Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  Again Kennedy steals another glance at ann rea, and at that precise moment he loves her, her hands, feet, heart, bottom, eyes, ears, nose, soul, intrigues, sense of humour, darkness… yes, he loves her darkness, it’s the one thing, the only thing which prevents him from taking her for granted, prevents him from thinking ‘this is it, we are happy ever after,’ her darkness forbids this, he loves her laugh, he loves her tears, he loves her hair now so messed up in a French kind of way, he loves every single thing about her, except maybe and that’s just a maybe.

  At that split second the thing he loves the most about her is the fact that she is turned on. She is turned on by him and this in return is the single biggest turn on for him and very soon they are as one, protected, and they move and breathe and kiss and groan and laugh and cry and push and pull and sway and cling and wait, as one.

  They wait until they know they are ready, ready to love together, and they do so on that lonely beautiful beach at Climping between the trees, under the leaves and close to the lapping water. But it’s not really a lonely beach because at that moment, the moment which they have managed to capture forever, the beach is the entire universe and they shudder and convulse against each other in ever-less powerful and less frequent waves.

  And the world is complete and perfect, so perfect Kennedy feels like they’ve drifted into the sea. He can feel the breeze now about his legs and it feels wet, they must be in the sea, but they can’t be. And then they hear “Buddy, Buddy where are you?”

  Kennedy realises that the wet sea breeze is a rather large Labrador licking about his neither regions. He quickly tries to shoo it away as the Yorkshire accent gets closer and closer: “Buddy, aye where are you? Buddy, here boy!”

  ann rea catches a fit of the giggles. Kennedy moves to regarment himself, ann rea pulls him closer and refuses to let him go, “No. Please stay like this, stay as you are. Like this, with me. Hold me,” she whispers.

  Kennedy clings on to her for dear life and buries his face in the nape of her neck. They are both still breathing faster than normal. Not as fast as they were breathing a short time ago and not as fast as they will be breathing if Buddy’s owner, the silly sod who thinks that dogs not only can understand but also answer human questions, finds them.

  Buddy, however, unlike his owner, does have a bit of sense. He realises that his two new friends are going to be no fun. They have eyes, and arms and legs, and other bits, only for each other. So Buddy beats a hasty retreat in the direction of the fine old Yorkshire accent.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “God, they’re all on our bloody doorstep!” DS Irvine declared on hearing the information from the WPC (at the same time as Kennedy) that Rory Nash had his offices literally a stone’s throw, well, more like a Steve Batley super javelin throw, from North Bridge House.

  The WPC was noticeably, and naturally, disappointed when Kennedy invited Irvine and not herself to accompany him on the interview with Mr Rory Nash.

  “Look,” Kennedy offered in a roundabout compliment, “we need you to stay here and track down the fourth guy, Jerry MacKane. You’re obviously very good at locating missing persons.”

  If Kennedy had looked closely, as in too close, at the WPC’s face he would have noticed that her chiselled good looks had started to blush, just ever so slightly mind you, and she turned in her chair to attack the phones, hopeful of avoiding further embarrassment.

  The offices of Concoction Management Company were cool, as in very cool. When Kennedy and Irvine reported at reception they were showed to pink sofas located on a island created on the white marble floor by a matching pink carpet. And this was just reception. The DI and DS sat on opposite sofas separated by a large smoked-glass coffee table. Kennedy’s eye was caught by the flash headline of one of the music mags lying there: “Pauley Valentine signs to Camden Town Records”. Kennedy was about to read the article to find out how much Camden Town Records had paid for the privilege when a stunning middle-aged woman appeared and introduced herself as Esther, Rory Nash’s PA.

  “He can see you right away, if you’d just like to follow me.”

  Kennedy knew that Irvine was about to reply “Anywhere,” so he replied simply and quickly “Good,” and the three of them climbed the two flights of glass-encased stairs in silence.

