Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  “You know, I’ve been thinking for the first time about what happens after I’m dead.”

  “Daniel, please!”

  “No, seriously, I’ve never thought about all this before but I’ve been wondering about what will happen in Coronation Street after I’ve gone, what will the new characters be like. How will the Prime Minster do? Who will be the next Prime Minster? What is the future Prime Minster doing at this exact point? Do we know him or her? Will the Tellytubbies be number one in the pop charts next Christmas? Who will live in my houses? What will people say about me? How long will I be remembered? What will happen to my fine leather shoes?” And the old man looked down at his tan shoes, which were shined to Irish Guards standards.

  “This will be the first pair of shoes I won’t have worn out. In a lifetime this will be the first pair which will wear me out. What will happen to them? Will they be given away? Will someone else wear them? Will they take as good care of them as I have? That’s one good thing about being in the Irish Guards, you certainly learn how to work up a good shine on your shoes. All that spit and polish and elbow grease, will it all go to waste? I keep thinking, I keep having this vision about what’s going to be on the front page of the Guardian the day after I die. I’ve read the paper now for so many years, that’s going to be strange, you know.”

  “Oh, I imagine it will be about Charles meeting a new princess and getting married.”

  “Yes, that’s another thing - what’s going to happen to them, the royal family? They are all so ill equipped to be living in this century. And then there’s the pub, the Black Horse; after I’ve gone what will it be like in there without me? Who will be the new landlord? Will it be knocked down in a few years to make way for some development when Brighton reaches this far along the coast? You may laugh but it has to happen. How long will beautiful old pubs like that be allowed to stand?” he sighed.

  “And money, that’s another thing. I get mad now when I think of all the times Lila and myself sacrificed being together just so I could be out earning more money. Now I have more money than I’ll ever spend and I don’t have Lila. Wouldn’t I have been better served by working less, spending more time with Lila and giving less money to the state when I did?”

  “Here, you’re getting tired,” said ann rea, “let’s head back to the cottage and I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea. I’ve been taught by an expert, you know. Kennedy just loves his tea. Hey, maybe you can even have a drop of Bushmills in the cup,” she suggested and Daniel complied as she steered his elbow back in the direction of the short distance from whence they had come.

  “What about Anna? Is that her name? Your daughter Anna, what about her? Do you ever think about her? About what she’s doing now, have you ever heard from her?” ann rea nudged the conversation, like his weary body, to a preplanned destination.

  “Not for ages. She was in Birmingham, I think. She felt we let her down. But I didn’t know what to do, ann. Lila tried for ages to be close and comforting but she just kept being pushed away. I hope this doesn’t sound silly, but it’s like she expected me to be there when it happened, and to have protected her from those animals. Is that too strange a thought?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” ann rea replied sympathetically, “we depend on our parents for a lot longer than we care to admit. You know you can go and leave home but you do it knowing that you still have a lifeline back to your parents. Kennedy says that every time he’s being physically sick he still calls out for his mother.”

  “But ann, you can’t possibly be there with your children all the time,” Daniel said, his voice starting to crack with emotion.

  “I know, Daniel, it’s not your fault. Anna didn’t have a brother or sister to lean on, you were all she had and on the one occasion she needed you, needed your strength and protection, you weren’t there. But if you had been around her all the time, she would have accused you of over-protecting her. Nowadays she’d get counselling and would be taught how to deal with it. To deal with it differently, I’m sure,” ann rea comforted, “but you know what they say about time; maybe the passing years have healed her pain. Have you ever thought of trying to contact her?”

  “Yes, a few times since Lila passed away. But I’ve never really done anything about it. I wouldn’t know where to start to be honest,” Daniel admitted.

  “Would you like me to try? To try and find Anna for you?” “What, use your police connection?” Daniel joked. “Hey, you,” she playfully squeezed his elbow, “don’t forget I’m ajournalist, I’ve got contacts of my own.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thirty-eight minutes later, following the spiced-up cup of tea, ann rea left Daniel to his nap as she telephoned one of her contacts.

  “Kennedy,” she whispered, “good to hear you voice. How are you keeping?”

