Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  There were the initial greetings and inquiries about each other’s health: “I’ve been told to slow down,” said Taylor, “and when you’ve seen as many insides as I have you know exactly what your doctor is on about. I have no excuses. It’s just, you know me, old chap, I absolutely love good food, good wine and great brandy. How’s your health, Christy?”

  “No, complaints, touch wood,” Kennedy replied.

  Kennedy had brought the recently received Birmingham file and autopsy report on Jerry Mac Kane. Taylor, for his part, had dug out Dr Forsythe’s autopsy reports on Neil Burton and John B. Stone.

  The DI also had a large amount of paperwork with him. He intended to use the time Taylor was studying the reports to catch up on some of his more boring duties such as approving rotas, going through the recently emptied contents of his in-tray, filling out the monthly man- (and woman) hour reports, filling in the monthly crime stat. sheets and on and on in the never-ending distraction to the art of detection.

  One of Taylor’s options was to re-examine the body of Neil Burton if he were not 100% confident of Forsythe’s report. He had extended an invitation to Kennedy to stick around should this be necessary. Kennedy expressed a hope, for the sake a) of Dr Taylor’s golf, and b) his own stomach, that such additional examination would not be deemed necessary.

  They both proceeded with their work, occasionally grunting (Taylor) and mmming (Kennedy) and making notes (both). Then about twenty minutes into the research, revision and form-filling, both Kennedy and Taylor let out a shout at exactly the same moment.

  “Good Lord! Unbelievable! I don’t believe it!” was Taylor’s exclamation, while Kennedy’s was equally religious.

  “Holy shit!” “You go first, old chap,” said Taylor in a high state of anxiety. “No, this will wait. What’s yours?” Kennedy invited. “Well, it’s just this, my dear friend. Have you had a chance yet tocheck the Birmingham autopsy report on Mac Kane?”

  “No,” Kennedy replied, willing the Doctor to cut to the quick, “it was in my in-tray this morning, along with a lot of this other stuff I’ve been ploughing through just now.”

  “Well,” Taylor began as he raised his large frame from behind the desk and waddled around to Kennedy’s side, swerving to avoid various piles of files. “Look at the name of the doctor who carried out the autopsy on Mac Kane.”

  Taylor placed the report, relevant page to the fore, on top of Kennedy’s reading material, and his plump forefinger kept jumping up and down under the signature and typed name of one Dr Bella Forsythe.

  The words “Holy shit!” escaped Kennedy’s lips for the second time in as many minutes. “Coincidence? Coincidence that she would be responsible for carrying out an autopsy on two people in two cities both apparently attacked by a wild dog, and both these people were involved with each other twenty-four years ago on a rape charge. Coincidence?”

  “Possible, I suppose, but not probable. But then again, they’re called coincidences because they are strange things which happen together which aren’t meant to happen, but do so nonetheless. Could that be the case here? Could it?”

  “I don’t think so, Doctor,” Kennedy replied with a triumphant smile, “look at my discovery.”

  Kennedy handed Taylor an identikit picture.

  “Yes!” Taylor said without hesitation, “quite like Dr Forsythe.” Then the penny dropped, at least part of the way. “What? You don’t surely mean to say that someone saw her at the scene of the crime and gave you this description?”

  “No, not like that at all. This is the girl who was raped. Abducted by Neil Burton, currently lying in your morgue; John B. Stone, also in your morgue; Jerry Mac Kane, the Birmingham mad dog victim you’ve just been reading about; and Rory Nash, as of yesterday alive and well and living in Camden Town. The girl whom three of four of these gentlemen allegedly raped was called Anna Elliot. The only photograph we had of this person was taken shortly before the rape twenty-four years ago when she was sixteen. So I had the computer boffins in forensic age the photograph to predict what she might look like today, and this is what They’ve come up with.”

  “Dr Bella Forsythe,” both said in unison.

  “Dr Bella Forsythe, aka Dr Annabella Forsythe, aka Miss Anna Elliot, aka Miss Dipstick,” Kennedy soloed.

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story, and with no real punch-line to justify wasting your time with the full explanation.”

