how long it takes you to walk that distance?’ Irvine asked.
‘Probably about twenty minutes, but I’ve never timed it,’ Jones replied.
‘Okay, I’ll accept that, probably closer to twenty-five or thirty minutes, but let’s, for the sake of this discussion, say it’s a twenty-minute walk.’
‘Whoa,’ Jones breathed a large breath through his teeth. ‘For a moment there, I thought you were going to charge me with speeding on the pavement.’
‘No, not at all,’ Irvine began, ‘but I was wondering if you could explain to me how you managed to leave the Spread Eagle at seven forty-five.’
Irvine paused for a millisecond and waited until Jones was about to protest, then, ‘You see, as one of our officers was going off duty on Sunday evening, he visited the Spread Eagle for a well-earned pint and spotted you leaving. It was seven forty-five exactly, because he says he checked his watch when he ordered his first pint. The officer has also seen you in there before on several occasions and he recognised you from your picture in the Evening Standard. The price of fame, you see.’
‘So fecking what? What’s the point? I confused my times by twenty minutes or so. So, what does it matter? What did I do for twenty minutes? What on earth is this all about? I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. Esther committed suicide. What does it matter what time I got home? What does it matter what time she was meant to show? She didn’t, she stayed at home, stuck her head in the oven and topped herself, and now we’re all paying for it.’
‘Well,’ Kennedy began, ‘my main point would have to be that if you were going to see Esther Bluewood in your house at eight and you only left the Spread Eagle at seven forty-five, then you would have at least had to catch a taxi to make sure you were there on time. You’re not going to be late to see Esther Bluewood are you?’
Kennedy looked around at the posters and photographs on the walls.
‘You know, what you say might well be correct. Now that I think about it, I did catch a cab home. I must have forgotten the time or something. Yeah, you’re right, I caught a taxi. There, that’s that settled. Anything else?’ Jones said, breaking into a grin.
If only he didn’t have such an evil-sounding voice, I’d find it easier to believe him, Kennedy thought, but said, ‘Yes. Let’s talk about Monday morning. Okay?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The last time we spoke to you, you told us that you were here all Monday morning,’ Kennedy continued.
‘Ahm, yes, if that’s what I said.’
‘Well, how do you explain this then?’ Kennedy said, rising from his chair and walking across to the large Esther Bluewood poster. He searched around the shelf for something he’d spotted on his earlier visit. ‘Ah, yes, here we are…’
Kennedy picked up the Post Office card he’d spotted previously. He read aloud, ‘We called at – and here has been filled in “10:30 a.m.” – to deliver a package. You weren’t in. could you please contact us so that we can arrange for delivery…’ Kennedy paused and looked over at Josef. ‘You see, the delivery driver filled in the time.’ Kennedy turned the card around so that Jones could see the neat handwriting.
Jones was about to say something.
Kennedy beat him to it, ‘We’ve heard how loud your doorbell is, so there’s no way you could have slept through that.’
‘Again,’ said Jones, ‘I have to say, what does it matter if I was in or out? I was in, I slept through it, I couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. I was out somewhere doing something. I was in or I was out. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t live a life where I jot down all these boring details. There’s a life to be led, man. I haven’t time for this domestic crap. Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is, in fact. Did Judy Dillon know you were seeing Esther Bluewood?’ Irvine asked.
‘Do you mean, did she know I was seeing Esther, or did she know I was seeing Esther?’ Josef asked.
‘Oh, I’ll settle for either, to be honest,’ Irvine replied.
‘No, of course not. What, do you think I’m stupid? That would surely have been the quickest way to lose the relationship, wouldn’t it.’ Josef replied.
Kennedy stepped in, ‘Tell me, has she said anything to you about it recently?’
‘About what?’ Jones had his hands held high in front of his chest in apparent exasperation.
‘About your intimate relationship with Esther?’
‘No,’ Jones replied, and then stopped, appearing to consider the implications of the question.
‘You’re sure?’ Irvine asked this time.
‘I have to tell you, these are just the weirdest questions I’ve ever heard. It’s like we’re both in different movies and someone’s mixed up the scripts.’ Jones said, now rubbing his hands on his legs.
‘Yeah,’ Kennedy started, ‘life’s a bit like that sometimes.’
Jones rose to his feet, stretching his legs and shaking each in turn.
‘Paul Yeats,’ Kennedy began, ignoring Jones’ leg-stretching exercises, ‘has he been in touch with you or have you been in touch with him, since Es
ther’s death?’
‘Oh, Lord Corduroy. He was on the phone yesterday, huffing and puffing about some journal. He was in one of his usual superior moods and I haven’t a clue what he was on about. I eventually set the phone down on him. I’d have loved to have been in the room with him – you know, fly on the wall – when that happened. I’ll bet there was steam coming out of his ears by that point.’
‘We may need to see you again, but I think that’s all for now,’ Kennedy said, by way of conclusion.
‘You may need to see me again? Who’s behind all of this? Is Lord Corduroy pulling your strings? Is that what this is all about? What’s he after? He’s got all her money now. That’s all he was ever after. What more can he want? What is going on here? Esther Bluewood committed suicide and you guys are behaving like someone’s murdered the heir to the throne. What’s with all this about the Spread Eagle, the walking, the taxis, the nannies, the journals, anyway?’
‘We’re carrying out our investigations sir,’ Irvine said, as he and Kennedy prepared to leave.
‘Wasting public money. There’s no crime to solve here,’ Jones replied, as he showed them out.
There was something sinister about the way his high-pitched whine delivered the word ‘crime’ that grated with Kennedy. As they walked back towards the car, he said to Irvine, ‘He’s a cold fish that one, isn’t he? He’s supposedly a fan of Esther’s and he’s so matter-of-fact about her and her death. Supposedly a lover, and yet now he’s incapable of displaying any feeling for her other than vague contempt.’
‘We know for certain he’d told us two lies and although it was obvious he’d been found out in both cases, he didn’t seem to care,’ Irvine replied, opening the car door. ‘Where to, now? Judy Dillon’s?’
‘Mmmm,’ Kennedy said, nodding. He got in, sank deep into the car seat and deeper into his thoughts.
Irvine was happy to leave Kennedy alone as he drove. He too had thinking to do.
Chapter 27
