Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  “You know, Christy, I’ve enjoyed this case, enjoyed it immensely. I’ve enjoyed working with you on it. It’s exciting when it all happens and comes together so fast. Isn’t it?”

  Kennedy was about to reply that in his view there was quite a way to go yet, but before he’d a chance to select the correct words to express this in a non-offensive way Castle continued:

  “It’s really lucky I was at the briefing, wasn’t it? I suppose it’s not all about paperwork.” Castle brought the two cups of steaming tea over, floater at the ready to protect Castle’s beautiful teak desk, a desk which accompanied him on all his moves. Kennedy considered that at that precise moment Castle looked like the archetypal civil servant.

  “This work is all about knowing your patch, knowing your criminal, being in tune with your area,” Castle lectured.

  Kennedy felt compelled to nod in agreement. Now that he’d got this far he wanted to at least taste the delights of the tea before leaving.

  “I’ve been thinking, you know, I’ve enjoyed this so much I might try to take a more active role in seeking out the criminals in our midst,” he declared, proving that the hangman never shakes your hand in friendship.

  “We could certainly use you, sir. Use your expertise and knowledge of the area,” Kennedy replied between quick sups of tea. Castle nodded his gratitude as the DI stepped forth into the unknown: “However, sir, we do need you up here. You know, fighting our political battles for us. Don’t forget, without you securing our budgets, manpower and generally running North Bridge House, none of the stuff any of us do down below would amount to anything. And the problem is, sir, I’m not sure there’s anyone else who could do it as well as you.”

  Totally unaware that he was being stroked, Castle lit up in one of those Gary Lineker permanent grins. Kennedy had inadvertently found himself as successful in promoting police politics as Steve McQueen had been with crewneck jumpers.

  “Yes, yes perhaps you’re right, yes indeed, who would do all of this?” Castle laughed as he surveyed his files, all neatly stacked about his desk. “Who indeed? Now tell me, Kennedy, about this other matter?”

  “Oh?” “Yes, you know, my dog idea?” Castle prompted. “Oh, yes.” “Well? Did you do any more work on it?” “Yes, sir.” Kennedy nodded. “And? Did Anderson have a dog?” Castle could barely contain his excitement. “Yes, sir, in fact he did,” Kennedy replied. “Great, Gr-ea-t. I just knew it. I just had this feeling. Yes I couldfeel it in my bones. I knew there had to be a connection between these two murders, Burton and Stone. Just the fact them being found so close together. Never be scared of the simple solution, Kennedy, it’s just a matter of putting two and two together.”

  “Well, I don’t actually think so, sir.” Kennedy dropped his bomb, right on target.

  “What don’t you think? That there’s no connection between these two cases? Oh come on, there must be,” Castle asserted.

  “No, sir. I don’t think we are going to be able to tie Anderson in to the Burton murder,” Kennedy replied confidently, noticing that Castle’s tea was about a quarter of an inch from the bottom of his cup.

  “But we must be able to. Can’t we get forensic to look at the teeth marks again, or what about the pathologist - can’t she get salvia from the dog and compare it to any liquids present in the wounds of the body?” A hint of desperation was creeping into Castle’s voice.

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. You see, Anderson’s dog, well sir, in fact it’s a poodle, a nice little white poodle, couldn’t tear the throat of a butterfly, even if she wanted to.”

  “Yes, yes, well I’ve got… I’ve got all this paperwork to get stuck into. Erm… keep me posted on the Anderson interview, won’t you?” said Castle, coldly finishing off the last dregs of his tea and dismissing the Inspector.

  As Kennedy left Castle’s office, carefully closing the door and silently hopping from foot to foot like he needed to go to the toilet, he was wearing too large a smile; a smile too large by far.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As Kennedy entered the interview room he was surprised to see that Hugh Anderson was smiling at him.

  He was sitting on one side of the table, again with Leslie Russell, facing WPC Coles and diagonally across from the empty chair awaiting the warmth of Kennedy.

  Anderson’s smile broke into laughter like popcorn reaching its popping point. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Guv, you got me. Totally surprised me. Maybe a bit doubtful about being fair and square, but you got me. As it happens, you know there’s not many people who can claim to have beaten me in a fight before.”

  “Yes, well, let’s get into this shall we?” Leslie Russell nodded in agreement, clean white notepad at the ready, pen hovering eagerly in anticipation. Kennedy turned on the recording machine and announced the time, date and those present.

  “At the last interview, Mr Anderson, you told me on tape and in the presence of your solicitor that when you left John B. Stone two evenings ago he headed up Parkway, in the direction of the bridge, and you went in the opposite direction,” Kennedy began to a stony silence from both Anderson and his brief.

  “However, evidence has recently come to light which proves that you were, in fact, present at the scene of the crime.”

  “Oh, and what evidence might that be?” Russell dutifully inquired.

  Kennedy then proceeded to tell them about the apple, and the teeth marks, and Anderson’s molars.

