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

by Paul Charles

  ‘I’ll keep you posted on developments, sir,’ Kennedy called after his superior, who was disappearing down the corridor faster than a silver bullet. He started to wonder what this ‘buddy’ thing was all about. Where had it come from? What had Castle been watching on television recently? And ann rea… Castle had clearly known all along and seen through his charade.

  Kennedy was still considering the new ‘buddy’ angle and the ann rea developments when the phone rang. He let it ring a few times before he picked it up. He found that if he didn’t clear one thought out of his head properly then by the time he’d finished his call it’d be gone. Gone forever, unless he took time to jot down a little prompt note. Now he wrote the word ‘alibi’ on his pad. Although he’d introduced it flippantly into his conversation with Castle, it had set off another train of thought.

  He grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hi, Kennedy here.’

  ‘Hi, Kennedy, it’s me,’ the voice said.

  ‘Yes, ann rea, and a right little troublemaker you’ve turned out to be, too.’

  ‘Ah, you have to take your chances where you can find them. Listen can I see you this morning?’ ann rea said. Kennedy could hear how excited she was. Perhaps she’d been thinking about their earlier conversation and had daydreamed her way through the next chapter or two of their lives.

  ‘It’s kind of awkward,’ Kennedy started cumbersomely.

  ‘No, no, Kennedy this is official business. This is your business, perhaps. I’ve just been told that I’m to be the executor of Esther Bluewood’s estate.’

  Chapter 34

  ‘YOU’VE JUST made yourself two enemies.’ These were Kennedy’s first words to ann rea, as he sat down with her in the Delancey Street Café, twenty-seven minutes later.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Paul Yeats and Victoria Lucas, known as Tor to her friends, but of course you won’t be able to count yourself amongst that select band,’ Kennedy informed her.

  The café was filling up with the Guardian, The Telegraph, Times and Independent gang, displaying their politics on the masthead of their newspapers. What Kennedy called the ‘coffee and cappuccino crowd’, who serve to warm up the waiting staff before the lunchtime rush. The café décor suited Kennedy; it was cool but not loud. He liked the Delancey staff, they were efficient, helpful, and never in your face.

  Kennedy ordered a tea and ann rea a cappuccino. As an afterthought she then added a breakfast of rösti potatoes with two fried eggs and bacon. Kennedy, throwing caution to the wind, ordered the same, requesting that his bacon be crispy.

  ‘Why should they be my enemies?’ ann rea asked innocently.

  ‘You’ve got the gig they both wanted, and at least one of them thought they’d got it. This is what Leslie Russell wanted you for?’ Kennedy said, as their drinks arrived.

  ‘Yes,’ ann rea said, scooping up a spoonful of creamy froth and cinnamon from the top of her cappuccino, and popping it into her mouth.

  Kennedy stared at that mouth and its perfectly-formed, full and very kissable lips. He found himself returning now to consider ann rea’s qualities again. During the period they were apart, it was easier not to focus on her strong points. For Kennedy they were many. She had a very kissable mouth, or as Mr Kipling might say, an exceedingly kissable mouth.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Kennedy asked, returning to business, for the time being at least.

  ‘He read the will. Everything is to go to a trust fund set up in the name of her children, to be administrated until they are twenty-one. Until that time the trust is to pay for their education and upbringing. The house in the Cotswolds is to be sold and the proceeds also go into the trust. All her future songwriting royalties and record royalties go the same way. My responsibility is to protect her songs…now, what were her exact words? Yes, ‘in a manner you feel I would have protected them myself’. She made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want any unfinished recordings or demos being released to the public. Leslie Russell told me that Esther felt I would be the best person to protect her songs until such time as Jens and Holmer were old enough to understand. The will says I have the final say until such time as I pass on that decision-making process, in writing, to one or both of the children.’

  ‘Has Yeats been made aware of this yet?’

