Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  “Again, casual labour. The promoters pay teams of people to pass out leaflets for their forthcoming concerts to audiences exiting current concerts,” Irvine replied.

  Before any further consideration could be given to the death of Neil “Flute” Burton, someone now arriving at North Bridge House would throw further light on the death. The desk sergeant, Tim Flynn, an Irishman whose forty-two years in London had not dulled his rich Ballymena tones, buzzed through to Kennedy to inform him that Bella Forysthe had arrived. In the time it would have taken you to walk once around the girth of her boss Dr Taylor, she was in Kennedy’s office seated and sharing a cup of tea with the DI and his DS.

  “This is rather quick.” began the DI.

  “Yes. Normally it would have taken us a little longer but this is quite a straightforward case. Burton was savagely attacked. His main arteries were all severed. As a result of this he bled to death and expired at around eleven-thirty last Friday evening. Basically, the deceased had his throat ripped open by a very large dog or, by a wild animal.”

  “Not the Hound of the Baskervilles I hope,” quipped Kennedy, feeling his joke somewhat inappropriate the minute it left his lips. “Sorry,” he apologised to the shocked forensics woman, “Please continue.”

  Bella Forysthe may not have looked her age of forty-two, but her manner suggested early middle-age. She was dressed very soberly in a royal blue two-piece tight-fitting suit, waisted three-quarter-length jacket and knee-length skirt, with a white blouse featuring an emerald coloured broach in place of the top button. She wore dark shiny tights and classic patent leather shoes in a blue which matched her suit. Although she still wore a simple wedding band Kennedy could tell that there was no Mr Forsythe, not because of any great powers of deduction but because Irvine, who seemed very interested in the subject, had told him so.

  She now carefully smoothed her skirt down its full length to her squared knees before continuing, “there’s not much more to tell really, he’d consumed a lot of alcohol just before he died, but he really didn’t stand a chance, it was such a savage attack. Hopefully his intoxicated state dulled his senses somewhat during the attack. I’ll leave copies of my notes with you, and if you have any further questions you can contact me at the hospital.”

  “You’re absolutely sure there is no other way this could have happened?” Irvine inquired as Forysthe packed her papers into a smart black leather attaché case.

  “Absolutely sure. There’s nothing more sinister than a large stray dog, so be careful. Take no chances: this one has tasted blood,” Forysthe replied as she gave Kennedy a copy of her file and Irvine one of her special smiles.

  “Well, thank goodness for open-and-shut cases, Jimmy,” Kennedy remarked as soon as she had left.

  “What? Sorry, yes, sir. But do you think we should alert people about this dog? I’m just thinking about all the kiddies in the Regent’s Park and Primrose Hill play areas,” Irvine replied, recovering from whatever spell the woman had cast over him.

  “Yes, let’s put out an alert, but let’s not make too big a thing about it, we don’t want to be causing a panic. Let’s have some constables monitoring the play areas. Also have someone go up to the zoo and see if any of their wolves have escaped; maybe they can shed some light on this for us,” Kennedy ordered.

  “Okay,” replied Irvine as he finished off the last of Kennedy’s excellent brewed tea.

  “I suppose,” conjectured Kennedy, “Burton could have been coming up Parkway last Friday evening four sheets to the wind, met this dog, this large dog, tried to pat it or something and it attacked him.” But he had convinced neither himself nor his sergeant. “Maybe we should also find out, possibly from Kate McGuinness, if Burton liked dogs.”

  “Yes, that might be an idea, sir, but how would he have got from Parkway to the other side of Gloucester Gate Bridge?” Irvine ventured.

  “Oh I don’t know, maybe when he saw that the dog was not going to be friendly and started growling at him he ran up towards the park and jumped over the bridge for safety’s sake.” Kennedy ventured, his mind elsewhere.

  Such mental wandering was normal for Kennedy. He had the ability to ponder two or three areas and be distracted by his distractions to the degree that he sometimes threw up a new, and frequently successful, approach to the case in question. But on this occasion his attention was back to the adventures of Pauley Valentini and the hijacking of GLR Radio.

