Last Boat To Camden Town (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 1)

by Paul Charles

  ‘Well, now – let me see. I suppose the most obvious way out of a hospital would be the easiest way into a hospital.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘In a wheelchair. One could cover the victim to make it look like a patient. And if the murderer puts on a doctor’s white coat, he could walk around the corridors all night without anyone paying much attention.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ exclaimed Kennedy. ‘You’re one hundred per cent right. Great stuff!’

  Kennedy was up and out of Taylor’s office in a few seconds, shouting a hasty, ‘And thanks for the tea,’ behind him. He returned to Rose Butler’s office in time to hear her saying to Irvine, ‘You can tell that men are becoming the weaker sex, they’re beginning to stand up and ask for their rights.’

  Irvine blushed when he spied Kennedy.

  ‘He’s not asking you to make his tea already, is he, Rose? He’s only known you a few days,’ Kennedy joked. ‘We’ve got to be off for now, but I should imagine one of us will be back to see you in the near future,’ said Kennedy, winking at the smiling staff nurse.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Just as they were about to pull out of the car-park, Kennedy asked Irvine to stop for a few seconds. He climbed out and crossed to where the car-park attendant was holed up. Irvine could see Kennedy ask the attendant a question. The attendant, in answer, pointed across the car-park to a large, black Range Rover. Kennedy nodded and returned to his own car.

  ‘What was that all about, sir?’ inquired the detective sergeant.

  ‘Oh – I was just finding out what kind of car Burgess drives,’ answered Kennedy.

  They didn’t talk much on the return trip to North Bridge House. Kennedy was thinking about his case, fitting the new pieces into an ever-growing and ever-changing jigsaw puzzle. Irvine, on the other hand, was considering the date he had just arranged for Saturday night with Rose Butler. Kennedy and Irvine were in the same car, on the same journey, but were a million miles apart.

  ‘See you later,’ called out Kennedy, as he eventually exited the car outside the front door of North Bridge House.

  ‘Later, sir,’ answered Irvine.

  Kennedy, hands deep in pockets and still struggling with his mental jigsaw puzzles, strode straight to his office. He removed his overcoat, revealing a green waistcoat, white shirt, green tie and brown slacks, and his eyes homed in on the case noticeboard.

  He scribbled more notes on sheets of paper and rearranged the noticeboard, hoping for inspiration. He felt he was making some kind of progress, but still couldn’t feel that he had taken the major step he needed to feel comfortable with his progress.

  He pushed the pin into the final sheet of paper and stood back, reviewing his arrangement of the Cumberland Basin case. Added to his earlier notes concerning Dr Berry, Norman Collins and William Jackson, was a new name: Dr Spencer Burgess. Below this was another sheet of paper on which Kennedy had written the following: Wheelchair. Injection. On duty – alibi? Motive? Visits scene-of-crime.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Kennedy, what do you do at weekends?’

  ‘Come again?’ he replied.

  ‘What do you do on weekends? Simple question.’

  The query was vintage ann rea.

  ‘Well, if I’m not in here, or out on a case, I stay at home and watch a video or the week’s Coronation Street.’

  ‘Pardon? Come on – I don’t believe you. Coronation Street? Kennedy, please!’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with that? Don’t you like Coronation Street? I’ve been watching it for years, since it began, actually. I missed a few years and maybe I didn’t see every week but enough to keep up with the plot,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Colour me impressed, Kennedy, you’re full of surprises. I’m not sure I was expecting that to be one of them, though. You’ve totally thrown me… I’ve completely forgotten what I rang you about,’ she laughed. ‘Oh yes, that’s it, the weekend. So what were you going to do this weekend?’

  Kennedy was bemused. ‘Well… actually, I was going to have a quiet weekend going over some of the notes and statements on the case, just to see if I’ve missed anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ she answered. ‘Sounds good to me. How do you fancy doing that in Cromer? I have to do a “Winter Weekend in Seaside Resorts” article and I’m planning a leisurely drive up there tomorrow. I plan a pleasant Saturday evening, fit in a few interviews on Sunday morning and stop off for a nice riverside English Sunday lunch on the way back. So you could do your case research and revision while I’m doing my interviews.’

