Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  But perhaps that last statement is a bit naive. Kennedy certainly knew that he wanted to be with her above all else and to enjoy each other’s company in a commitment to each other. The commitment being (for his part) “I want us to be together,” the commitment being, “You can count on me,” the commitment being, “I care for you and I will not, knowingly, hurt you.”

  Now to Kennedy all of the above seemed easy. He knew and could express his feelings. He was confident enough to trust them. But equally he knew that ann rea was forever in this (in his opinion) self-made turmoil of “Is he the right one?” or “Do I really love him?” not to mention “What if I’m wrong?” So because of all this baggage their relationship was ultimately suffering. Kennedy wondered if ann rea had already decided that it was over but because she liked him so much, she didn’t want to hurt him. Her quandary, to Kennedy’s mind, made her steal numerous glares at Kennedy to see how he was really doing. When he caught her doing this it was so infuriating - and she was as successful at hiding it as someone trying to retrieve wind passed in a socially embarrassing situation. Her thoughts were her own, they were honest, he hoped, but they certainly weren’t bad.

  Come on, he was a grown man, it wasn’t his first romance. Yes, perhaps he had hoped it was going to be his last, but if it was going to end it was going to end and the healthy thing to do was to admit it was over, get over it and get on with life.

  Having said that, he couldn’t really see life without ann rea; they now had become a couple in the true sense of the word. Perhaps that’s what she was reacting against; maybe she didn’t really want to be part of a couple. If she were to go what would he do? Kennedy certainly hoped he wouldn’t mope around after her thinking of all the good times they had had together, but come to think of it there certainly weren’t many, if any, bad times to dwell on.

  Kennedy now asked himself, as he walked home over his much loved Primrose Hill, what he would do if they were no longer a couple. Would he try and date someone else immediately to get over ann rea? He thought not. The last time he’d dated (before ann rea) was five years ago and, as with ann rea, it wasn’t like he’d scored on a night out on the pull with a bunch of blokes behaving laddishly. Kennedy had never been “out on the pull” in his life; he just wouldn’t know what to do.

  Instead of turning right at Magpie Corner and heading towards the Queens and his house he continued to the top of Primrose Hill. Magpie Corner was the name Kennedy gave to the fork, just by Andy “Cat” Collins” (dog lover and friend of the people of Primrose Hill, 1946-1996) chair, the morning he spied thirteen magpies hovering around. He knew the nursery rhyme up to ‘six for a wish’ and when he couldn’t go any further he doubled it up to twelve for two kisses but then found himself left with a balance of “one for sorrow.” He wasn’t yet ready to go home. If he were to be alone tonight then he wanted to spend some of the time wandering around Primrose Hill, a ramble he never tired of. As he walked up the hill the sun was going down, nearly gone and it looked quite spooky. There was an orange haze backlighting the hill and it picked up the silhouettes of fifteen or so people wandering aimlessly around the crown. It caught the trees in a similiar manner and made the hill look more like a scene from a Hitchcock movie than sunset on London’s most beautiful park.

  He considered whom he could ask out now he was (mentally) single and enjoying his newfound freedom.

  Let’s see… there was Anne Coles. Kennedy found her incredibly attractive and very sharp, intelligent and funny, in her own way. He’d only once seen her with her hair down and in civvies and she had looked stunning; there was no other word for it. Kennedy quickly, perhaps sadly, dismissed the WPC for professional reasons. The next, and final, one on his shortlist was Bella Forysthe. Still a bit of a professional dilemma, but less so than Coles because although they occasionally (more recently) worked together they were in different departments.

  Dr Forysthe was totally different to the WPC. Darker in both looks and mood, and probably a lot more difficult to get to know. But then again wasn’t Irvine getting ready to beat a path to her door? As he reached the crown of the hill and became a silhouette, Kennedy’s mind wandered to his last girlfriend, the one before ann rea. She was a photographer called Georgie Conway. They’d had a good time, a great time, but they weren’t in love, neither with either, so by the time of the inevitable parting, although it was very painful, they had committed to staying friends. This they duly did following a period of cooling down.