  “Fine, yes, fine, ann rea. Why are you whispering?” “Daniel’s upstairs taking a nap and I’ve got a favour to ask.” “Yeah?” “You don’t mind, Kennedy?” “Listen,” he laughed, “you know Camden CID and how we cherish ourrelationship with the local media. So let’s have it. Pen at the ready.”

  “Okay. Daniel and Lila, they had a daughter called Anna and apparently she was raped. It would have been in the seventies. It happened on Primrose Hill. Anyway, Anna blamed Daniel and Lila and disowned them, moved away and never came back. She didn’t even contact them again. So I thought I might try and track her down to see if she can make her peace with her father. He hasn’t long to live. He doesn’t have anyone else in the world and he sounds so lost, Christy. I just thought I’d try.”

  “Good, yes. No problem. I’ll have Tim Flynn check the files, he’s probably the only one who was around then, and see if we can dig up any information for you.”

  “Great, Kennedy. I really do appreciate it, I owe you one.” “What. You’re now going to send me back to Lloyds?” “Ho-bloody-ho, Kennedy. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve also got to seewhat I can dig up through the Camden News Journal. Speak to you later. I’ll call you at home tonight,” ann rea whispered.

  Kennedy realised his ‘bye’ was heard only by telephonic static and so he replaced the receiver as he wrote the name Anna Elliot on one of his cards.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kennedy passed the name card and details to Sgt Flynn. As he was doing so DS Irvine was leaving North Bridge House to go and pick up Hugh Anderson so the villain might help Camden CID further with their inquiries. Kennedy joined him, and on the way they joked about how in the sixties it would have taken at least ten officers to apprehend Hugh Anderson but now he’d probably come with them quiet as a pussycat. Wrong!

  They drove a police pool car, a 1995 Ford Granada, still new and shiny blue, to a spot just beyond the entrance of Anderson’s place of work at the far corner of Belmont Street off Chalk Farm Road. In fact, it was nearly opposite the legendary Roundhouse where, in 1967, Paul McCartney had planned a series of comeback concerts for the Beatles. He just (apparently) couldn’t persuade John Lennon, or was it (maybe) Yoko Ono.

  Though such a historic reunion was the last thing on Kennedy and Irvine’s collective mind as they made their way into the building past boxes of leaflets, posters, T-shirts and baseball caps, all unprotected from the weather. They saw a sign marked “Office” pointing up a rickety set of stairs, and without saying a word both headed in a skyward direction.

  Technically they had the evidence (teeth marks in the apple) to be able to arrest Hugh Anderson on suspicion of the murder of John B. Stone, but at this stage they agreed it would be better to just bring him in for questioning.

  Anderson looked shocked to see them as they entered the large open plan loft-style office. It was a very seventies-type office, in fact Kennedy was convinced that some of the original seventies dust was still visible around the shelves and windows. Equally it could have become very nineties with a bit of a clean-up, a lick of white paint, a polish of the well-trodden floorboards and a highlighting of the rafters hidden by piles of boxes sim
ilar to those out in the yard.

  ‘the filth again. What do you want this time?” said Anderson matter-of-factly, a hint of aggression in his voice. He was alone in the office and he made his way to what was obviously his desk which was covered with flyers, well-thumbed telephone directories, a large Wallace and Gromit mug filled to bursting with pens and pencils, a portable TV, a cup of cold (Kennedy was sure) tea, a can of fly spray (probably essential in this sun trap in the summer), a copy of the Evening Standard (headline proclaiming “GLR Seige Ends Peacefully”), a copy of the Racing News folded in four, and, over to one side, a small spiral notebook, clean page up, an aged pair of leather gloves and a couple of CDs, the top one the Carpenters, the second one Kennedy couldn’t make out. The room smelt of ink from the newly printed posters, freshly printed t-shirts, stale milk, and fresh coffee.

  “We’d like you to accompany us back to North Bridge House for further questioning,” DS Irvine announced. At this, and for no apparent reason which could be worked out later in discussions with his DI, he went over and grabbed hold of one of Anderson’s arms. Bad move. Very bad move.

  If you get physical, even a little, with someone like Anderson, they tend to get physical back. In spades.

  Anderson’s eyes fixed Irvine with a cold stare, “Naff off, Jock,” and with that he freed his mildly restrained arm, turned away quickly from Irvine, and as he did so he elbowed the DS in the face.