  ‘Yes, he should have been informed by now. He doesn’t get a penny, though. Even the children’s payments from the trust are to be overseen, approved and signed off by Leslie Russell, who is co-executor of the will. He’s meant to look after all the legal stuff and I’m meant to be “protector of the songs”, that’s how he put it.’

  ‘He’ll be happy enough, it will give him lots of opportunities to have lunches and dinners with you now.’

  ‘Oh, Christy, do I detect a hint of jealously creeping in? Just a little?’ ann rea said, teasing Kennedy a little.

  The waitress chose that exact moment to deliver their breakfasts. Kennedy could feel himself blush a little. He thought he might be blushing a lot from the way his cheeks were burning.

  Kennedy had opted for an Earl Grey tea, which was a bit of a risk for him. Sometimes Earl Grey has a taste of rope or twine about it. Kennedy had never been able to work this out properly; maybe it was the milk. But not the Café Delancey milk; the tea tasted as refreshing and as invigorating as Kennedy knew it should. He took a large swig in the hope that by the time he completed the ritual the waitress would have served them and left them to their privacy again.

  ‘No. It’s just that Russell is an opportunist and there’s nothing opportunists like more than the gift of an opportunity.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Kennedy, not any more. Not that it ever mattered. I was serious earlier on the phone,’ ann rea said, tearing into her bacon.

  ‘After all your doubts and all the trouble you put yourself through, how can you be so sure?’ Kennedy replied, making a beeline for his bacon, which was crisped to perfection. He didn’t fancy sharing it, no matter how much he liked this woman.

  ‘I don’t know. When we split up before I never really thought it was real. I mean, I was serious and all of that, but I still felt that there was something unresolved between us and that we would come back to it in some way, shape or form. But the other night, it seemed so final. Accepting that I was going to lose you meant I had to seriously consider what I was going to lose. After living with this, even for the shortest of times, I decided that I didn’t want to be without you; that I just couldn’t afford to lose you.’

  ‘But…’ Kennedy started. ann rea placed her knife on her plate and raised her palm to Kennedy.

  ‘No. Sorry, Christy, let me continue. It’s not just a case of what I didn’t want to lose. It’s also a case of what I now know I want. You! It might have something to do with Esther dying. I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know I feel like I’ve wanted to feel over the last few years. I wanted to have no doubts. What can I tell you, they’ve gone. I’m totally committed to us. I want it to be the whole nine yards. Everything!’

  ‘Do you think this is wise. As you say, it could be a result of how Esther’s death has affected you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say it was because of Esther’s death, I said it might have been her death that made me start to think about it. There’s a difference there. A big difference,’ ann rea said between munches.

  ‘Look, I’ve been dealing with this for so long in a negative sense…’

  ‘What? Are you saying you need time to think about us?’

  ‘No, I don’t need time to think about it. This is what I want. I want it so badly I’ve spent quite a bit of time conditioning myself to accept that it wasn’t going to happen. So I need time to take it all in, to accept that it is going to happen. We’ve spent so much time going around in circles looking for a door and it looked like we were never going to find it.’

  ‘You sure you want to step through it?’ ann rea asked.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Kennedy replied immediately, unconditionally.

 
‘Great. So what do you think about the Esther Bluewood trust thing?’

  ‘I don’t think you can do anything but accept it. She knew what she was doing when she chose you. She knew you would protect her songs,’ Kennedy replied enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way. I think it’s an honour,’ ann rea said, and set about finishing her food.

  ‘But look, one thing; I’d like you to keep a low profile on this for a while. With first Esther and now Judy Dillon being killed, I think you need to be very careful until we find out who’s behind it all,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Yeah. But I think Leslie Russell will have to tell all Esther’s living dependents sooner rather than later,’ ann rea said.

  ‘In that case, I better get back to my case,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get this. You go. I’ll see you later?’

  ‘Yeah, the end of the day, although I don’t know how long it’ll be.’

  ‘That’s fine. Christy…’ ann rea reached out and caught his hand as he was turning to leave the table.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Wow!’ Kennedy said, falling back into his seat.