  But there was more.

  When Dr Taylor examined (for the record) the body of Neil “Flute” Burton he stated for the record, being recorded by an overhead suspended microphone,

  “This is certainly not the work of a wild dog, a dog of any kind for that matter. These intrusions are too neat and tidy. If these injuries had been caused by the teeth of a dog this would all have been ripped apart more crudely. These cuts, in my opinion, were most certainly made by a knife, possibly even a scalpel. The cuts are all clean and precise. Again, I repeat, if they were made by a dog’s teeth this tissue would all be shredded and uneven. It’s easy to see how all the blood was lost.” Taylor invited Kennedy to have a look.

  Kennedy’s stomach felt like a car engine trying to turn over on a cold morning without the assistance of the choke. He looked over Taylor’s arched back and closed his eyes just as the area referred to by Taylor was about to come into view. He was more than happy to take the doctor’s word for it.

  “Okay,” Kennedy announced twenty-seven minutes later back at North Bridge House. The entire team, thankfully minus Castle, had reassembled and there was a certain amount of joviality in the air. Overtime, after all, was overtime. “Okay, let’s get out and about around Camden immediately with these pictures. We really do need to look under each and every stone. Don’t forget this is the most recent photograph Dr Taylor could find for us of Dr Bella, sorry, Dr Annabella Forsythe. It is also worth remembering that although she’s not a master of disguise, she’s been known to try out a few fancy dress party-pieces, i.e. her Royal Blackness, Miss Dipstick. Today we haven’t a clue as to how she’ll be trying to conceal her identity. Through her contacts with us she’ll certainly know we’re on her trail, but hopefully she’ll be unaware of this morning’s developments.”

  The joviality subsided as one by one each member of the team realised that they recognised the name, and the likeness, as not only someone they all thought they knew but also as someone who had been working with them on this very case.

  Indeed, amongst their number was a gentleman of Scottish extraction who had allowed himself to grow quite fond of the doctor. His voice was the next to be heard.

  “Are we absolutely sure about this, sir?” The Connery sparkle was missing this time.

  “Alas, I’m afraid so, DS Irvine, and I think it’s very important for all of us to remember how dangerous she is. For certain she’s now killed three times that we know of.” Kennedy held up three fingers to emphasise the point.

  “Neil Burton, throat and innards slashed with a scalpel to make it look like the work of a dog. The exact same for Jerry Mac Kane. And John B. Stone, bludgeoned to death.”

  “But I thought we had Anderson banged away to rights on that one, sir?” a Welsh voice at the back chipped in.

  “Anderson has claimed all along that after his beating Stone was still alive. Now I’m prepared to believe him and believe that Forsythe returned to the scene of the crime to finish off Stone herself.”

  “Ingenious!” WPC Coles admitted.

  “Yes, but before we get too far into blind adulation let’s remember that she is now after Rory Nash. Only this time she’s even more dangerous because she’s nothing to lose, nothing at all. They can’t give her more than a life sentence whether it’s for three or for four murders. Now Nash, the eejit won’t come in to our custody to protect himself, so you, WPC Coles, and you, PC Alloway, I want you both stuck to him like glue. I want you to be as close to him as Coe was to Ovett, all day and night, until Forsythe is apprehended.”

  “What
-ifs,” Coles began.

  “No what-if’s,” Kennedy rejoined, “he doesn’t have a choice. “Go, and go now. Please. We weren’t able to help the first three poor sods and we may not be able to force Nash into our custody but let’s do our damnedest to keep him alive.”

  Before Kennedy had finished WPC Coles, with PC Alloway in tow, was off. Off to protect a future politician.

  “Okay, DS Irvine, here’s Dr Forsythe’s address, or at least the last known one Dr Taylor had in his files for her. I’ve requested warrants for her arrest and to search her property to be issued urgently. Tim Flynn should have copies for you by the time you leave the station. Go round there and take whoever you feel you will need. No doubt Forsythe will not be there, but find me something, Jimmy, anything. We need some kind of lead. A clue about what she intends to do, or her whereabouts, or possibly clues as to what disguises she may be using, or even what she’s been doing for the last twenty-four years. Photos of friends, I don’t really know what. Just look and look and look and then look once more,” the DI instructed as Irvine nodded compliance with the order.

