Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  Either Copper Cooper was a mind reader, or all this talking was also making him thirsty, so before continuing with his tale he inquired if the Copper Kennedy would like a cup of tea. Kennedy felt like replying “Does a bear defecate in the woods?” but he felt his, “Yes, please, that would be excellent. White with two sugars,” was somewhat more appropriate.

  The order (definitely an order and not a request) was made on the intercom and Cooper continued, “so anyway, as I was saying, we look after them and they look after us. Occasionally, if they make a good sale, or even a great sale, then they will show their gratitude in the time-honoured fashion.”

  “What? You mean a bung?” Kennedy wanted to make sure he got this right, he didn’t want to be thinking one thing when perhaps the estate agent might have merely meant they exchanged Christmas cards. Pigs might fly but if they did Kennedy wanted to make sure Cooper had a strong umbrella, a very strong umbrella.

  “Hmm, yes,” Cooper replied hesitantly as he smoothed out his unwrinkled braces with his right thumb.

  “Are we talking tens? Hundreds? Thousands?” Kennedy added the third zero after the first two failed to produce a reaction.

  “Yes, sometimes.” “Yes? Sometimes thousands?” “Yes, sometimes,” Cooper replied meekly. He wasn’t as on with hisanswers as he was at straightening his Ferrari-red braces. “You’ve got to realise on some of these deals these people are making, say, a hundred grand, or maybe even as much as half a mil. So what’s a couple of grand to them out of that?”

  “Are we talking cash-cash, here?” Kennedy smiled, with a smile as genuine as a contestant on Blind Date, but he hoped it would encourage Cooper to loosen up a bit with his answers.

  Sometimes in the course of an investigation Kennedy was privy to information which would be very helpful to others, such as the Inland Revenue for instance. But feck them, thought Kennedy, they could certainly do their own dirty work (The Inland Revenue, he reflected, could rival Yoko Ono in the unpopularity stakes; but on second thoughts, perhaps not). If people like Cooper could be made to feel their information was merely that, information, non-incriminating information to help Kennedy on his pursuit into the mystery of the death of John B. Stone, then hopefully they would talk more freely.

  “Well, I can only talk for myself. On the large ones, of course they go through my books. But, er, some of the smaller ones, you know what it’s like, it ends up being beer money,” Cooper replied as the tea arrived. He then threw another tangent at Kennedy. “Do you have any idea what food costs today? The wife, when she goes to Marks and Spencer, and she goes there twice a week, she rarely comes back with any change out of a hundred pounds… So anyway,” Cooper disclosed, “A hundred pounds here and there soon disappears.

  Kennedy had to agree. “Yes, it sure does.” And he paused as he supped his (perfect) cup of tea. Then he went on: “Could you possibly give me the details of Stone’s regular clients?” He could see resistance in Cooper’s enlarged brown eyes. If he was ever to play poker Cooper could find it profitable to invest in a pair of contact lenses. “Of course, he added, “I will treat the information you have just given me with the strictest confidence.”

  “Yes, well I assume nothing less, Detective Inspector. Yes, I’ll put something together for you. But I can tell you here and now that his main client, is National Properties. They work out of Islington. Their main claim to fame, and I can assure you that it is only a claim, is that they did work on the, then, future Prime Minster’s house. Apparently, and again allegedly, it’s the sister-in-law who makes all the artistic decisions.”

  Cooper’s Rolodex was as cramped as Saturday nights at the Camden Palace and he fuddled through the cards to extract the one bearing the details of National Properties. He gave Kennedy the number, the address and the name of Mr Kevin Burroughs.

  “Tell you what,” Kennedy took some more tea and watched as Cooperstruggled to replace the card in the Rolodex, having the same trouble someone trying to enter the toilet at Camden Palace on a Saturday night, “I’d like to have a chat with the rest of your staff, particularly” Kennedy checked his notes, “William and Jane, the couple Stone was having a drink with last.”

  “They are not a couple,” Cooper replied, just a touch too forcefully. What?” “Jane and William, they are not a couple, they were just in the publast evening at the same time. No big deal. They are… well, colleagues you know, not a couple that’s all.”

