by Paul Charles
Fountain Of Sorrow
This edition first published 2016 by Fahrenheit Press
www.Fahrenheit-Press.com
Copyright © Paul Charles 2016
The right of Paul Charles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
F 4 E
Fountain Of Sorrow
By
Paul Charles
An Inspector Christy Kennedy Mystery
Fahrenheit Press
For Catherine.
Prologue
This path, so often her friend, companion and launch pad into her fantasy world, was now the bed of her fear and pain. A couple of trees’ worth of leaves could not make the well-trodden path feel any softer as he pumped on and on into her.
She was restrained, hands together above her head by the youngest (she had guessed he was the youngest by the length of time it had taken him to do his ugly business) and legs spread-eagled by the remaining two. She was surprised by how strong they all were in the pursuit of their adolescent urges.
Surprised mostly by the one with cropped black hair, whom she was sure had a couple of sisters, one her own age. She was not surprised at the smell of stale tobacco and beer from their collective breath as each one tried in turn to kiss her - was that meant to be some kind of affection?
She didn’t spit at them, she didn’t bite at them, neither did she struggle and try to escape her captors. No, she didn’t want to be beaten up, she feared for her life and was desperate, to the point of complying, to protect it. At one point during the fumbling of the second and tallest one - thin with badly dyed blond hair, dirty white T-shirt and navy blue jogging trousers with a white stripe down each leg, a white stripe crumpled into six inches as it lay around his ankles, between her legs - she felt for sure they would have to kill her, for she knew them, well at least three of them, while the fourth, the one now restraining her hands above her head, was giving her ample opportunity to note all the imperfections of his spotty face.
She heard the one whose sisters she knew keep telling his partners in crime not to hit her, not to mark her - just restrain her. She also realised that they hadn’t torn any of her clothes. In fact they had, again under the direction of their leader, carefully removed her undergarments and raised her skirt to her waist. Hell, they’d even tried to make her wet before penetration.
All such thoughts and observations faded due to the pain; the sharp burning pain. She’d never felt a pain so sharp, it was worse than any toothache she had experienced during her seventeen years. Her brain yelled out, Oh God, why? Why like this for my first time? Where is my father, where is he now I need him to protect me?” Her mouth remained shut for fear of encouraging a tongue.
As the third finished he rose from her, the smirk draining from his acne riddled face, and she stared deep into his brown eyes. She mustered the little energy she had left and her look of disdain screamed at him louder that any voice: “You can do this to my body, but you’ll never, ever, have me. You are dirt and I will wipe you from me the way I wipe dog shit from my feet!”
He stood up, tucked his ‘smile’ T-shirt into his Levi jeans and zipped up his flies. He then surprised her by not taking over from the fourth, the chubby one currently guarding her left leg, and allowing him to have his turn with her; instead he just walked away. The others stared after him, no one speaking. By the time he had walked forty yards back down the hill, turned right out of Primrose Hill at St Edmund’s Terrace and made a quick left down Ormonde Terrace in the direction of the zoo, his friends realised he was not going to return. One by one they liberated her limbs.
The chubby one was about to say, “What about me?” when the leader nodded in the direction of the zoo. “It’s over. Let’s go,” was all he said, and a few seconds later she was by herself. The only sounds she could hear were the noise of her heavy breathing and the flapping of a wind-filled plastic carrier bag trying, vainly, to escape the wiry branches above her.
She refused to cry. She refused to lie there feeling sorry for herself. She put on her pants; for some reason she had been gripping them tightly all the time in her left hand. She rose gingerly to her feet, dusted herself down and headed off awkwardly and painfully to the comfort and protection of her parents home, which was no more that 600 yards away.
But for some reason she changed her mind and ventured instead in the opposite direction, towards the foot of Primrose Hill and beyond.
Chapter One
“Let’s get this straight,” began Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy, “All these, these, people,” his eyes arched out over Camden Town’s crowded Electric Ballroom, “are gathered here to buy, sell and swap toys?”
“Aye, grown men, and women, still playing with their bleedin’ Dinky Toys!” Detective Sergeant James Irvine replied, as stunned as Kennedy at the buzzing sight before them.
“Corgis, actually. The majority of people here today deal in Corgis and Corgi Classics,” came a terse reply from one of the stallholders, a lean red-faced midlander who had been eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Oh, sorry,” said Kennedy, embarrassed. “We’re new to all this, you’ll have to forgive us our ignorance.”
Kennedy gripped his DS by the elbow and moved him deeper into the stall-laden dance floor. “It’s a whole different world,” he offered in complete amazement, surveying the multicoloured, musty-smelling, noisy scene.
Kennedy was surveying the scene, his fingers furiously twitching, with the thought “What’s all this got to do with the dead body?” filling his head.