  Kennedy was not as enthusiastic as one would imagine after such an invitation. ‘Yeah, it sounds great,’ he answered, sounding surprised and hesitant. His mind was running through the rooming arrangements and other such possibilities. His vocal hesitation was more from not believing his luck than from lack of interest for the trip. ‘Did you draw the short straw?’ he laughed, stalling a little.

  ‘Kennedy – it’s a great idea for an article. Lots of these places are ghost towns in winter. Boys off in search of female tourists who spend their summers there. Girls left behind like war brides now trying to conceal the fruits of their fortnight of passion with the vising Romeos. The deserted seafronts – I can see Alan Whicker walking across the sands, microphone in hand – ‘Down here on the windswept coast which resembles the shape of a dog’s hind leg, the local princess of candy floss sits on the frozen, lonely railings, weeping at the memory of her dreams shattered, like the ebbing tide now beating on the rocks beneath her, singing out –

  He’s gone, he’s gone for good

  You said that you would

  If you only could.

  He said you should.

  You did, and now

  He’s one, he’s gone for good’

  Kennedy was in stitches. He’d never heard ann rea in such a funny mood.

  ‘Ah, come on, Kennedy. It’ll be fun!’ she enthused.

  ‘How can I resist? Cromer, it sounds great,’ laughed Kennedy.

  ‘Good. I’ll book the rooms then, shall I?’

  Ah, the horrible word ‘rooms’, thought Kennedy, although he wasn’t sure why he thought or felt the rooms would have been anything but singular.

  ‘Yes… great… yes, fine,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Okay, let’s get an early start. I’ll pick you up at, say, ten-ish, and we’ll get there in time for lunch-ish.’

  ‘Great…’ Kennedy began, but he was talking to telephonic white noise again – ann rea had disconnected.

  A weekend away with ann rea, thought Kennedy. Such a possibility, a few weeks ago, would have been beyond his wildest dreams. Now that it was going to happen, he wasn’t sure that it would necessarily fulfil his wildest dreams.

  They seemed to be growing closer – but he was still not really sure where he stood. Was he doomed to be “just a good friend” or was something more going to happen?

  Such thoughts filled Kennedy’s head as he packed up all the relevant files. He would brief Castle on the Cumberland Basin case before calling it a day – or even a week – now that it was Friday.

  Time to go home and prepare for what would definitely not be a predictable two days.

  Ready, steady… go! The weekend starts here.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Kennedy! Kindly take your eyeballs out of your Alpen and replace them from whence they came. And while you’re about it, close this,’ said ann rea, gently putting her finger under his chin and pushing it delicately upwards. ‘You’re likely to catch flies.’

  Ann rea had walked into the breakfast-room on Sunday morning wearing something that was too tight to be a pair of slacks but too heavy to be a pair of tights. Whatever they were, they hugged her picture-perfect figure like a second skin. The top, an emerald green affair, was stretched to bursting.

  The shock for Kennedy was total. This was probably because he had not allowed himself – or, at least, not too often – to
think of ann rea in this way. But here she was, leaving nothing to the imagination, large as life and twice as pretty.

  Up to now, the clothes that she had worn in his company had never flattered her wondrous figure. That had probably been intentional but this, now, was sheer bliss: the much clichéd poetry in motion.

  ‘God, Kennedy – stop staring!’ she said, starting to turn crimson. ‘Here, take a drink of your orange juice. It’ll cool you down.’ She passed him the glass. ‘There, that’s better isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting to see you… to see you dressed like this. I…’ Kennedy uttered, shamefaced but gradually regaining his composure.

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, Kennedy. It’s quite flattering really. I suppose part of me is… is pleased. But you’d better not get up from the table for a while,’ she smiled.

  Now it was Kennedy’s turn to blush. But he was also quite pleased to be able to share this intimacy with ann rea. She was unveiling a familiarity that had been absent from their friendship before now.

