Sgt. Flynn's Lonely Hertz Club Van: A short story set in the world of Inspector Christy Kennedy

by Paul Charles

  He paused to retrieve more information from his memory bank. ‘Although we were both based at the same hospital, our departments are miles apart and we rarely bumped into each other. My contact with him has been mostly at friends’ parties and I believe I can remember him telling me that he liked to play golf. Oh, yes – I believe he might have been a cricket fan, too. In fact, now I remember us having the usual cricket-fan conversation about how the best way to enjoy cricket was to simultaneously watch it on TV and listen to the commentary on Radio 3.’

  ‘You didn’t know him well enough, I suppose, to ascertain his state of mind?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Inspector. He seemed to have a fine sense of humour, but who knows? Who can tell what anyone is really thinking or feeling at a party – we all put on a show,’ answered the doctor.

  ‘What about his family?’

  ‘Oh, God – I had forgotten… someone will have to tell his wife. Poor woman, and they had a son, I believe. A young family starting out with everything in front of them and then this. We sometimes forget the real victims, Inspector.’

  Taylor’s voice had gradually faded until it was almost inaudible. Snapping out of his moroseness, he decided to escape the sofa – an operation that proved complex and difficult. ‘If you have no more questions, Inspector, I’ll get back to the mortuary and see what else I can find out for you.’

  ‘That’s fine, Doctor. I’ll speak to you later. Thanks a million,’ Kennedy said quietly, as he rinsed the completely drained cup and returned it to the tea-making area.

  Kennedy wandered around Cumberland Basin once more, looking down on the activity from the brim. The body had been removed and his eyes scored the site over and over again, not sure what he was looking for. Just searching for something – anything that would explain the death of Dr Edmund Berry.

  Chapter Five

  WPC Anne Coles found herself mesmerised by Detective Inspector Kennedy’s left hand as it continuously coiled and recoiled. They were on the doorstep of number 19 England’s Lane. Kennedy rang the doorbell for a second time, then silently stepped a pace back whilst continuing to flex his hand. The exercise reminded WPC Coles of someone passing a two-pence piece through their fingers, but in her detective inspector’s case, there was no coin – just the finger movement. The WPC stood five foot six inches tall. She had blonde hair – natural – which had to be carefully orchestrated to fit within the confines of her regulation headgear. She wore little make-up on duty and much off duty.

  The movement abruptly stops as a human sound was heard on the other side of the door – a female voice. ‘No, it’s not your Daddy – not yet. Go back to your toys, sweetheart.’

  The door opened fully, revealing a stunningly beautiful woman.

  ‘Mrs Berry?’ inquired Kennedy with his quiet Irish lilt.

  Kennedy noted how the woman’s eyes acknowledged him as a stranger and how the twinkle was replaced by panic when she registered the WPC’s uniform.

  Kennedy is aware of what would be going on in her head at that moment. Her brain will be attempting to unscramble her confused thoughts. The police – something’s wrong. It’s like an internal damage assessment. Then the defences kick in. I can take all that you can tell me because this is not going to be the worst thing in my life. My son is safe behind me in my house and my husband is safe at work – so, how bad can it be? I can take it. All this flashes through her head in a split second, and she attempts to be cool and collected.

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’ Her words stumble out, like unsuccessful punters emerging from the bookmaker’s shop.

  Mrs Berry’s world had been fine until she opened the door to let the wickedness and the cold of the outside world into the warmth and safety of her home. Her life is about to be destroyed in a way she never thought possible.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy of Camden CID,’ Kennedy flashed his ID, ‘and this is WPC Anne Coles. Could we come in please, Mrs Berry?’

  Mrs Berry is thinking – Okay, I’m in control – everything’s fine. Probably some robbery and they’re checking up. I can deal with that. What will Edmund think when he finds out the police were in the house today? He’d know who to handle this.

  ‘Yes, of course, do come in.’