On this particular occasion the body was that of a middle-aged man, probably late thirties, early forties, discovered by one of the Camden Council bin men - also known and advertised as “The Dream Team - Working for you!” but preferring the title, “Refuge Collectors”. The collector in question, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Rod Stewart, was picking up black plastic waste bags from the corner of Gloucester Gate Bridge up at the Regent’s Park end of Parkway, when he noticed the body lying face down on a sharp stony bed about ten foot below street level. The body was less than twenty feet away from Camden’s most overtly Hollywood styled house. The occupants of this once elegant residence were shielded from the horrific sight by several bushes and small trees and about twelve years’ worth of undergrowth.
The potential future contestant of Stars in their Eyes leapt over the bridge to see if he could be of any assistance. Alas, he was ten hours and forty-three minutes too late to be of any help, or hindrance, to this helpless victim. As our adventurer closed in on the body he noticed an incredible amount of blood around the head. The greenness of the spring grass all around the corpse had been stained a very unattractive brown by more blood, dried with the hours but wearing a moist sheen from the dew.
The police had been called and Christy Kennedy had arrived within two minutes and twenty seconds, with his trusted DS in tow. This was the amount of time it took to walk the very short distance from North Bridge House, across the road around very dangerous traffic lights in the general direction of the bridge, the scene of the crime. A set of lights for one direction appeared to be out of sync with its partners, so while two lanes stopped to respect those crossing, the remaining lane spurted its heavyweight traffic straight at you and the vehicles attempting to cross P
arkway, encouraged by the static two lanes. Yes, very dangerous and the scene of many an RTA (Road Traffic Accident) right there on the doorstep of Camden CID.
DS Irvine immediately took charge of the SOC; due to his expertise in the area he was Kennedy’s favourite bagman. He made sure no one disturbed valuable evidence, if indeed valuable evidence was there to be found. Four minutes later Dr Bella Forsythe arrived to examine the body. She explained to Kennedy that she would be handling the situation as Dr Leonard Taylor, her boss and one of Kennedy’s good friends and trusted team members, was on a week’s leave.
Kennedy remembered the earlier scene, as he continued to survey the toy fair, of the gentle and beautiful Dr Forsythe turning over the body to reveal that most of the throat and lower face of the victim appeared to have been ripped away.
“I think you better be on the lookout for a savage dog, Detective Inspector, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so viciously mauled,” said the stand-in doctor. Kennedy was acquainted with her as she had often assisted Dr Taylor on his cases. He knew she was about forty but she looked thirty. Even on an early morning murder case she was sensationally dressed in a stunning, but practical, light grey trouser suit with a blue blouse. No hints of sexuality, just classic appearance, completed by her long blonde hair pulled tightly over her head and tied back in a pony tail. If she wore any make-up it was only hints, but Kennedy found it hard to believe the picture before him was created without help of cosmetics.
Before putting the human remains in a body bag DS Irvine carefully emptied all the victim’s pockets, eight in total, two heart and two side in his well worn blue denim jacket and two side and two rear in his darker blue jeans.
The DS’s search produced three pound coins, two fifty-pence pieces, four five-pence pieces and six two-pence pieces. The victim had been well flush with paper money, a fiver, three tenners and sixteen twenty-pound notes. The notes were stuffed haphazardly into the various pockets. Further inspection revealed a mini pack (and very handy they are too) of Kleenex, a couple of rubber bands and (neatly folded) a flyer announcing the toy fair proclaiming that it “Specialises in Corgis”. The fair was advertised for that very same day, the first Saturday in April, in the Electric Ballroom, Camden Town.
The flyer had, written in biro in spidery handwriting, “Harrison - White Metal - Stall B21 - 8.30,” which explained why two and a half hours later Kennedy and Irvine were standing in the middle of the maddest, noisiest and most colourful buzz Kennedy could imagine.
“Different strokes for different folks, sir,” was Irvine’s comment.
Kennedy and his DS searched out stall B21; it was right in the middle of the dance floor. A dance floor which had once (allegedly) supported eight thousand feet gently tapping to the hypnotic beat of Jim Reeves. B21 differed from all the surrounding stalls in that it offered not a lot of Corgis to the thronging masses eager for a bargains and rare ones at that. In fact it offered not a single Corgi. The proprietor - one “Geo. Harrison, Stockport, England,” displayed a sign in large purple and green felt-tip for all to see: “White Metal Models Only!”
The owner, whom Kennedy presumed was the Harrison from the flyer, was the gent in the space, all one and a half square feet of it to be exact, behind his centrally-positioned stall with everything at arms’ length.
Irvine lifted the dearest-marked model, the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud priced at £320, knowing this was the quickest way to secure the owner’s complete and undivided attention.
“Aye, carefully with that one, lad, you won’t find many of that one around. I say you won’t find many of that one around. I’ll tell thee and that’s no lie, in fact I’ll give you a score if you can find another one of those on this floor today. They only made six of that model. That one, as I’m sure you can see, is in great nick; aye I say that one’s in great nick. Mint, yes mint in the true sense of the world.” The owner of the voice had meant world and not word, and he had a twinkle in his eye matched only by a ruby set into his front tooth which gave a sparkle to his otherwise dull and darkening teeth.
As Irvine carefully returned the rare Rolls to its pride-of-place position on the stall he and Kennedy produced their warrant cards.