  ‘I’ve got it now,’ he chuckled, totally recovering his composure, ‘you’re not really down here to do your “Alan Whicker Winter Weekend in British Seaside Resorts” article.’

  ‘Oh?’ ann rea inquired.

  ‘Not at all. You’re part of a plot to rid seaside resorts of male geriatrics. You go about each weekend to a different resort and when they see you looking like that, the old ticker can’t cope and they drop like flies,’ Kennedy joked.

  ‘Oh, come on, Kennedy – it’s Sunday,’ she said coyly but enjoying their chat. ‘Besides, I’d say that from the look on your face a few minutes ago, it’s your ticker you should be worrying about.’

  The weekend had certainly livened up.

  They had driven across on Saturday, checked into their rooms in the Sandcliff Private Hotel and met for dinner in the hotel restaurant. After dinner, they went out in the cold night air to walk off their food. Kennedy suggested they stop off at a bar for a drink on the way back, but as the wine tasted second-hand, they returned to the hotel lounge and ordered tea. At about midnight – after a very pleasant conversation and a kiss on the cheek – they retired to their separate rooms.

  Kennedy was unable to sleep for about an hour or so. He couldn’t help but think about ann rea in her bed a few rooms away. He wondered if she was lying awake wondering about him lying awake wondering about her wondering about him. What would happen – or not happen – should he visit her room? Would such a visit put an end to their budding friendship? He reflected at the breakfast table that if he’d seen her last night in all her ahem, morning glory, then he was sure he wouldn’t have had a wink of sleep all night.

  ‘Okay, Kennedy, I’m going off with my trusty old recording Walkman to see who I can find to talk to and I promise that, in order to protect the older members of the parish, I’ll wear a sensible overcoat. I’ll pick you up at one thirty, so be a good boy and get some work done,’ ann rea ordered as she exited the breakfast-room after kissing him on the forehead and saying for the gawking company in her best Italian accent, ‘Fanks for a mosta vondervul evenings darlings.’

  Kennedy reddened again but his eyes remained glued to the graceful disappearing figure of ann rea – a vision as sweet as a good strawberry milkshake. He speculated on how long it would be before he saw her dressed this way again – if, indeed, he ever would. At the other end of the restaurant, his attention was diverted to a poor man who was receiving a proper ear-bashing from his partner for doing exactly what Kennedy had been guilty of.

  Ten minutes later, he was back in his room. His attention now focused on the numerous files before him. He turned on the radio. There was no Capital Gold this far from London but he found a local station and it seemed to be in the middle of a country music show. Kennedy settled for that, took out his notebook and pen and started on the files.

  Chapter Forty

  Kennedy read on and on and on. After an hour or so, he emerged from his files and crossed the room to turn off the radio. He’d been quite enjoying the music. Perhaps that had been the problem: he feared he was enjoying the music so much he was distracted from the problem in hand. He didn’t want to miss a critical clue or hint just because The Mavericks were getting to know the Knoxville Girl.

  How brilliant that would be – to return to London with the case solved. Then maybe Kennedy could persuade Superintendent Castle that he should have similar weekends, at the department’s expense of course, to solve other cases. If only…

  The radio off, Kennedy put on the kettle to brew himself a cup of tea. Every hotel room these days seemed to be equipped with the “in-room complete tea and coffee preparation kit”. As per usual, the preparation kit was supplied with a long-life creamer, which was ghastly in tea. He sat down again at his notes, giving up on the liquid refreshment.

  It was pointless; a couple of pages later and the total distraction of tea had again captured his attention.

  He decided to walk down to order a jug of milk from the hotel reception, but found that his request me with typical intransigence.

  ‘Now, sir – is that a cup of tea or a cup of coffee you’ll be wanting with your milk?’ inquired the receptionist.