  Kennedy was thinking how it was impossible to prepare someone for the news he was about to give to this poor, unfortunate woman. You could, of course, try to make them comfortable – have them feel at ease – but then when you do it, when you tell them the news in your own pathetic way, it still knocks them off their feet.

  Her eyes locked into Kennedy’s the way a preyed animal uses an optic shield. She searched his face, his body movements, for some kind of clue. Seconds that seemed like hours were passing and she didn’t know why the police were here – in her house, her place of safety.

  ‘I think you should sit down Mrs Berry and prepare yourself for a shock.’

  She does so. How bad can this be?

  ‘Has there been some kind of accident, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. A man we believe to be your husband has been found dead in the canal.’ There – he’d said it. He’d managed to speak the words and the reaction – surprisingly – was rather calm.

  ‘Ha! There must be some kind of mix-up, some kind of mistake. My husband is a doctor – he’s at the hospital. He’s on lates this week and is due back in a couple of hours. There’s obviously been a terrible mistake – it can’t be him.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s very unlikely that there’s been a mistake. A colleague of your husband has already informally identified the body. I’m sorry …’

  A young boy runs into the room. Mrs Berry picks him up and holds him close to her – either to give or to receive comfort. Probably both. Perhaps, instinctively, to protect her sole remaining dependent. The boy reacts to his mother’s infectious panic and starts to bawl with full force. This, in turn, intensifies his mother’s fear. Mrs Berry suspends her disbelief and lets it all go.

  It starts with a growl from deep inside of her and builds slowly. The animal-like whine the noise has become sounds not unlike the word “No” – an evil sound, a sound that can be affected only by death, the wail of a banshee.

  The longer the whine continues, the fiercer the son’s sobs become. The son is too young to know exactly what is happening, but something beyond him – way beyond him – is controlling him. Instinct.

  Kennedy stands still, a stranger in the house, observing – a spectator, not a participant. He feels helpless, impotent, feeble and incapable – but mostly helpless. The doctor’s wretched wife – liquid streaming from her eyes and nose – has now totally broken down. She nearly drops her son but the WPC is there in a flash and rescues him in her arms and tries to quieten and comfort him.

  Kennedy signals the WPC with his eyes to take the son to another room, whilst he supports the wailing mother and guides her to the sofa. He holds her tight, trying to give her some of his warmth, his support, his strength, his pity. Her face is a mess and she accepts his offer of a bundle of tissues to attend to her nose and eyes. The flow of tears is uncontrollable. She is unable to catch her breath for long enough to say anything. Several times she tries to regain control of herself, to try to say something. But it’s useless, the sobbing will not subside.

  Kennedy feels his own eyes filling up. It was beyond sadness – it was emptiness. He forces himself to take stock of the room so as to divert his feelings and his thoughts.

  The room has been carefully and lovingly put together with an obvious feminine touch. Two alcoves – one either side of the fireplace – are packed with books. Kennedy strains his eyes to try and pick out authors and titles – Peter Carey, Garrison Keillor, lots of Seamus Heaney and Larry McMurty.

  Resting on the fireplace is a Dutch clock with family pictures on either side. In one, Dr Berry is showing off his wife and child to the camera. The son has definitely taken after his father – same rounded eyes –
not unlike Paul McCartney, thinks Kennedy. These pictures of happiness will henceforth afford the viewers nothing but pain.

  Mrs Berry takes deep breaths, trying to control the sobbing. She’s trying to form words but still finds it impossible.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s all that Kennedy can find to say.

  The doctor’s wife again fights for words. Her main preoccupation now is thirst; her throat feels very, very dry. And she feels guilty for thinking such a mundane thought at that moment in her life.

  ‘He’ll never… he’ll never be able to see what his son… what his son becomes… he really loved… he loved that boy…’

  Again she is unable to control the tears.

  Kennedy holds her tight once more. ‘Is there anyone we could call… is there anyone you want with you?’ Kennedy whispers as he rocks her back and forth.