  Johnny Bell was now apparently over the initial shock and was slipping into his professional show-conscious state: he was now considering the entertainment factor of his “exclusive” show. While Pauley Valentini, as Kennedy turned up the volume on his radio, was being pensive and honest: very honest.

  “You know waiting for success has been very hard on my relationships.” “Yes? How so?” the presenter inquired. “You know they always say that artists do their best work when theyare breaking up with a lover?”

  “I’ve heard that, yes, but do you think it’s true?”

  “Most definitely yes, it’s just that you seem to be more in touch with your creative side when you are feeling that vulnerable. So every time I got around to starting to write the material for the new album I would split with my girlfriend,” Valentini admitted.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I’m afraid so. And then the sad thing is, if I had been successful around the time of the fourth album I would have liked to have settled down with Carole, I think she was the one. But by the time I realised this I was working on the tenth album and I realised all the songs were turning out to be about Carole and not the girlfriend I had just split up with, so I contacted Carole again.”

  “And did you get back together again?” Johnny Bell prodded, hoping for at least some kind of shiny lining to this very dark cloud.

  “Nah, she told me to get lost,” Valentine replied. As ever he was honest to a fault, but then wasn’t that the reason some songwriters were successful - because they were prepared to make such seemingly embarrassing admissions, immediately striking a chord of sympathy with their audience? Obviously not a chord Valentini had mastered. He continued, apparently happy to talk about his lack of success.

  “Where did I go wrong, Johnny?”

  “Well what about that stupid bleeding name for starters? Mind you I’m not sure I should be the one to point a finger. Hell, I’m a much bigger failure: at five foot eleven and one half inches tall I couldn’t even make it to six foot!”

  Both radio presenter and failed artist laughed heartily. Bell, chancing his arm, continued,

  “What’s the difference between a folk singer and a successful singer-songwriter?”

  “You’re asking me? I obviously haven’t a clue,” Pauley replied innocently.“Giorgio Armani!” Johnny Bell chuckled, the crack not even close enough to the singer’s head for him to realise it was passing.

  Chapter Five

  That evening Kennedy and ann rea met as (provisionally) planned at the excellent Trattoria Lucca family-run (for forty-five years) Italian restaurant. Kennedy had his usual green salad (minus asparagus) followed by spaghetti with pesto sauce and peas. The detective’s favourite was nowhere to be seen on the menu, but since he was a regular the friendly waiters were always happy to encourage the chef to improvise.

  ann rea also had her usual vegetarian lasagne, and as usual she failed to finish her meal. However, tonight’s reason had little to do with the generous portion served at the restaurant.

  “Kennedy, I’ve got to go away for a while,” she announced as the bottle of house white was being poured.

  “What, you’ve got an assignment? I thought you’d be working on the Valentini story a bit longer; even the Evening Standard had it all over the front page,” Kennedy replied, casually and upbeat. He’d been home, showered, shaved and changed into cream jeans, blue shirt, green waistcoat and black windbreaker jacket. His black hair was combed back over his head, and as the evening progressed it would dry out and fall back down over his ears
(just) about a central parting.

  “What? Oh, oh no,” ann rea replied almost absent mindedly, “No, I think I’ve done my best on that at this stage. Everyone else is on it now, let them get on with it.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ve read the Standard and I see that Virgin, Our Price and W. H. Smith’s have sold out of Mr Valentini’s recordings and are trying hard to get more from the distributors to meet the demand. So it looks like Pauley Valentini is going to enjoy the success he craved so much.”

  “I wonder if he’ll be any happier because of it,” ann rea said as she aimlessly picked around her lasagne with her fork.

  “He’s going to have to wait until New Scotland Yard are finished with him before he has time to enjoy anything.” Kennedy paused as he carefully negotiated a forkful of spaghetti, but before fuelling the fire of his hunger he inquired, “so where is it you’re going to, ann rea?”