  As they reached the second floor Esther said, with a smile large enough to forgive the Spurs another home defeat, “We’re through here.” Body language-wise she was dealing mostly with Kennedy, probably because he was the one doing the least leching. “Would you like a drink of any kind?”

  “Yes, thanks, that would be great, I’ll have a tea, white, two sugars,” Kennedy began, “and my DS here would like…” And he left a gap for Irvine to fall into. But Irvine had fallen into another gap, one of lust, so Kennedy filled in the narrative himself: “And my DS would just like to suck his thumb.”

  The lovely Esther was obviously used to people staring at her so, because Kennedy could almost swear she winked at him as she replied, “Oh don’t worry about him, he’ll get over it, perhaps some mineralwater will help cool him down?”

  “That would be great, yes great, yes indeed, that would be fine,” Irvine’s babbling was broken by an arrival from the inner office, which was just off Esther’s reception area. The arrival was an incredibly well dressed man who immediately extended his hand in the general direction of the two policemen. “Hi, I’m Rory Nash,” he said, or rather proclaimed, with a warm, confident smile.

  “Hello, I’m Inspector Christy Kennedy and this is Sergeant James Irvine,” Kennedy replied as they performed a superb bit of synchronised hands-in-inside-pocket, remove-wallet, one-handedly-open-wallet, flash-warrant-card-and-Met-badge, close-wallet-and-return-to-inside-pocket. Unsynchronised, they both shook Nash’s hand.

  Nash was solid. If he wasn’t so subtly dressed you’d say he was heavy, stocky, well built, but never fat. However, the fact that his waist had all but disappeared was carefully (unsuccessfully) hidden by a beautiful loose-fitting blue silk shirt hanging over black Armani slacks, perfectly pressed. Rory was aware that his slacks were perfectly pressed because as he sat down in his conference area, inviting the two officers to join him, he carefully caught the crease just above the knee and tugged it a few times to allow the material to flow freely before crossing his legs and doing the same with the other crease.

  His office was large, pretty much this entire floor save for Esther’s little area, and one end, the entire front of the building, was glass from floor to ceiling. Kennedy found this a little unusual. Mainly because the view through the transparent wall wouldn’t exactly inspire you the way the view from the top of Primrose Hill might. Not to mention the fact that the heat in the height of summer must be pretty much near unbearable. Nash had three large plants, more like small trees actually, along the glass wall. The floor was covered in a plush royal blue carpet and the office was divided, not physically, but decoratively, into three sections.

  The far end was the casual end, where two small windows lit a comfy space of three expensive multicoloured sofas around three sides of a large wooden coffee table, the fourth side protected by a large swivel chair, seat height positioned a few inches above that of the sofa. This would not only give physical advantage but an even greater, negotiating advantage to the occupant.

  Centre table was a large bowl of fruit and lots of mags, including another copy of the one with the Valentini story, which was, as luck would have it, positioned directly in front of Kennedy. Camden Town Records had paid out £250,000 for the privilege of Mr Valentini’s signature. The article further claimed that the company’s executives would have paid more should the hijacker have been available for promotion. However, Kennedy thought, the only reason that Valentini would have been available for promotion would have been due to the fact that he had not hijacked the radio station. Now taken to its logical conclusion, should he not have hijacked the radio station in the first place then the likes of Camden Town Records would certainly n
ot be paying out a quarter of a million pounds for a career which at best had easily passed its sell-by date.

  Kennedy also knew for a fact it would be several long years, not to mention many career durations, before Pauley Valentini was going to be able to perform in public again.

  The next section of the room was the official office, with a long mahogany desk complete with computer terminal and telephone switchboard. In the middle was a large leather bound notebook (closed) and a couple of floaters (for tea or coffee cups). On the user side of the desk was a large leather swivel chair and on the visitors” side were two high-backed wooden chairs with a magnificent Native American pattern cut into the back. Yes, Kennedy thought, these chairs would have looked perfect positioned around the campfire.