  Kennedy completed the triangle from Magpie Corner by walking down the hill and exiting through the gate at the corner of Regent’s Park Road and Primrose Hill Road. He crossed the road and turned into Rothwell Street, where he lived behind a deep blue front door at number 16. As he let himself in he found himself thinking about James Irvine and Rose Butler. He didn’t know Irvine well enough to ask him what happened, but it had been his considered opinion that James and Rose were made for each other. But then perhaps people had been thinking the same thing about himself and ann rea.

  “God, why is it so hard?” he said out loud as he climbed the stairs. No one was there to hear him and no one did, except maybe the ghosts of his 105 year-old house. As he reached the first landing the telephone rang and he jumped the remaining stairs in two’s, nipped sharpish into his study and wrestled the handset from its day-long slumber.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Kennedy!” “ann rea, hey it’s you. How are you doing?” “Fine, listen I tried to get you earlier.” “I know. I got the message.” He hoped he was sounding friendly andhis mood would not be obvious.

  “Hey, I’m missing you.” ann rea’s voice sounded somewhat feeble. That’s encouraging, he thought as he said, “I’m missing you too.”

  “I think they’re on a Wembley soon,” she replied, using Kennedy’s once-amusing line.

  “What? Oh yes, of course.” He was happy to see it was still Life with the Lyons as usual. “How’s Mr Elliot?”

  “Oh. Bad really.” “Aha,” was all he could mutter. “It’s sad really. It’s not so much his poor health, it’s just that heseems to have lost the will to live.”

  By this point Kennedy had his coat off and was sitting in his favourite chair to the side of and facing away from his American Arts and Crafts desk. He was leaning back in his chair drinking in her voice. Even though it was now sad he still loved the sound of her voice.

  “It must be really terrible to have your love taken from you and be forced to live the rest of your life without them,” she said.

  Kennedy could see this, see it big time in fact, but decided it might be just a little bit too selfish to get into it at this point, so he held his counsel.

  “It’s so sad, Christy. Sad to see this once great man literally waiting to die.”

  “Have you been able to give him much comfort?”

  “We’ve been talking a lot. Sometimes he just rambles but… Oh yes, you’ll never guess what? Remember I used to think Daniel and Lila treated me so well because I was the daughter they never had?”

  “Yes.” “Well, they had one.” “What?” “Yes, they had a daughter. He started talking about her earlier, justbefore he dozed off. He was going on about how she never treated them properly and how maybe it had been their own fault because they hadn’t taken proper care of her after she was raped.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yes, apparently they had a daughter, she was raped, she left them shortly thereafter and totally disowned them.”

  “Incredible!” Kennedy breathed into his mouthpiece.

  “I couldn’t find out any more about it because he fell asleep at that point. God, I can’t believe how sad and hard a life Daniel has had.”

  “You’re not kidding,” Kennedy sympathised.

  “How are you doing, Kennedy? Oh, and what’s been happening to Pauley Valentini?”

  “Fine, and he’s doing good too. People are offering him record deals left right and centre. I’m not sure if they’re going to be much good or if h
e’s going to be able to enjoy the money. I’m convinced he is going to spend the rest of his life playing to a captive audience, as it were, maybe even performing for them.”

  “Gross, Kennedy. But I’m sure the record companies will not be worrying too much about his welfare. They’ll be more concerned about their own coffers. Listen, Christy, I don’t want to run up his phone bill too much, I’d better be going soon,” ann rea sighed.

  “Yeah, I suppose so. I miss you, though.” “Kennedy, it’s only been a day since I left.” “Yes, I know, but it’s been three since we last…” “Oh, Kennedy,” ann rea laughed, “I can’t believe you, why don’t yougo to sleep and have a Lloyds?”