“Oh, shit, I didn’t realise you were cops, although your dress sense well, the fact that you even have a sense of dress, sets you apart from the collectors. The anoraks around here tend to” and here the burly northerner paused and thought carefully, “tend to wear anoraks!” he concluded proudly.
Kennedy wasn’t going to wait for the “I say they tend to wear anoraks,” repeat refrain. He said “We’re investigating, we found a body this morning and he had this flyer in his pocket.” Kennedy produced the flyer which he unfolded and handed to Harrison. “We’re just trying to identify him.”
The colour drained from Geo. Harrison’s face till it resembled the greyness of his hair.
“God, it’s my handwriting. I gave it to Flute yesterday. To Flute Burton. I was introduced to him yesterday evening in the Spread Eagle by one of the stall owners. Burton wanted some work and I needed someone to help me out here today, I say I needed someone to help me out here. A big day today, lots of Americans in town for some reason. Anyway, my mate Barney, he’s over there by the wall.” Harrison pointed behind the two policemen to a stall near the entrance. The stall was easily visible as it was two or three steps higher from the dance floor they were now on.
“Barney, yeah, he sells display cases. Barney said Burton had worked for him before a couple of times and he was okay, you know, he picked up things fast, he knew his way around the model world. So I hired him, bought him a drink to cement the deal and then he didn’t show at eight-thirty this morning, I was really annoyed, I say I was really annoyed and put him down as a waster. Usually my son comes with me but he’s just started courting and, well, it’s no competition I suppose, but give him a couple of years, a marriage and a few kids and he’ll be screaming to get back out with me on the stall, just to get a break and a bit of peace and quiet at the weekends, I say a bit of peace and quiet at the weekends,” Harrison wagered.
“This Flute Burton, did he have dyed blonde hair?” inquired Kennedy, the quietness of his voice not very effective in the present surroundings.
“Yeah, that’s him, blonde hair, black eyebrows. I would have thought he was old enough to know better, but I suppose each to their own, I say each…” At that moment someone tried to push their way past the two detectives. Irvine moved to restrain him but Kennedy nodded negative (firmly) and waited till Geo. Harrison took another step (sixty quid) to catching up with his namesake’s fortune.
“Can you tell us anything else about Mr Burton?” Kennedy inquired on completion of the sale.
“No, not really. You know what? I’m not even sure I would recognise him again, apart from the blonde hair and black eyebrows. Barney might know more about him. Was he murdered?”
“We’re not really sure if he was murdered or not.” Irvine said simply and honestly.
“Oh I just thought with the police and all that you know.”
“Let’s just say that he died in mysterious circumstances and we have to check them out,” Irvine offered
Kennedy helped himself to one of Harrison’s business cards which were displayed liberally around the front of the stall.
“Just in case we need to contact you again,” Kennedy told the stall owner. He was tempted to add “I say, just in case we need to contact you again,” but restricted himself to “thanks a million for your time, you’ve been very helpful.”
Geo. Harrison smiled goodbye to them as his fished around in the deep pockets of his light blue anorak, and with the ease of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat he produced a large packet of smoky bacon potato crisps. The somber news was not about to dull his appetite.
Kennedy and Irvine crisscrossed the twenty yards or so to the cabinet maker with great difficulty. The ballroom was now well packed, so packed that Kennedy imagined it was a major fire risk. The smell of t
he ageing and musty model boxes and packaging - vital to their value - did little to quell his fears.
Barney rubbed his hands with glee as he spied two well dressed gentlemen, one of them looking every inch the country squire, the other in snazzy black well cut suit with crisp white shirt, plain dark green tie and vibrant green waistcoat. The hand-rubbing was abruptly discontinued the moment the two gentlemen produced their warrant cards.
As they were now closer to the entrance the noise was considerably louder and all three had to shout to make themselves heard, but over the din Kennedy and Irvine managed to pick up address (13 Hilldrop Crescent), full name (Neil “Flute” Burton, unemployed but available for casual labour), and that Burton was not married but living with a woman and child, the father of whom was apparently unknown.
Kennedy and Irvine decided to stop at North Bridge House to drop off some of their recently discovered details of the deceased on their way to visit the girlfriend. This was a task Kennedy would happily have passed on to others, but he always felt more uncomfortable when he did so. So on this beautiful spring morning, when all of Camden and Primrose Hill was showing the first signs of new life, he would be the one to deliver the news of a life just terminated.
Chapter Two
Kennedy was surprised - shocked, indeed - at how well Flute Burton’s girlfriend took the news of the death of her live-in lover. Katherine McGuinness showed them into the lounge of her two-bedroom basement flat at the corner of Hilldrop Crescent and Leighton Road, just off Camden Road.
Kate had very fine (unmanageable) natural blonde hair which fell into an ordinary but not unattractive face. She was dressed in red slacks and a yellow shirt which didn’t conceal the lines of her underwear. Kate immediately took stock of the situation, and showing no signs of anxiety she picked her three-year-old ginger haired son from the floor and started rocking him on her lap as she sat back on her well worn sofa, which she shared with DS Irvine.