  “Oh, I see,” Kennedy replied as his mind’s voice went, “Funny!”

  “Look, why don’t you see them up here and I’ll make myself scarce and have Helen my secretary do you up that list,” Cooper suggested.

  “Great, yes thanks, that would be great.” “Shall I send them up together?” “No. Let’s see Jane first, please.” “Okay, She’ll be straight up. Oh - would you like a refill?” Coopernodded in the direction of Kennedy’s empty white china cup in its clean saucer. Kennedy didn’t believe in wasting a good cup of tea by spilling half of it in the saucer. The saucer was a supporter of the teacup, not an overflow. Although Kennedy could remember his grandmother, teeth missing, pour her tea from the cup to the saucer so that it would cool quicker before she could drink it. Sadly, this meant that she was never able to participate in one of Kennedy’s favourite pastimes; dunking.

  “Yes, yes please, and could you please tell whomever made the tea that it was truly wonderful,” Kennedy beamed.

  Cooper made his way down the narrow winding stairway at the rear of the deck. Kennedy could hear him say to the office in general and Helen in particular, “Here, Helen, I say, if you ever leave us you’ve got a promise for your next job.”

  “Oh yeah? And wot’s that then?” Helen replied, rising to the bait with her high-pitched cockney accent wafting its way up the winding stairs to Kennedy’s ears.

  “Make tea for the force up in the Camden nick.”

  Kennedy could hear a lot of forced laughter, then a bit a talking, and then footsteps (female) making their way up the stairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kennedy wasn’t sure this was going to be the best way to start off an interview; he heard Arnold Cooper prompt Jane as she hit the stairs, “He wants to talk to you about John Boy, he was found dead this morning.”

  Subtle? Or what?

  Jane made her way towards Kennedy, who by this time was seated in Cooper’s chair behind the black synthetic wood desk, small but with enough space for a Rolodex, a notepad (foolscap), a telephone, and the regulation estate agent’s Filo “don’t leave home without one” fax.

  “Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy,” Kennedy announced as he stood up behind the desk and flashed his warrant card with his left hand and offered his right. She shook his hand very firmly.

  Jane was wearing the shortest of black mini skirts, proudly showing off her magnificent muscular legs, and a red shirt (man’s) which was pulled up and puffed out from her shiny black leatherette belt. If you looked closely at her well filled blood-red shirt, and Kennedy did, you could see an AIDS ribbon. Her curly brown shaggy hair spilled over her shoulders and down the back of her shirt. She was heavily made up, with bright red lipstick and eyebrows which were like two tadpoles swimming towards each other in an elaborate synchronised routine.

  “Jane Oddie,” she announced, giving away no trace of an accent as she shook his hand. Miss Oddie carefully manoeuvred herself into the seat. Should Kennedy have looked, and he certainly didn’t, he would have seen that she expertly revealed no more of her legs than she did when she was standing. She smelt of perfume, a natural perfume but a perfume nonetheless. Kennedy detected a hint of heather. Jane Oddie kept fidgeting with and looking at her small blue purse-cum-handbag which hung from her shoulder on a leather strap no thicker than a shoelace.

  “I can’t believe it. Is it true? You know? What he said, like, what Mr Cooper told me?” she gushed, slipping now into her broad Manchester accent, an accent now popular in London the way the Liverpool accent was hip in the sixties. Kennedy t
hought there was hope still for the natives of Birmingham if they were prepared to wait a century or two.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Kennedy replied wishing he’d remembered to instruct Cooper to tell his staff nothing about the death of John B. Stone. But the Camden bush telegraph was now effectively (very effectively) at work.

  “Ohmigod. I can’t believe it. We were all together last night. Well, Mr Cooper, William, John Boy and myself, that is. We were up in the Spread Eagle,” she replied as she nervously stole another glance at her bag, swapping it from one hand to the other without removing the strap from her right shoulder.

  “Listen. Do you want to have a ciggy?” Kennedy smiled.