  *

  Fifteen minutes later, walking up Delancey Street in the general direction of Parkway and North Bridge House, all Kennedy could think about was that on the third Thursday of the eleventh month at eleven forty-seven in the morning in the Delancey Street Café, ann rea had told him that she loved him.

  What expression fitted other than, ‘Wow!’?

  Chapter 35

  BY THE time Kennedy returned to North Bridge House, it wasn’t that the shock of ann rea’s proclamation had worn off, more that his brain had reverted to concentrating one hundred per cent on his two murder investigations. He had one idea.

  He went to his office and telephoned Leslie Russell.

  After greetings were dispensed with, Kennedy said, ‘Look, I was wondering if you’d told anyone that ann rea is an executor of Esther Bluewood’s estate?’

  ‘No, Christy, I haven’t,’ the solicitor replied. ‘I had to see if she’d accept the position first. Only then can I disclose the details of the will to Miss Bluewood’s dependents and to those mentioned in the will. Paul Yeats, in his capacity as legal guardian of Jens and Holmer – the main beneficiaries of the will; Mrs Violet Bluewood, her mother; and Jill and Jim Beck, who are also mentioned.’

  ‘When will all this happen, Leslie?’ Kennedy asked, simultaneously checking through a sheaf of reports that had been left on his desk.

  ‘In precisely fifteen minutes,’ Russell answered. Kennedy could hear that something else was going on in Russell’s office, aside from their telephone conversation. ‘Sorry we’re just setting things up now. They’ve all been asked to come here. I’m expecting them to start arriving any time now.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of inviting anyone else along, then?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘No. Are you suggesting I invite you along so you can observe people’s reactions as they hear the information?’

  ‘No, I’d never suggest anything like that. But can I assume that in about thirty minutes you will have finished reading the will?’ Kennedy kept on his route undistracted.

  ‘Yes. It’s a relatively short will, I’ll definitely be through in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Good, that’s all I needed to know. In thirty minutes’ time it will be in the public domain,’ Kennedy said. Without waiting for an answer he continued, ‘Thanks for the information, it could be quite crucial to me. I’ll talk to you later, Leslie, cheers.’

  Twenty-five minutes later, at twelve twenty-eight exactly, Kennedy was sitting in his office with Tor Lucas in front of him. Conveniently she was in London as Kennedy had anticipated she would be, eagerly awaiting news of the will. Coles had tracked her down and the three of them sat in the interview room, tape recorder running.

  ‘There are just a few more points we need to clear up today, Miss Lucas,’ Kennedy began.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Tor replied, puffing up her mushroom hairstyle. She was badly in need of a return visit to the hairdressers. Kennedy imagined it must be impossible to sleep in such a hairstyle every night without ruining it. The rest of her was as immaculately turned out as ever. She had the style, and the money to pay for the style, but not the pizazz required to carry it off. Today she was depressed in a bottle-green, high roll-neck sweater, a three-piece black pin-striped suit, black stockings and black high-heel leather shoes.

  ‘Have you heard how Miss St Clair is doing?’ Kennedy asked, apparently by way of introduction. He checked the clock. The second hand was inching its way towards twelve thirty.

  ‘Yes, I have as a matter of fact. That brother of mine has a lot to answer for. Believe you me, he’s not going to brush this one under the carpet. That poor girl, she nearly died,’ Tor said, appearing to Kennedy to voice genuine concern.

  Kennedy thought most people would be disgusted by whatever hand Yeats played in Rosslyn St Clair’s abortion. Even if there was nothing malicious involved, Kennedy thought it might be stretching the line of credibility too far in Yeats’ favour to excuse him for not being there with Miss St Clair when she was going through such an ordeal. Kennedy felt Tor would certainly not have felt good about the way her brother behaved, to say the least.