  “Do you mind if I have a few moments alone with my client?” the solicitor inquired at this juncture in the proceedings.

  “By all means,” Kennedy replied, announcing the time of the interview’s termination for the benefit of HME (His Master’s Ears).

  “My client has a statement to make.” This time Leslie Russell started off the proceedings.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” said Anderson, “as it happens I wasn’t telling you the truth. I didn’t go the opposite way to Stone when we left the Spread Eagle. I took him up Parkway on the pretense of some property which I wanted to sell and told him there was a monkey in it for him if he moved the property quickly. Not to mention the possibility of purchasing his Parkway garage property. He was keen as mustard, Guv, know what I mean?” Kennedy was surprised by the fact that Anderson’s voice had been raised an octave, no doubt caused by the re-arrangement of a certain part of his anatomy.

  “When we reached the fountain, the one with the washerwoman on top, I put on my leather gloves and smacked him up a bit, hit him on the Vera, but he had a glass jaw, one wallop and he was on his back. I didn’t kill him though. When I left him he was still breathing and moaning. Look, Guv, I know what I’m doing when I smack somebody. You just need them to feel pain and the point has been made. It makes them realise they’re out of order and hopefully they won’t be again. It’s a bit like kids, Guv, know what I mean? So I smacked him, told him to watch himself, dumped him in the dry fountain and left.”

  “Why did you beat him up?” said Kennedy. “As it happens, I was paid to, wasn’t I?” “Oh come on. What’s with all this fiction?” Kennedy could see ajustification running up the road at least a mile off, waving a very large flag declaring “Not guilty, your Honour, as it happens.”

  “No, true, on my honour, Guv. This bird, she contacted me last week. I was up in court on a GBH charge, not proven, case dropped, mistaken identity and all that. Anyways I get a call the next day at the office inquiring if I was the same Hugh Anderson who had appeared in court the previous day. It was a bird, dead posh and all that.”

  “Go on, I’m listening.” Kennedy wanted to get this part over, and the sooner they did so the better then they could get down to the nitty gritty and processing the charges. However, it must be said that part of him was intrigued; intrigued with the sort of story a professional villain would come up with to justify giving someone a hiding so severe that death was the end result.

  “Well, she said she might have some work for me and could we meet for a chat as she didn’t want to
discuss her business over the phone. So we agreed to meet in the lane by the side of the Danish Church at St Kathleen’s Hall. As soon as she sets the phone down I dial 1471 to get her number, and I get the ‘the caller has withheld their number.’ All very cloak and dagger.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Kennedy added sarcastically.

  “So, I’ve nothing to lose,” Anderson continued unperturbed. “I meet her as arranged and she’s all very Inspector Clouseau kind of stuff. Long black coat, long black hair, I’m sure it was a wig, but it was such an obvious wig I wouldn’t be surprised if she really had long black hair, dark glasses and, get this, bleedin’ black lipstick. She was quite tall, probably about five-nine. She told me she wanted this guy beaten up, she gave me a photo, it was John Stone as it turns out, and his work address. Apparently he’d been trying to take liberties with Miss Black Lipstick’s younger sister and she wanted him warned off. She kept repeating the fact that she didn’t want him hurt bad, she just wanted him warned off. She thought that if she overdid it she just might send her sister running into his arms. She didn’t want that either, she just wanted it to be a warning.

  “Some warning, Hugh,” said Kennedy. “In his next life John B. will be well scared of you and this Miss Dipstick, but it’s too late for this one.” And the DI shifted restlessly and uncomfortably on the hard chair. It’s a bit like the movies, Kennedy thought, if it’s a great movie you don’t notice how uncomfortable the seat is, or how close to your knees the row in front is, or how cold the cinema is or how noisy the sweet unwrapping next to you is. But if it’s a not so great movie your back and legs start to ache within ten minutes and cramp sets in within twenty. To Kennedy this movie of Anderson’s was terrible; surely the scriptwriters could never have thought anyone, let alone a policeman, would believe such a story. And it continued:

  “So I find out this guy drinks at the Spread Eagle, I case him for a couple of nights and on the third night I have someone drop a word in his ear that I’m in the market for a property and I might even have one to sell as well. I had to wait till chucking out time because Miss Black Lipstick wants the deed done by the fountain. Now I have to admit to you here and now that I did find that bit weird. She said that Stone would realise what the warning was about if it happened at the fountain. They don’t close the park gates till eleven-thirty so I knew at that time it would certainly be quiet enough for me to get on with my business, there certainly wouldn’t be any cars, so no cars, no interfering headlights. You know what, even if someone had stumbled by, it’s my experience these days that if people see a bit of a scrap going on they’ll cross to the other side of the road double quick and head off in the opposite direction.”

  Kennedy wished he could nip out and get an ice cream to distract him but he bided his time and let Anderson continue, hoping that while in free-fall, the man just might drop something he later would regret.

  “I smacked him about a bit, she told me not to say a word to him, just do the biz and throw him in the fountain. She paid me three hundred lids in advance and another three hundred immediately afterwards. We met in the same place, the lane round by the Danish church, and she was dressed exactly the same as the first time.”