  Now, Irvine considered himself to be useful in a scrap, and Kennedy thought the same about his DS, having seen him in action a few times and knowing that he had been the middleweight police boxing champion for a few successive years in the mid-eighties. But though Irvine’s pride was damaged he kept his cool.

  “That’ll be enough of that, laddie,” he said and once more took Anderson’s arm, this time more securely.

  “Oh will it now?” Anderson shrugged him off like a dead fly and in one movement picked up his gloves, put them on and swung round, very agile for a man of his years. He pulled Irvine towards him using the arm Irvine had taken hold of and bobbed him sharply on the nose with a left jab.

  Both men now squared up to each other. Anderson immediately took a boxer’s pose and raised both gloved fists to protect himself. Irvine followed suit and both of them shuffled around, their shoes squeaking on the floorboards.

  Kennedy tried to interject a bit of lightness, “Okay, Hugh, enough’s enough. You’re going to have to come with us, so stop monkeying around.”

  “It’s okay, sir, leave him to me,” Irvine said somewhat breathily, his pride and his nose both severely bruised.

  Irvine took advantage of Anderson’s high guard to pump him with a left, a right and a left again in quick succession just above the waist. Anderson, a fifty-three year old who’d obviously been in the wars more than once, barely batted an eyelid. The daylight from the window above his desk reflected two sharp white dots in the pupils of his eyes, showing how hard his stare was fixed on Irvine. He seemed happy to be on the defensive, so the gamely Scot tried a quick one-two to the upper arm, a left and a right to the lower body, but once more he found his usually dependable left hook to be lacking as Anderson kept moving from foot to foot using his fists to spar at the air about Irvine’s bloodied face.

  Then he landed a deadly right straight through the Irvine guard, which connected to the jaw with a loud crack. The DS shook his head violently to sharpen his focus just as another Anderson right snuck through his guard and connected with a louder crack to Irvine’s nose. Kennedy was worried, but he’d seen Irvine before and knew he’d something big in reserve. He’d obviously been holding back with his famous left for fear of hurting the other too much, police brutality and all that. Wrong! Irvine had delivered four of his best lefts and they had had zero effect on the older man. After the last, Kennedy knew the sergeant was in trouble, mainly because the battered Scot grunted “I’m in trouble.” The trouble came quick. It was all over in ten more seconds.

  Anderson jabbed him in the stomach with a quick and painful right. The deep thud of the connection filled the loft and Irvine instinctively dropped his guard to cover his stomach. Anderson hit him twice more, once to the chin with a left, and as this punch was connecting, a right to the side of Irvine’s badly bruised face. The DS was already on the way down, pride and tweeds heading for the grubby floor.

  “Okay, Mr Anderson. That’s enough, you’ve had your fun, let’s go.” Kennedy made to help the winded Irvine to his feet.

  “Oh, so you fancy your chances now, Kennedy, do you?” Anderson stepped towards him, fists still up, guard still close to his face, sparring away at him, shoe leather cracking beneath him as he floated on the balls of his feet.

  He squared up to Kennedy and from the thug’s eyes the detective deducted he was considering which tactics would help him take out a second CID officer. It was all a waste of time. Yes, the villain could probably beat both of them to a pulp, but he’d be apprehended before the night was out.

  But Kennedy had a more immediate problem. He could hear the swishing sounds of displaced air as the man’s fists jabbed their way in the general direction of his head.

  “Come on, Guv, fancy a few rounds?” he crowed, clearly loving every second of this encounter, still fresh as a daisy and eager for more blood.

  Kennedy saw blood, Irvine’s, as it flowed freely from his nose, over his mouth, over his chin, down his throat and then soaked into his checked shirt and tartan tie.

  “Feck this for a game of soldiers,” said Kennedy as he grabbed the fly spray from the desk beside him and sprayed Anderson’s face through his guard. As the man doubled up in pain and tried to rub the stinging spray from his eyes, Kennedy took careful aim and kicked him right smack centre in the goolies. Anderson collapsed loudly in a heap, knocking the stuff from his desk and scattering boxes all over the place as he did so. He was screeching at the top of his lungs, the pitch rising all the time. He sounded like a banshee torn between two funerals.