  Tor’s biggest fault, as far as Kennedy could see, was that she still insisted in behaving like as nervous, giddy teenager, even though she’d probably said goodbye to her teens twenty or more years earlier. It may have been because she was living in a time warp, waiting for her prince charming, Roger Walker, to see the light and abandon his wife and carry her away on his charger – as she thought he should have done all those years ago. Had she blamed her brother for this, the single biggest disappointment in her life? She looked like a person who could always do with hearing good news. Was this a throwback to the days and nights she’d waited for Roger to call?

  ‘We’re trying to track down Paul’s movements for last Sunday night,’ Kennedy said, half in truth, half as a tester.

  ‘I’m sorry inspector, I can’t help you there,’ Tor replied, licking her lips.

  ‘You didn’t see him at all on Sunday, then?’

  ‘No. Well, yes…earlier in the day. I mean, no, I didn’t see him. We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘He seemed pretty up-beat to me,’ Tor said. Kennedy found himself leaning towards her and nodding in an effort to encourage her to say more. ‘But you can never tell with Paul. He’s one of those artists who believe that if they can engineer a crisis in their lives it will act as a creative stimulus. Consequently, you never really know what’s real for him and what’s not. He said he felt sure everything was going to work out for the best.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by that?’ Kennedy asked quietly. Tor leaned towards him as though she was having trouble hearing him.

  ‘I think he meant…’ again she hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’ Kennedy prompted.

  ‘I think he meant that, we…well, the only thing it could have been, the only thing we had talked about was getting Esther’s songs and his songs published under the one roof, with me running the operation. There was nothing else he could have been referring to.’ She paused before continuing, ‘At the same time, did he think giving me the publishing rights to look after would content me, make up for all the disappointments he’d caused me?’

  Kennedy thought Tor was doing okay without any prompting, but he decided to play him trump card anyway. You never know what’s in the other person’s hand, he thought, so you should always play your best cards. That way there are never any regrets. He checked the clock – it was twelve thirty-four.

  ‘Did you know that in her will, Esther Bluewood left control of all her songs and her records to a journalist friend of hers?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Tor said, her head jerking up as if she’d just been woken from a doze.

  ‘Yes, she, ahm…’ continued Kennedy, ‘left a
ll her assets, including her songs and record royalties and the house in the Cotswolds, to a trust. The trust will take care of Jens and Holmer until they’re old enough to take it over. In the meantime it is to be run by Esther’s solicitor and the journalist friend.’

  ‘ann rea?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kennedy replied, feeling further explanation might only complicate matters.

  ‘That figures. Paul was always saying how well they got on and he was consistently complaining that she never wrote anything good about him.’ Tor laughed, thought for a few seconds and continued, ‘I asked him if she ever wrote anything bad about him and he said, no she hadn’t, and I told him he should count his blessings.’ Tor thought for a few seconds and then asked, ‘And my brother? What did Esther leave Paul?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ she said in disbelief.

  ‘Nothing,’ Kennedy confirmed for the second and final time.

  ‘Well, he’s cooked the golden goose, then, hasn’t he?’ Tor said and started laughing. ‘All his plotting and planning, all his clandestine meetings, they’ve all amounted to sweet eff all.’

  ‘What do you think the objective of all his plotting and planning was?’

  ‘I’m afraid, Inspector Kennedy,’ Tor began, regaining her poise, ‘I fear he may have done what you yourself suspect him of having done.’

  Chapter 36

  KENNEDY LEFT the interview room immediately, leaving Coles to conclude the interview. He grabbed Irvine and told him to get a car and meet him at the front of North Bridge House in even less time than it takes the nutrition expert at McDonald’s to do his work.

  Using Sergeant Flynn’s phone, he telephoned Leslie Russell insisting the receptionist interrupt the meeting still in progress with Paul Yeats. When he eventually managed to speak to the solicitor Kennedy asked him to stall Yeats until they had a chance to get there. He knew Russell would be in the client’s room which was on the first floor of the solicitor’s office, a three-storey house in Camden Square. The deal was that Russell was to keep Yeats on the premises until such time as Kennedy parked up outside. Kennedy wanted to avoid, if possible, having to pick up Yeats on Russell’s property.