  No answer – more tears.

  Just when he thinks she is finding some peace, she starts up again. It’s beyond her control.

  Sometime later – it might have been minutes, it might have been hours – when the sobbing had subsided, she gathers all her strength and manages to utter, quietly and quickly, ‘My sister… my sister, Doreen. Could you ring her please – the number’s in the book by the phone – she’ll come. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do… how to handle this. What will I do? Sam – where’s Sam?

  Assuming Sam is her son’s name, Kennedy reassures her. ‘He’s with the WPC – Anne Coles. They’re next door. Sam will be fine with Anne.’

  Kennedy removes his arm from around Mrs Berry. ‘I’ll ring your sister and make you a strong cup of tea at the same time. Okay?’

  ‘Inspector, how did it happen?’

  Kennedy explains the approximate circumstances in which Dr Berry’s body has been found, and concludes: ‘We have to conduct tests to establish the exact cause of death.’

  She nods. ‘To think, he’ll never see his son grow up…’

  Chapter Six

  Kennedy felt restless as he headed back to his office at North Bridge House. He hated these limbo periods, unable to proceed with the case until Dr Taylor’s report arrived on his desk. If indeed there was a case at all. Perhaps Detective Constable Milligan’s initial observation was correct, maybe it was a simple suicide after all. But from the little information he had gleaned, Kennedy doubted it. Dr Berry had a lot to live for: a successful career, an obviously caring wife, a son at an age when everything is new and exciting, an age when his adventures gives as much joy to his parents as to himself.

  The detective inspector turned on the old value radio in his office – sometimes the cackle helped him to think. Not today. After a few minutes he made the radio silent again. Returning to his desk, he tried to involve himself in some paperwork but he couldn’t progress beyond merely picking up a pen and holding it in his hand.

  Kennedy’s problem was that if there was suspicious circumstances in the case (and he certainly thought there were) then the longer he waited, the more difficult the case would be to solve. It was not unlike a long-distance race. In the early stages it didn’t matter what your position was or how fast you ran, so long as you kept moving and in sight of the leaders. You always had a chance of catching up later, when the leaders had tired or drained themselves in their war of wills against each other. But the longer you stood still, as Kennedy felt he was doing just then, the further the leaders ran away from you and the harder they were to catch.

  Then again, in a long-distance race, you at least knew which way you were supposed to be going. In the case of Dr Berry (if indeed there was to be a case of Dr Berry) he had no notion in the world of the direction he should be taking.

  Kennedy was forced to admit that he was achieving little in the office, and so decided to walk the half-mile around the corner to Cumberland Basin and see how Detective Sergeant James Irvine and his team were progressing.

  At the top of Parkway – on the junction with Prince Albert Road – stands a telephone kiosk. It is of the newer design, obviously copied from a small seaside guest house shower, and it had recently replaced the magnificent red box that Kennedy had such happy memories of. He thought fondly of the hours he had spent in such red sanctuaries. When still a schoolboy, he would talk to girlfriends for hours and then become truly sad when the money ran out – unless, of course, the girlfriend at the other end had a phone in her house and could ring him back. To him, telephone boxes, somewhere to take a girlfriend when it was raining, were very romantic places. You could turn down the light for a bit of privacy by screwing the bulb a few turns and Bob’s your uncle. Mind you, if you did have an uncle called Bob, and he happened to see you canoodling with your friend, you were assured of a good clip on the ear. Because, by the time you returned home, Uncle Bob would have broadcast exactly what you had been doing and with whom. Here, Christy – what were you doing in the telephone box with old man Derby’s daughter? Wallop!

  The appearance of these new shower units annoyed Kennedy each and every time he passed them. They were hideous, unattractive, characterless – one of the ever-growing pimples on the London landscape. He slowed as he passed this particular eye-sore, debating whether or not to kick the glass in. Hardly the actions of a detective inspector, he admitted to himself as he pulled opened the door and entered the glass-walled booth. He inserted a ten-pence piece and dialled.