  Kennedy quickly secured Anderson’s hands behind his back with a set of handcuffs and returned to Irvine, whose wind had returned and who was wiping the bloody nose with a handkerchief while grinning, painfully, from ear to ear.

  “Well done, sir. What a bit of style. You can come with me to Glasgow, sir, anytime at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Civil Servant’s weapon be

  A cup of boiling, scalding tea.

  One at ten, and one at three

  A Civil Servant’s life for me.

  Much relieved that his features hadn’t been seriously rearranged, Kennedy went straight to Superintendent Castle’s office on returning to North Bridge House. There was time to kill before interviewing Hugh Anderson; they had to wait until his solicitor arrived. Kennedy liked Anderson’s brief, Leslie Russell. Kennedy never judged the brief by the criminals they represented. If Leslie Russell and his colleagues in the legal profession looked after only virtuous clients they’d be as successful as blind driving instructors.

  Kennedy had always found Russell to be plain and straightforward, not scared of advising his clients to face their due on the grounds that as a result of the same they may very well receive more lenient punishment. He was not one for exploiting the many dubious rules in a client’s favour.

  The Anderson case seemed surprisingly pretty cut-and-dried to Kennedy. Just like Adam and Eve, an apple was about to be responsible for his downfall. It was surprising for Kennedy because it seemed so logical and simple for a murder which on paper had looked so complex. But, as Castle advised him on numerous occasions, don’t let yourself be scared off by the simple solutions. In 90 per cent of the cases it will be the simple solution which will also be the correct one. Most people who commit murder are just not that clever, not that devious. It’s just the few clever ones who get all the good press. But then we are all used to the telly cops where they have a series to fill and so they have to string it along for a few weeks with complications.

  “Anderson’s in the
nick, sir,” Kennedy announced as he popped his head round the door.

  “Good, well done. Come in, Christy, sit down. Let’s get some tea, shall we?” Castle suggested in his commanding voice. He had one of those great expressive voices which would work great on radio or in the theatre. It had that rare quality of convincing you of whatever its owner said; merely because of the trouble taken to saying it, was gospel and important, very important. Voices like Castle’s could work wonders for their owners” careers. Yes Castle, with his super-fit slim body, distinguishing grey hair and smart uniform proudly displaying his five stars, could always be relied upon to give a good presentation, particularly of himself.

  “Yes, don’t mind if I do. Thank you, sir,” Kennedy replied, chirpy enough, never one to turn down a good cup of tea, even if it was being served in the lions” den. But then hadn’t Androcles gone in to the lion’s den? Mind you at least he knew all he had to do was remove the thorn from the lion’s foot in order to become his friend for life. But Kennedy knew not what danger he was walking in to, and what about being called “Christy” as well as being offered a cup of tea? He hoped a round of golf was not the poison lurking there on the end of the thorn, because if it was then he was sure the lion was in for a hearty breakfast.

  “You know, Christy,” Castle began expansively as he made his way across to his tea-making cupboard. He had taken a (tea) leaf out of Kennedy’s book and had recently started to prepare his own brew rather than risk the nail-varnish remover of the canteen or the gnat’s piss which was dispensed from the machine (great graphics, shame about the liquid). Castle entertained a lot of visiting top brass in his office, sometimes even local politicians. Whereas Kennedy loved the taste and the refreshing qualities of tea, his Super loved the ritual of preparing it in the company of his guests. He would invariably be the one doing the talking as he opened his teak cupboard, slid out the preparation platform, poured already strained water into the kettle (both containers were silver and highly polished, of course), boiled the water (not personally but with the use of electricity, although it was claimed he could build up enough of a personal head of steam to blow a fuse or two when things weren’t exactly going his way), and poured the boiling water into a (matching silver) teapot where the clear bubbling liquid was turned into a reddish brown brew by the waiting teabags (Tetley’s circular ones). Then as he waited for the tea to draw, and still rabbitting away ten to the dozen, he would take out his white fine bone china cups and saucers. Castle, like Kennedy, liked the fact that you could see your tea line through these cups. You could always tell how much of your meeting/interview/brief was left, since these were all one-cup affairs. Castle would offer milk and sugar, white with two lumps in Kennedy’s case, and have everyone’s cup prepared and waiting for the freshly drawn brew to be applied, while all the time addressing his guest(s), rarely entertaining a reply or an opinion.