  Now it was Kennedy’s turn to laugh. “Don’t you mean have a Lloyds and then go to sleep?”

  Either way, Kennedy concluded the tele-conversation a little more contented than he started it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As one romance appeared to be ending, another was showing signs of a promising beginning. Kennedy could very well be wrong if he felt his relationship with ann rea was over. Equally, James Irvine could be wrong in supposing that he and Bella Forysthe had a future. Irvine recalled Kennedy telling various members of his teams, on the odd occasion he had overheard them “wishing” for something to turn up on a case: “Wish in one hand, pee in the other and see which one fills first.”

  Mind you, with the way the woman looked the minute she walked into the Engineer, Irvine would have given up any wishes for a long-term future for the guarantee of a short-term one, even as short-term as in one night. She was simply sensational. This was the first time Irvine had seen her with her hair down: tonight it flowed. She was also wearing more make-up than she did at work. She was dressed in figure-hugging black slacks, waist-length black leather jacket and an orange shirt. Irvine found it hard to accept that this stunning woman would want to spend her time fiddling about in dead bodies.

  Irvine doubted if the Engineer, in its many and varied incarnations, had ever witnessed a vision as engaging as this. He didn’t know whether to shake her hand, or what. She went for “or what” by gently squeezing his elbow and kissing the air beside his cheek, rather than smudge it with her rich orange lipstick. As she did so he caught her scent. It was hypnotic.

  Irvine didn’t exactly consider himself to be a ladies” man, neither did he think himself a failure at that particular sport. But he was certain that in this case he was out of his depth. The Scots, like the Irish, have a good way of hiding this: they give you a big warm smile and say, “What’s your poison?”

  “Oh, I’ll have whatever you are having,” Bella smiled.

  They found a quiet corner and sat down with two Glenfiddichs. She had already lit up a long menthol ciggy and offered Irvine one.

  “No thanks. Never touch them, although I do dream about someday in my old age smoking a pipe, like my dad did.”

  “You don’t mind if I do?”

  “Heavens, no!” Irvine replied. The “heavens” was pure Sean Connery, and he added, again in his best Connery, “Anyway, bottoms up.”

  They touched glasses, and whereas Irvine then sipped about a quarter of his ration, Bella knocked hers back in one swig.

  “Mmm, I needed that. Okay, my round. That was nice, what was it?” she said, admiring her empty glass.

  In precisely sixty-five seconds she had returned bearing for him a gift of a double. She rescued the remainder of her cough stick from the ashtray, flicked off the dead ash and took an incredibly long drag. “It’s great here, very buzzy. I’ve never been here before.”

  “Yeah, I like it. DI Kennedy and his lady ann rea come here a lot. They also do great food. Maybe we should see if we can get a table,” Irvine suggested, thinking that they were going to need some solids to soak up the Glenfiddich.

  “Perhaps,” she replied, taking one last, long, drag and stubbing out the cigarette. “Let’s see how we feel after a while. So, you’re from Scotland. How long have you been in London?”

  “About eight years. When I made DS I asked for a transfer, I felt the promotional prospects would be better. And yourself, where are you from, I can’t quite place the accent.”

  “I’m actually from around here originally,” she laughed, “But I worked in the midlands for several years until about nine months ago. I needed a break and I left London after college and travelled around a bit. Spent quite a time in Bristol, I liked it down there, the people are really nice. Anyway, my work took me to the midlands, and when I’d picked up some more qualifications I came back to London to work with Dr Taylor. Hopefully I’ll get his job when he retires.”

  “If he ever does. Taylor’s as strong as a fox, an elephant or whatever doctors are as strong as.”

  “Penicillin?” said the doctor, and they both laughed.

  “So what is it like working for DI Kennedy?” she said. “He seems a bit of a dark horse.”