  ‘Hello, Camden News Journal. How can I help you?’ answered the voice, adopting the kind of tone you might use with a backward child.

  ‘Could I have extension 1098, please?’ replied Kennedy.

  ‘Sorry, can you repeat it please? I didn’t get the last number.’

  ‘Usual problem, it’s my accent,’ Kennedy answered. ‘Eight, 1098.’ He said it slowly, with an emphasis on the eight, as in ‘ate’.

  ‘Putting you through.’

  Kennedy was thanking somebody – probably God – that he didn’t have to go through the usual indignity of, ‘You know, eight – the one between seven and nine,’ when his thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s voice.

  ‘Features.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Christy, that you?’ Her voice had quickly warmed from the official-sounding ‘Features’.

  ‘That’s right. How’ya doing?’

  ‘Great – you know, but busy. And you?’

  The office voice was returning. He felt such a stupid man whenever he talked to this woman. ‘Could we have a chat later?’ he asked.

  Telephone silence for a time – seemingly too long a time to Kennedy and he was about to trot out the, ‘It’s okay – some other time, maybe,’ line when she ended the silence in a distinctly non-office voice. ‘Yes, Christy – that would be nice. See you in The Queens at eight. Okay?’

  ‘Great, excellent. I’ll leave you to it. Cheers.’

  ‘See you later, Christy.’

  Click, and she was gone.

  He kept the phone in his hand, listening to the purr of the dialling tone for some seconds, before setting it back in its cradle.

  ‘Bloody stupid boxes.’ Kennedy spoke the words to no-one in particular, but British Telecom in general.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Kennedy returned to Cumberland Basin, the team had come up with a big zero – absolutely nothing. Irvine was waiting for his okay to pack up and head back to the station.

  ‘Right so, Jimmy – you can do your famous Rowdy Yates impersonation with the “pack ‘em up and move ‘em out” call.’

  ‘Thank you, sir – although I’m not sure he would approve of the Sean Connery accent. But here we go.’

  When Irvine had given the order to saddle up, Kennedy put another question to him. ‘Where’s the Sailing Diamond and our two chaps?’

  ‘I let them go, sir, after we’d taken their statements. If they don’t work they don’t get paid.’

  Kennedy nodded his assent and Irvine posed a question of his own. ‘What do you think, sir? Suspicious circumstances or plain old suicide?’

  Kennedy mused for
a few moments.

  ‘I don’t know… there’s nothing to be suspicious about, so that tends to make me suspicious. His wife is in a bad way so it’ll be tomorrow before I can have a proper chat with her. But they seem to have been a very tight family. Oh, could you check out his financial position for me when you return to the station?’

  ‘Yes, sir. What about his hospital? Should we start talking to the people up there?’

  Again Kennedy considered his options.

  ‘I think not. We should wait until we receive Taylor’s report, which he’s promised for first thing tomorrow morning. I’d like to wait till then before we start prodding around too much. I’d also like to try and find out how Berry got out here. Taxi? Bus? Car? Walked? Check with whoever was on duty in the hospital car-park. Find out where his car is. I’m assuming he has one somewhere.’

  Irvine dutifully noted Kennedy’s requirements as his boss extended the list.

  ‘Check with the staff on the floating food parlour over there and visit the houses on the other side of the bridge. See can anyone remember a person fitting Berry’s description around here late last night or early this morning. Have Milligan do the leg-work, he seems a bright lad.’

  Irvine shook his ballpoint pen to give the ink a jolt.

  ‘Oh, and tell Superintendent Castle where we’re up to on this. I’ll brief him in the morning once I’ve had a chance to appraise Dr Taylor’s report. In the meantime, I think I’ll wander back over to England’s Lane and see how Mrs Berry and the WPC are getting on.’

  Irvine hardly looked up as Kennedy departed the scene. His attention was directed at his notebook, as he made a point-check to ensure he’d taken it all in.