  ‘No, neither, actually. I just want a small jug of fresh milk,’ Kennedy patiently explained.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t have milk just by itself. Now, let’s see what I can do for you,’ she said, checking the room service sheet. ‘How about some tea and toast, you’d be sure to get milk with that.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She tried again. ‘How about our keep-fit breakfast, sir? Now, that’s great – freshly squeezed orange juice, muesli, wholemeal toast and tea with semi-skimmed milk.’

  ‘No. Actually, I’d like just a jug of milk. A small jug of milk will do nicely, thank you.’ Kennedy’s fingers started to flex. ‘You see, I’m just trying to make myself a cup of tea in my room.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy, sir. I think you’ll find that you have some milk there under your very nose in our ‘in-room complete tea and coffee preparation kit’.

  ‘That’s not milk – that’s cream. I don’t like cream in my coffee – I like milk,’ Kennedy said, testily.

  ‘But, sir – just a moment ago you said you wanted a cup of tea. Now you’re saying you don’t take cream in your coffee. I’m afraid I’m getting rather confused.’

  ‘I meant tea, of course – and I don’t take cream in my tea. I rarely take coffee, but, when I do, that’s with milk as well. I don’t like cream and I don’t like long-life milk…’

  ‘Well, sir – I’m sure if you tried it, you’d find that the long-life cream is not at all that bad.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother about it,’ Kennedy answered sharply.

  People were now staring and he didn’t want to get into this. He had been having a pleasant morning and he was determined to continue to do so. He strode off and out of the door of the hotel.

  The Sandcliff Private Hotel overlooked the seafront and Kennedy set off in the direction of civilisation. He silently wished ann rea good luck in finding people for her interviews as the streets were totally deserted. The only other time he could remember streets being as empty as this was when England played in the World Cup final, back in 1966. He imagined the 1990s equivalent would be the streets of Dublin, when Jack Charlton’s Irish heroes were playing.

  A couple of streets later – past signs for the putting green and penny arcade – Kennedy found a newsagents. He entered the shop – called simply, Devane’s Shop – and found, to his delight, that they sold fresh milk. He crossed the empty shop to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. ‘Success,’ he said.

  Kennedy put his hand in his pocket to pull out some change as he re-crossed the shop floor. His pocket was empty – he had left his hotel room without collecting any money from the table. He always emptied out his pockets on a desk or table, wherever he was – hotel, home or office.

  He swore unde
r his breath, returned the milk to the freezer and left the shop saying,’ Sorry,’ to the assistant. This, he thought, was fast turning into a Ray Cooney farce.

  ‘Enough is enough,’ he said out loud as he returned to the hotel.

  He could imagine the hotel reception staff whispering, Fussy bugger! As he passed them.

  On entering the second-floor corridor, he spied a man leaving his room. ‘Hello – can I help you? That’s my room,’ Kennedy announced from a distance.

  The man was startled and spun around to face Kennedy. They eyed each other for a couple of moments.

  ‘Erm… yes – I’m ever so sorry, sir,’ the man began. He spoke with a soft lilt. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your problem in the lobby, sir. You see, if they give you just a jug of milk, they can’t charge you for it, so they need to put something with it from the room service menu. Then they can charge.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Pity they didn’t just explain all that,’ answered Kennedy.

  He was closer now and could see the man was wearing a hotel name tag – Francis Healy – a name worthy of the accent.

  ‘So I slipped into the kitchen and borrowed a jug of milk for you. When I arrived up here, there was no-one in your room, so I just left the milk. I let myself in with a pass key.’

  Kennedy smiled, half to himself and half to Francis Healy: ‘Thanks. Thanks a million.’

  ‘Grand so – enjoy your stay,’ replied the hotel porter.

  ‘Here, hold on a minute, let me get you something,’ Kennedy said as he slipped into his room. He checked everything was as he had left it and collected a couple of pound coins. Kennedy would have preferred a pound note – it always looked like more to him. ‘There you go, Francis, thanks a million.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Francis said as he pocked the money. ‘Anything else you want, just give me a shout.’

  They parted to continue with their respective days.

  Kennedy made himself the long-desired (and now richly deserved) cup of tea. He then contentedly returned to his files.