  “Remember I told you about the Elliots?” “Yes, your landlords when you first moved to London.” “Mmmm, they were very, very good to me. Treated me more like adaughter, maybe the daughter they never had. Anyway, they retired to their cottage, in Climping, about four years ago. About six months back Lila, who was sixty-seven, caught a kidney infection. She never recovered and passed away two months ago. Daniel wrote and told me.”

  “How old would he be now?” Kennedy knew he should have known the answer but he was terrible at remembering people’s ages - including his own - his excuse was that this fact changes once a year, although he had noticed that as people grow older their years, when referring to their ages, seem to last at least twenty-four months.

  “Seventy-one at his last birthday. Anyway, I’ve rang him a few times, and he always sounds so down, Christy. I rang him today in fact, just after I had spoken with you, and a neighbour answered the phone. Apparently he’s given up. He doesn’t even get out of bed any more.” ann rea took another sip of wine.

  Kennedy had felt her unease ever since they sat down. He was worried her concern might be about them. Even in her preoccupied state she still looked stunning. She required not a single swipe of make-up to turn the heads she frequently turned. Kennedy sometimes even caught himself stealing glances at his unaware girlfriend. ann rea had wonderful long eyelashes and sharp, full eyebrows. Looking at her eyes Kennedy was convinced that ann rea had some oriental ancestry. His inquiries in that direction had revealed that she was not aware of any, or at least any she would admit to. Her brown hair was cut in a Beatle style (mid-sixties, around the time of Rubber Soul). He loved the way each and every hair fell back into perfect position when she shook her head a few times in a certain way. Indeed such movement reminded him more than a little of the original mop-tops. ann rea unknowingly performed this - one of Kennedy’s favourite - gesture as she replaced her wineglass on the table. Other nights he would draw her attention to it and they both would have a laugh, but tonight her Beatle impersonation pleased only one of the couple.

  “Is he ill?” were the only words Kennedy could find to say as he regained his breath.

  “Nope. The doctor has been around and apparently physically he’s fine; he’s just lost his desire to live. That’s why I want to go and see him. I just have to be with him, Christy.”

  Kennedy nodded in agreement and added, “How long will you be gone, ann rea?”

  ann rea liked the way Kennedy would never address her as ‘Sweetheart’ or ‘Baby’ or ‘Babe’ or ‘Sugar” or ‘Darling’, or anything else equally embarrassing. When he wished to talk to her, no matter how intimate the moment, he used her name; wasn’t that the purpose of names, for heaven’s sake?

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” she replied.

  “Maybe I could come down at the weekend and be with you?”

  ann rea took Kennedy’s hand in hers across the table. “That’s kind, Kennedy, but I think I have to do this on my own.” She noticed a flicker of hurt in his clear green eyes and added, “Don’t worry, Christy, this is not about us. I just feel I have to be there for him and it would be…” she searched hard for the correct word, “…inappropriate for me to bring someone with me to help me. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes,” was Kennedy’s simple and honest reply.

  They finished their meal and wine in near silence and walked to Kennedy’s house where ann rea had parked her car. They said goodnight with a lingering sad kiss on the doorstep. He hugged her five-foot-seven frame, his three-inch advantage allowing him to smell the only artificial scent about her body: the coconut hint from her shampoo.

  Kennedy waved ann rea goodbye as she drove off in her maroon Ford Popular saloon, and he returned to his house as dejected as a goalkeeper fetching the ball from the back of the net.

  Chapter Six

  ann rea felt this overwhelming desire to leave. To go. To get away. She kept hearing the Roches’ song, “I’ve Got to Get Away From You”, in her mind’s ear. ann rea wasn’t quite sure whom the “you” of the song was in her case.

  Playing the detective, she compiled a list of the likely suspects she wished to get away from as she packed her bag. When she thought about it, it wasn’t even a proper bag she was packing, in the romantic view of packing one’s bags to leave someone. It was merely a carpet bag, an overnight bag, a holdall; such was her urgency to get away. “Hell,” she thought, “as long as I’ve got enough clean undies and a few changes of clothes (slacks, blouses) I can buy whatever else I may need when I get there.”