  The final section of the room was the conference area with a large simple oak table surrounded by eight farmhouse-style chairs. The one at the head of the table again appeared to be a couple of inches higher than the others, but maybe it was just his imagination.

  The walls, unusually for music biz walls, were a gold-disc-free zone. Behind Nash’s desk was a painting. Kennedy couldn’t make out what it was meant to be of but it looked expensive and the paint had been lashed on quite liberally giving an impression of depth, particularly between the colours. Kennedy had never been able to work out why people would seemingly pay a lot of money for a painting for their office and then position it behind their head where they would rarely be able to experience its delights, if any.

  The conference area walls were decorated with photographs. Some of Nash with a woman who made up what she lacked in looks with a beaming smile, some of Nash’s artists (Kennedy assumed) some of Nash with some of these assumed artists and some of Nash with local politicians. But pride of place was given to a large black and white print of Marc Bolan.

  The walls of the den (sofa area) were covered by glass shelves containing what looked like thousands of models. Before last weekend both Kennedy and Irvine would have referred to them as toys, maybe even “Bleedin” Dinky Toys” but now the newly inducted experts recognised them as Corgi Classics. “A multicoloured display for a lost or longed for childhood,” was how Irvine had chosen to describe them.

  Nash was slow and controlled in all of his movements. Extremely graceful, but an acquired grace nonetheless. All his body movements were planned and well-orchestrated. Nash reminded Kennedy of that great photograph of David Bowie, the one which had proved to be the blueprint for a thousand poseur bands of the seventies. Bowie’s left hand is caressing a Shure Hammerhead microphone. His right hand is dangling by his side, a lit ciggy between his fingers from whence the coiling of the rising smoke provides the only movement in the photograph. Kennedy realised this pose was great, only for an instant, but that Bowie would probably have spent the entire concert as that statue breathing his air of cool, were it not for the flesh burning capability of the cigarette.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Nash said very quietly, “what can I do for you?”

  As he finished his request he put his hand in his trouser pocket and retrieved a tube from which he sprayed some liquid into his mouth.

  “We believe you may be in danger, sir,” Kennedy said, deciding that if they were to get anywhere with this particular gentleman his cool would have to crumble.

  “Interesting,” was Nash’s only reply, veneer still intact as he gently and precisely palmed his right hand over his closely cropped head, “and who, pray, wishes to do me harm?”

  “We don’t know exactly. But we do have reason to believe that a Miss Anna Elliot may have something to do with it. She may be employing someone to do her evil for her,” Kennedy replied.

  When Nash didn’t show any sign of responding Irvine asked, “Are you aware of this woman, sir?”

  “No, I don’t think I am. There is, however, something strangely familiar about it though. Did I used to manage her?” the professional personal manager inquired as he uncrossed his legs, recrossing them in the opposite direction and repeating his creasing procedure as he did so.

  “Well, sir we have reason to believe that you and three of your friends, a Mr Neil Burton, a Mr John B. Stone and a Mr Jerry MacKane were accused of raping Miss Anna Elliot when she was a young girl, about twenty-four years ago,” DS Irvine replied, checking his notebook to make sure all the names were correct as he dropped his bombshell.

  Rory Nash turned from his usual red flush to a whiter shade of pale. But there was not one iota of change in the tone of his voice.

  “Ah yes, that. Oh come on, gentlemen, I’m sure that you have already seen from the reports that no charges were ever brought. It was just a case of a few boys and girls having a bit of fun.”

  “Girl,” corrected Kennedy. “We see from our report that it was four boys and just one girl. Just one, a sixteen-year-old Miss Anna Elliot, and it doesn’t seem to me as if it was fun at all.”

  “As I said, it was just a bit of fun. We, including the girl, were exploring our sexuality and she later regretted it. I suppose having sex with three boys isn’t exactly great for one’s reputation. But as I said, no charges were brought against us quite simply because there were none to be brought. Nothing was forced on this girl that she didn’t invite or encourage, and from my memory, blurred though it may be all these years later, she was a willing, eager and inventive participant.” Rory Nash once more removed the tube from his pocket and sprayed his mouth before continuing.