  “Do you think it would be okay? I’d love one. I mean Mr Cooper, well let’s just say he doesn’t encourage us to smoke in the office.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I did notice large amounts of butts on the pavement outside,” Kennedy replied. Unable to find an ashtray, he took Cooper’s dark green metallic waste paper basket from behind the desk and put it over beside her. As he did so he couldn’t help but steal a glance at Miss Oddie’s perfect legs. To his eyes she wore neither stockings nor tights, just a beautiful, naturally tanned skin (little did he know the disguise techniques of nineties girls). Kennedy blushed slightly but Jane Oddie didn’t notice: doubtless she was too desperate to light up her ciggy to notice a middle-aged policeman drool over her legs, besides, it probably happened all the time.

  Kennedy could never understand why otherwise intelligent men would do anything to catch a glimpse of ladies’ underwear. Was it because it was forbidden? Should it have been a private view only for their partner? But then this was hard to accept with such recent public views of titilating underwear. But why are men so turned on by it? Yes, he stole glances of ann rea in various stages of dress and undress but wasn’t that, for them, all part of the bigger, sensual picture? Kennedy had spied men in cafes peeping out from under their newspapers as they slid further down in their seats. He had spied them staring blatantly at reflections in street windows, the same in mirrors in theatres, cinemas, hotel lobbies and so on to the degree where he wondered if he got as big a fix out of catching men waiting for the big flash as they did out of the big flash itself. He had seen men fight for the right to follow a short-skirted woman up the stairs of a double-decker such as the one he was now on. He could never suss out why men did so. He was more than happy to view legs, legs as beautiful as Jane Oddie’s where he knew the legs on view were as much as he was allowed to view.

  She fumbled in her bag and produced a ten pack of Silk Cut and a cheap green lighter. Drawing heavily on her first hit she relaxed visibly as she exhaled the smoke, away from Kennedy towards the open window, helping it on its way by fanning it with her hand. Then and only then did she replace the lighter and packet of Silk Cut into her minuscule hand bag and sink deeper into the seat as she took her second drag.

  “Oh, thanks Luv, that’s much better, do you know what I mean?” she said, then, “What happened?”

  “It’s still very early in our investigation; we found the body a few hours ago. What time did you leave the Spread Eagle last evening?”

  “It must have been about ten-thirty. Yes about ten-thirty. I live up in Kentish Town, just the other side of the Tally Ho, and I caught a bus down by the tube station, outside Rock On Records. I was home by eleven and I had to wait awhile for my bus so I must have left the pub about ten-thirty.”

  “Was John Stone still there?”

  “Yes.” Jane seemed a little confused. “It’s just odd hearing you call him John Stone, know what I mean? He was always referred to here as John Boy.”

  Jane Oddie uncrossed and crossed her legs, and took another large drag on her ciggy. Kennedy was shocked to notice that she had nearly finished it with just four drags. She exhaled slowly, enjoying the release, and once again fanned the smoke towards the open window. When she had completed the ritual she continued, Kennedy by now becoming accustomed to the swagger and roll of her Manchester tones.

  “Yes. He was still there, he was talking to William and a friend of William’s when I left. They were drinking quite a bit. They liked their drink, particularly John Boy. But they were always pleasant on it, good company, know what I mean, never trying to paw you or grope you.” She glanced quickly at the Cooper family photograph before adding, “they were good fun to be out with, know what I mean?”

  “Do you know any of his other friends?”

  “No. That’s a funny thing, really. He seemed to be a bit of a loner. Yeah, he’d hang out with us but he never seemed to want to do the usual laddish things - “

  Kennedy cut off a potential “know what I mean?” with a quick, ‘like?’

  ‘like trying to pull birds all the time. Like football. Like clubbing. But William will be able to fill you in more on that side of things, they were mates or friends or whatever, I think they confided in each other. You know, you come into their company and they’d be rabbitting away nine to the dozen, then they’d see you and they’d stop talking. A bit too secretive if you ask me. But then that’s boys for you isn’t it, they think with their well … I’m sure you know what I mean. Oh gosh, I didn’t mean that you.”