  The DS’s war wounds were now healing quite well, well as could be expected, so Kennedy thought that Irvine should not be feeling as bad as he looked. Everyone in the conference room that morning had seen better looking corpses. Irvine made eye contact with one WPC and two PCs and nodded them to follow him.

  Kennedy was half-tempted to visit the Forsythe apartment in person. He had a yen to see the home of the person who had without any apparent remorse, murdered three people, all males and all, at least on paper, stronger than her. He wanted to walk in to her living space and sense and savour his first impressions. However, he resisted the temptation, feeling the case would be better served should he remain at North Bridge House and be on hand to assess any and all developments.

  He managed a quick call to ann rea advising her of the breakthrough. She remained perfectly calm and advised Kennedy that she and Daniel Elliot would catch the next train back to London and come straight to North Bridge House.

  Kennedy dispatched the few remaining members of the team to Nash’s office at 12 Oval Road, to keep watch in case Forsythe happened to show up there. He wasn’t entirely sure about this, as Esther had convinced him that the building was never in use at the weekend. That was the time the cleaners came in.

  Even the cleaners knew something was up at 12 Oval Road on that sunny Saturday morning. Not only were there lots of police officers loitering with intent, but the cleaners” usually stingy bosses at OfficeKlean had laid on an extra pair of hands. Mind you, none of them complained at the new, identically dressed pair of hands because she knew her way around the offices and seemed more than prepared to pull her weight.

  Kennedy assumed that Forsythe would be well aware that Nash would not be in his office on the Saturday and would be making her plans accordingly. She was hardly one for the rash attack. Anyone who had spent twenty-four years planning to murder four people would make herself well aware of her prey’s each and every move. Kennedy realised that if he didn’t pull his finger out quickly Nash’s movements were going to become very restricted, as in stopped, if one Annabella Forsythe had anything to do about it.

  No sooner had he dispatched the team to Oval Road when, back in the peace and quiet of his office, he took a call from WPC Coles.

  “Er, there’s a bit of a problem, sir.” “Yes?” “Well, we’re at Nash’s house and his partner tells us he’s not here, sir.” “Yes, and does sh… does the partner know where Nash is?” “Well, you see, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” “Yes? Is it?” “Well, apparently when Nash is in London at the weekend he likes tospend Saturday mornings wandering around Camden Market.”

  “For how long?”

  “The partner tells us that he doesn’t usually come back till about two o’clock,” Coles replied.

  “Can you find out where he goes - the Stables, Camden Lock, Dingwall’s, Chalk Farm Road, Camden High Street. I know, some Saturdays the Electric Ballroom down by the tube station is used for a record fair; check if he ever goes there and if one is on today.” Kennedy could sense the panic in his voice and hoped it wasn’t evident. If Rory Nash made a weekly pilgrimage to Camden Market then you could bet, as sure as you could bet on Eddie Irvine never being allowed to overtake Michael Schumacher as long as they both drove for Ferrari, that Annabella Forsythe would be equally aware of this fact and be aware of it long before Kennedy had been. She’d equally be aware that it would be nigh impossible to protect someone totally in such an environment.

  Kennedy remembered the case of the Bulgarian diplomat who had been openly assassinated on the streets of London; his attacker had simply injected him with poison from the tip of his umbrella. The diplomat collapsed to his death on the busy London streets within seconds. Frightfully un-British to use one’s brolly thus, but damned effective. From this maze of visions Kennedy kept hearing Coles” voice saying, “Well, that’s just it sir, apparently he loves the street buzz at the market and just wanders aimlessly around the entire area.”

  “Okay,” Kennedy replied, jumping to his feet and pulling his green windbreaker over his arms as he alternately held the handset in opposite hands, “I’ll meet you at the optician’s on the corner of Chalk Farm Road and Castlehaven Road, across the road from Dingwall’s.”