  “So what about the baseball bat? Where in the proceedings did you produce and use that?” Kennedy inquired, his right leg throbbing with major cramp.

  “What baseball bat? Who said that? Who said I used a baseball bat? What’s this all about?” A slight panic appeared to set in as he looked first at Kennedy, and then at Russell.

  “Whoever set about John B. Stone used his fists and a baseball bat, or a piece of wood resembling a baseball bat,” Kennedy advised solicitor, client and tape recorder.

  “Listen, Guv, you saw me with your DS earlier today, I don’t need a baseball bat or a cricket bat for that matter or a piece of wood or iron bars or knuckledusters or whatever. My fists do me fine, thank you very much.”

  “Well now, there we have a bit of a dilemma, don’t we?” Kennedy said. He’d decided to leave it there. He knew that he would get Anderson, in the presence of his solicitor, to sign a statement. But it would not be a totally satisfying statement. Anderson had admitted taking John B. Stone up to the Fountain of Sorrow. He had equally admitted beating him while there. As a result of the beating Stone had died. The evidence was circumstantial, agreed, but Anderson was guilty, he’d said as much and a good silk would probably get his charged reduced from murder in the first degree to a lesser one of manslaughter.

  Chapter Thirty

  So that was it, another case solved. Or was it? Kennedy didn’t feel entirely comfortable about the whole thing. All this nonsense about Miss Dipstick, or was it Miss Lipstick? What was all that about? The Camden detective was in his office wandering around with his hands in his pockets, as was his habit, lost in such thoughts, when there was a knock on his door.

  “Leslie, come on in,” he responded warmly to the solicitor now at his door.

  “Thanks. I just wanted to have a chat with you about all this,” the solicitor began.

  “Sit down over there, won’t you? You’ll have some tea with me,” Kennedy stated.

  “Yes, yes of course that would be very nice,” Russell smiled. “Hugh felt that you didn’t exactly believe him about his mysterious woman. He wanted me to try to convince you that his claims are in fact true.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Yes, actually I do. I know he’s a bit of a rogue and all that but he’s never been scared to do his share of porridge. He’s just annoyed that now he’s going to get all the blame.”

  “But come on now, Leslie. He did admit that he beat up Stone.” “Yes.” “And as a result of this beating Stone died.” “Possible, but perhaps not entirely.” “You’re on a sticky one there, Leslie. Sure the mitigatingcircumstances will get it down to manslaughter, but he’s still guilty.”

  “Yes I agree, to a certain degree, but surely the fact that this woman, the one with the black lipstick - “

  “Miss Dipstick.”

  “Yes, if you must, Miss Dipstick,” Russell smiled, “anyway surely the fact that this woman paid Hugh Anderson, before and after the beating, puts her right up there with Anderson on this case. Certainly she must share some of his guilt, be it murder or manslaughter.”

  “You’re quite right, assuming Miss Dipstick exists,” Kennedy agreed.

  “Well I have to tell you that I believe Anderson. I don’t see any other motive, do you?”

  “No,” Kennedy lied. If someone was going to pay Anderson to murder Stone it could be anyone of the names on his original list of suspects. The brothers, the sister, the sister-in-law, Kevin Burroughs from Northern Properties, William Boatend from Camden Bus Estate Agents, or, person or persons unknown.

  Kennedy also knew, however, what Castle would say if a request was made to carry on with this investigation. “Come on, Kennedy, you’ve already put it to bed, let’s not get too complicated about all this, Anderson did it, I told you he did it, he told you he did it, what more do you need?”

  Has Anderson the slightest idea as to her identity?” Kennedy asked the solicitor.

  “No, not really. Not at all in fact. His description to you was exactly the same as the one he gave me. He did say she had a posh voice, though. Maybe a little too posh, as though it was put on,” Russell replied.

  “Why meet her in a lane beside the Danish Church?” Kennedy asked himself and the solicitor. “Could that possibly be a clue? Is she foreign? What happens at the Danish Church anyroads? Does she live near there? Is it handy for her? You see, that’s one of the two things I’ve been thinking about that makes me think there just might be some truth to Anderson’s story.”

  “Really?”

  Yes. If it was a criminal’s tale then why would he have a meeting in a lane by the Danish Church? It’s the most unlikely of places. Surely he would have gone for Camden Lock, or by the Roundhouse, or at the tube, the Dublin Castle, the rose garden in Regent’s Park… now that w
ould have been the perfect meeting place. Or anywhere really, anywhere except in a lane by the Danish Church.”

  “And the other? You said there were two things,” the solicitor prompted.

  “Yes, well he just said a very funny out-of-character kind of thing. Your client in his statement said that he felt that Miss Dipstick’s wig was so long and so fake-looking that it made him suspect that she really did have long black hair. Now that’s been bothering me. Why on earth would he have thought, let alone said anything like that were it not true?”