  “Quite frankly, officers, I have to tell you that if you are planning to leak any of this to the press, I mean we all know about the press and their policy of print-now-check-your-facts-later, I and my legal people will take any action necessary to claim compensation for any damage done to my reputation. I should also warn you that it is my long-term intention to go into politics and I advise you of this so that you many realise and comprehend the extent of damages and compensation I am talking about.”

  “I have to ask you, sir,” Kennedy began clearing his throat in annoyance, “do you have any idea where this Anna Elliot may be now?”

  Chapter Forty

  As Kennedy and Irvine were concluding a very unproductive interview with Rory Nash, WPC Coles, on the other hand, was making progress on the case back at North Bridge House.

  She was worried about this case. Generally speaking you find a body and then you (hopefully) go off and find the person who committed the murder. Simple? Well not really simple, but the basic procedure is quite straightforward.

  However, on this case they already had two bodies and there was a good possibility two more were about to be murdered. This fact alone put the team under quite a bit of pressure. Pressure to find the two people in question, namely Rory Nash and Jerry Mac Kane, before the murderer, (allegedly) Anna Elliot, caught up with them.

  The Camden Town bush telegraph (actually an ex-girlfriend) reported that Jerry Mac Kane had moved to Birmingham about four years previously. Apparently this girlfriend was quite happy to see the back of him and had no further communications with him. She did not know the whereabouts of any of Mac Kanes’s relatives, she just kept repeating the fact that her life had taken a major turn for the better upon Mac Kane’s departure.

  Jerry Mac Kane, in his girlfriend’s words, “was a slob,” and the only regular work listed on his CV was that of “electrician” but he tended to get fired from most of his jobs due to the lightness of his fingers.

  As she continued to buzz the phone lines, WPC Coles was happy that Kennedy and Irvine were taking so long over the Nash interview. She currently had two leads on Mac Kane - police files for the thieving and electrical firms for places of employment. She decided to start with Birmingham CID and see what they might have on Mac Kane.

  The rolling drawl at the other end of the line accessed a computer listings, and surprise, surprise, not Cilla but Jerry Mac Kane with a list of crimes (all thieving) as long as your arm. Coles had been expecting this had merely said “Yes, and?” with each item, until the shock of the final entry.

 
“Oh, look at this!” PC Henry Burke continued in his best Kevin Turvey accent. Coles thought she might if she was looking over his shoulder, but rather than say ‘read it out to me you dimwit,’ she very charmingly said, “something of importance you think?”

  “I’d say so.” Henry Burke replied, milking the situation. “Yes?” Coles inquired, raising her voice a little. “Well, it’s just that your Jerry Mac Kane is deceased, he is no more.”Coles prayed that the Brummie wouldn’t be so tasteless as to use the rest of the Monty Python line. He was.

  “He’s a stiff!”

  “Really?” WPC Coles wanted to get beyond these short exchanges, but she was cautious, perhaps these stories about the brain capacity of the Midland’s finest were true.

  “Yes, and it looks like he came to a very, very sticky end, more like a bloody end, actually,” Burke continued as he read from the file.

  “Was he murdered then?” Coles was now fearing the worst, that Anna Elliot had beaten them to it again.

  “No,” came the telephonic reply.

  Coles breathed a huge sigh of relief. She felt for ann rea’s friend Daniel Elliot, and didn’t want to see him falling under the spotlight any more than he was already. Not that the pressure of being the father of a woman who had murdered twice was much less than being the father of a woman who had murdered three times. He’d still get pointed to and stared at in the street and in the supermarket. He’d still get shite tabloid journalists hunting him, and then just when he felt it had all had died down they’d come up with the pretence of some anniversary and they’d all be back camping on the doorstep.

  “No, our friend Jerry MacKane was savaged by a wild dog, a little over two years ago.”

  So PC Burke could string a full sentence together after all, and when he did, boy what a full sentence.