  The suspects? Well, there were but three. Three, that is, that she could think of. One, Kennedy. Two, London, and three, herself. She addressed herself to her short list. She knew Kennedy would be happy to have a list so short. She also knew that with his love for the art of detection and his fine team he probably would have her case solved in an afternoon. She wondered, though, would he be happy with the solution?

  ann rea couldn’t think of anything Kennedy was doing wrong, apart from loving her perhaps.

  Why was his love so dammed unconditional and so unreserved? Why was he so fecking sure of his love? He kept saying to her that he had been waiting his entire life to meet the right person and he knew in his soul that it was her.

  Where was his soul? Could he open it up for her? Yes - could he open it up for her and show her a sign, there amongst all the blood and blob, which confirmed his belief? ann rea felt bad, very bad, for having such thoughts. Yeah, maybe, just maybe, she did love him. She certainly felt closer to Christy Kennedy than she ever had to anyone else in her life.

  Yes even Him, the last Him. Maybe out of respect to Kennedy that should be the Other Him. But wasn’t that further proof that she was right to be doubting her feelings? She’d been convinced the last Him, now known as the Other Him, albeit a long time ago was the Him, and that had continued to be the case until he proved himself to be the absolute shit her friends had always been predicting.

  But enough had been enough, and when he eventually told her he’d fallen in love with someone else (his child’s nanny) she just walked out on him, left all her stuff. It had been eight forty-five on a Wednesday night. ann rea could still see the scene vividly in her mind’s eye. But why had he protested so passionately about her leaving when he had just confessed to her that he was in love with someone else?

  The line of the Roches’ song had progressed to, “I’ve got to get away from you, I’ll come and visit you in the zoo.” Was the zoo her distorted memories? Soon she headed off in the minicab, a blue Merceedes, to Victoria Station to catch the seven forty-seven train to Worthing. Once at Worthing she would catch another minicab, possibly another blue Siesta, ann rea would bet money that it would not be as battered as its London counterpart, to take her the additional thirteen miles to Climping in West Sussex.

  ann rea wondered if the hour of her departure, early on that spring Tuesday morning, had anything to do with the fact that Kennedy would barely have been out of bed by the time she left her flat. The traffic at Marble Arch, even at this time, was heavy. But sh
e worried not even a little about whether or not she would miss her train. Now ann rea had started on her journey it mattered not a lot when she reached wherever she was going. She was getting her fix - travelling - and it was starting to have an effect. She was feeling better. “Now explain that,” she thought.

  She thought through the other two suspects. London? She supposed in a way London was tied up to some degree with Kennedy; and wasn’t he fond of telling her never to underestimate connections between your suspects? Sometimes, he had told ann rea, you can even eliminate a suspect, or even suspects, by working out a connection, if any indeed existed.

  “So, lady,” she asked herself, “how has London, one of the most magical and entertaining cities in the world, wronged you?”

  And wronged her to the degree she needed to get out. ann rea was happy she had a ready-made, “And here’s one I prepared earlier” excuse in her need to visit Daniel Elliot. Not that she needed an excuse to return the love and support bestowed on her twenty-five years previously. But her need to get away from you? Damn those lyrics, ann rea thought as they burned their way around her brain leaving skidmarks like Damon Hill’s. Her need to get away from you was greater, much greater at this stage at least, than repaying her debt to Daniel Elliot.

  Back to suspect number two: London. London, the city which had promised her so much but in actual fact had given her so little, and the little it had given her was anything but pleasant. ann rea liked her job (ish) but she was hopeful that it was exactly that, a job, and not her career. Yes, she had other offers but all from papers where you’ve got to be careful what you say and even more careful whom you say it about. She didn’t want that, she didn’t necessarily want to write anything controversial just for the sake of it, but she wanted to write. Well, to write the things she wanted to say, and not necessarily in book form. In fact, definitely not in book form, because the success of what you wanted to say depended on how well your book was promoted. Added to that was the fact it was (at best) a statement you could make (at the most) every other year. No, ann rea would like to have a weekly page to fill in the Spectator or any other publication which did not depend on advertising.