  “It’s okay. I think I know what you mean.” Kennedy smiled, and continued, “Is there anyone, anyone at all whom you know would want to do harm to John Stone?”

  “No. Not really. It’s not really that kind of world, is it? I was just about to say that sort of thing only happens in the movies but then it’s just happened to John Boy. I just can’t believe that he’s dead,” Miss Oddie sighed.

  Kennedy reckoned he had got all (not a lot) that he was going to get, and said, “Well that’s all for now - I may need to speak to you later.” Kennedy rose from his chair, Jane Oddie quickly stubbed out the remains of her ciggy on the inside edge of the green waste paper basket, ensuring it was totally dead, before dumping it in the bottom. She rose from her chair carefully swinging the bag on to her hip.

  “Could you send William Boatend up please?” Kennedy requested.

  Chapter Twelve

  A pair of crimson braces was the first thing Kennedy noticed breaking the floorline of the top deck. The braces were followed very quickly by the estate agent’s snazzy outfit. The trousers of a dark blue suit, but instead of the traditional tie he proudly displayed a red-and-white polka-dot bowtie set well against a Michael Parkinson blue shirt grounded, if you could call it that, by a pair of green canvas shoes.

  “Hi,” a North London voice announced, “I’m William Boatend,” and he extended his well-manicured thirty-year-old hand in Kennedy’s general direction. He had brown hair styled by a razor-sharp parting. Boatend had a habit, which would very soon become evident to Kennedy, of taking the hair out of his eyes and flicking it back over his crown but always retaining the razor-sharp parting.

  Kennedy motioned him to the seat still warm from Jane Oddie.

  “So, how’d you get on then with Mr Cooper’s pet, our Jane?” William began as he winked at the detective.

  Weird start, thought Kennedy, but at least here was a witness who was not going to be backward at coming forward.

  “I found her to be polite, very pleasant,” he replied, not wishing to dwell on this particular line of conversation.

  “Nah, don’t believe any of that - she’s got a tongue which could clip a hedge,” Boatend laughed.

  Kennedy did not join in. “So, I guess you’ve heard about John Stone?”

  “Yes. Wow, that’s heavy man, isn’t it? I can’t believe it. Or can I?” William Boatend’s mood seemed to darken somewhat, at last.

  “It would seem you were the last person we know of to have seen him. Yesterday evening, ten-thirty in the Spread Eagle?”

  “Oh, we were there till chucking out time. John Boy was flush. He had come in to a bit of money, as in cash, and he was really knocking them back. He was a bit of a magician, you know.”

  Kennedy looked at Boatend, puzzled t
o his toes.

  “Yes he could turn beer into water quicker than the charity boxes come out in cinemas at Christmas time.”

  The detective sat silent, he didn’t wish to encourage Boatend in his gaiety. The estate agent eventually continued, “Yeah, a mate of mine, Alan Hodge, joined us around ten-fifteen. Then when John Boy was getting the last round in I saw him speak to some older bloke at the bar. John Boy came back with the drinks, supped his and informed us he was going back to see the older bloke, he thought there might be a bit of business to be done but he was very cagey about it. Obviously didn’t want me to get a whiff of what was going down.”

  ‘this older chap, you didn’t know him by any chance?”

  “Nah, never clapped eyes on him before.” “Would you recognise him again if you saw him?” Kennedy quizzed. “Probably not, Guv, we only saw part of him and that was from behind.But he was thinning a bit on top, quite solidly built, dressed in smart threads though, very smart for an older geezer.”

  Death hits different people in different ways. Kennedy thought that if one of his own friends or colleagues had just died, or worse still if they had been murdered, he wouldn’t be anywhere as near as chirpy as Mr William Boatend, but that’s estate agents for you: the sale must go on, along with the show.

  “Did John Stone have any close friends?”“Strangely enough, Guv, none to speak of. I mean, we hung out quite a bit together, and we’d occasionally run into people, people he’d known, and he’d be friendly enough to them, but not really any close friends, to be honest,” Boatend replied haltingly.

  “Girlfriends? Partners?” Kennedy pushed.