  Kennedy threw the phone back at the rest, hoping it would reach its destination, but he didn’t really care because at that point he was on the way out of the door. He stopped briefly at the desk to order Sgt Flynn to get as many people as possible down to Camden Market to meet up with himself and Coles. He further instructed Flynn to pull everybody, except Irvine and his team, off everything else and get them down to the market.

  “God bless Sgt Flynn,” Kennedy thought as he ran down Oval Road, took the first right into the arc of Gloucester Crescent, first right into Inverness Street, first left along Arlington Road, first right down Jamestown Road, first left into a packed Camden High Street, over the canal bridge and under the railway bridge to the start of Chalk Farm Road at Castlehaven Road.

  Once he reached the High Street, Kennedy’s running was hampered, as everyone seemed to be walking against him and the pavements were packed with punters and traders selling everything from pirate cassettes to leather jackets, shoes and boots (lots of boot stores but none selling Wellingtons; Kennedy had checked once unsuccessfully on his way to Glastonbury).

  By the time he reached the optician’s he was covered in a fine film of sweat, but on the positive side Coles was already there waiting for him with several other officers, obviously those already on duty on the busy streets of Camden Town.

  “Okay,” Kennedy began, surprised at himself by not being at all breathless (tell that to his heart, which was doing a Keith Moon set of paradiddles inside his chest). “We’re looking for Rory Nash and we’re looking for Annabella Forsythe looking for Rory Nash. Now, here’s the important bit: we have to find Rory Nash before Annabella Forsythe does.”

  With that he divided them up as best he could and sent off twenty-three fine officers to locate two people in a crowd of about twenty-five thousand. Most of the police knew Forsythe as a colleague, and Nash as a local minor celeb. The photo of the Elliots helped a bit but it was still a pretty formidable task. The phrase ‘needle in a haystack’ came to a number of minds.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “So, how’s he dressed?” Kennedy asked Coles.

  “Black tracksuit, black baseball cap, no markings, and white running shoes. According to him indoors he always dressed the same, it’s his healthy Saturday morning dress,” she replied.

  “What, you mean he’s jogging through all of this?” Kennedy indicated the thronging masses threatening to knock him off his feet even as he spoke to the WPC.

  “No, not at all, he just goes for a wander; we should check out the record stall, and no, there is no fair this morning at the Electric Ballroom but he is apparently a bit of a vinyl junky, sir, and occasionally re
turns with some rare sixties albums.”

  “Okay. Let’s get on with this search,” Kennedy instructed. He had decided that there wasn’t much sense in running about or hurrying. No, that would create a greater chance of missing Nash. He would walk slowly, taking everything in. He crossed the zebra crossing dividing Camden High Street and Chalk Farm Road and melted immediately into the market by Dingwall’s dancehall.

  The first thing which caught his attention was a stall absolutely laden with doughnuts. Every possible kind of doughnut one could imagine, even a few which no human could. On another morning he would have stopped, helped himself to a couple (at a pound each) and happily munched his way around the rest of the stalls. Not today.

  Forty-five minutes later Kennedy’s eyes were tiring from punks, spikey hair, leather shirts, micro skirts, miniskirts, long skirts (and that’s just for the boys); beer bellies, fat bellies, pregnant bellies, nose piercing, ear piercing, eyebrow piercing, lip, tongue and even cheek piercing; large people, little people, little people appearing to look large in high platform shoes, English people, Irish people, Scottish people, Indian people, Japanese people, lots of Japanese people, French people, London people, hippies, dippies, new romantics, old romantics, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, yes, really, even candlestick makers. Every bleeding type that you could think of, excepting that is, an overdressed, overweight and overcool bleedin” pop group manager.

  Kennedy suddenly remembered an old party trick of his. When he went to parties, and it was rare for him to do so, rarer still these days, instead of wandering around he would position himself in one comfy spot (near food, drink, tea making facilities, toilets, clean air, not too many people, an acceptable distance from the music and in close proximity of a relaxing easy chair) and by the end of the evening he invariably found that the entire party had passed by his hangout point. This gave him an idea.