  “He’s great, really. He just loves the art of detection and spends a lot of his time teaching us about it. He can go off on these amazing tangents, but has an incredible ability to backtrack, pick up new information, drop what he doesn’t need and head off in a completely different direction. He’s inspiring to work with. He encourages us to get stuck into a case and gives us our head when we come up with a promising lead. And he always gives us credit when credit is due.”

  “How are you getting on with the John Stone case?” Bella inquired as she helped herself to another large swig of the malt.

  “We’ve had a couple of lucky breaks. I don’t think we’re going to be too long putting this one to bed.”

  “Yes, it seems pretty straightforward, doesn’t it? Some thug beat him to death and left loads of clues - they’re not the cleverest of people, are they? He’s probably just waiting around for you to pick him up. I say “he” - by the marks on the body it’s unlikely any member of the gentler sex could have attacked someone with such force.” Irvine was convinced she flashed her long dark eyelashes as she concluded this sentence.

  “Yes, probably,” he said, “though I’m not sure I’d like to have a run-in with the Fatima Whitbreads of this world, if you know what I mean. But you’re probably spot on. Actually I’m more puzzled by the other one.”

  “What other one?” “You know, the one you examined yesterday, Neil Burton.” “Oh, that one. There’s nothing mysterious about that one. Just a caseof mad dog attack. Simple: arteries severed by extremely sharp and very strong teeth.”

  “Yes, I know it appears that way,” mulled Irvine, “but there’s some funny business going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for instance, do you realise what’s engraved on the plaque at the end of that bridge?” he posed, happy her attention to the Glenfiddich had been temporarily diverted.

  “No, what?” she asked as she disappointed him by finishing off her drink. “A dog! A very large dog! And guess what the dog is doing?” “I’ll buy it,” she said. “What is this very large dog doing?” “Attacking somebody, looks like a tramp, a dosser, and it looks likethe dog is going straight for the throat. Now don’t you find that to be just a wee bit too much of a coincidence?”

  “No, not at all. Amusing though, don’t you think?” She laughed and rolled the empty glass around in a semi-circle using her thumb and forefinger.

  “Same again?” Irvine felt compelled to ask.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  DS James Irvine, Superintendent Thomas Castle and DI Christy Kennedy all appeared to be wandering around North Bridge House aimlessly at just after eight o’clock on this the third day (excluding Sunday) of the third tale. Appearances could be, and in this case were, deceptive. The Super was looking for Kennedy for an update on the body found beneath the fountain. He still had not got his brain around the case title, Fountain of Sorrow, unlike everyone else in the police station.

  Kennedy’s mind was not, surprise, surprise, on ann rea, although he had suffered quite a sleepless night. The only conclusion he had reached was, �
�whatever will be, will be.’ No, his mind was on the mystery surrounding the life of John B. Stone. He was seeking out Irvine to see what he and Coles had learned from their interview with Kevin Burroughs.

  Irvine’s mission was to get as much black coffee down his throat as possible before the nine o’clock brief. Bella Forysthe had been a revelation to him. They had got on well, very well. Perhaps that should be qualified with, as well as one could get on with someone slipping, falling rather, into the abyss of a drunken stupor. Unlike most people Irvine knew, the more Bella Forsythe drunk, the more she drank. And the more she drank the more energy and vitality she seemed to gain.

  At first, thinking he might be on a bit of a promise, he had matched her drink for drink, but by about ten-thirty, after much whisky and no possibility of food, he switched, first to lager and finally to mineral water when he eventually realised that a) this woman was not going to be in a state for physical activity of any kind, at least any kind that she would remember, and taking advantage was not his style or desire; and b) as midnight fast approached he began to worry that this cloud of fuzz forming rapidly in and around his head like an afro hairstyle à la Jimi Hendrix, would not evaporate within twenty-four hours let alone the seven and a half which remained before he had to show up at North Bridge House with a clear head and a sharp brain.

  After encountering Kennedy by the front desk, the Superintendent invited himself to the DI’s nine o’clock brief.