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

by Paul Charles

  Irvine admired Kennedy and he liked being “bag-man” on Kennedy’s cases. He found Kennedy easy to work with – never any tantrums. Kennedy believed in teamwork and always encouraged his team, not afraid of giving credit where credit was due, a pleasant change from some of the other senior detectives who would claim each and every successful idea as their own.

  Being a Scotsman, Irvine appreciated Kennedy’s dry sense of humour. Occasionally they had a drink together but by and large Kennedy seemed to prefer to keep himself to himself when not on duty. This need – but not preoccupation – for privacy was probably what had earned Kennedy his “dark horse” reputation around the station.

  Good luck to him, Irvine thought. He much preferred that attitude to the “let’s get our hands dirty and much in with the peasants” approach of some of the other, more career-conscious senior officers.

  Chapter Eight

  They could just as easily have missed each other, thought Kennedy. It was about ninety minutes after he had left DS Irvine and he was sipping a cool glass of white wine in The Queens at the foot of Primrose Hill.

  On his way over, he had stopped off at the Berry home in England’s Lane to find that the sister, Doreen Clarke, had taken charge of the household. Sheila Berry was in bed, sedated and trying to gain comfort in deep sleep. Her son, Sam, and WPC Coles were playing, and for the time being he was content with his cars, years away from feeling the full impact of the loss of his father.

  Kennedy hung around for about an hour, chatting with Doreen. He promised to return in the morning when he would talk with Sheila.

  He had half an hour to kill and decided not to eat in case dinner was on the cards, so that was how he found himself sitting in The Queens, sipping wine, thinking about their first meeting. It had been at Heathrow Airport. Kennedy had been aware of her three times in a matter of two days. Which was opportune because his mother used to say that he should not talk to a woman until he had met her three times and had been formally introduced.

  The first occasion had been in the book department of W. H. Smith’s, in the departures area. He thought immediately that she was stunning, and as far as Kennedy could tell, she was wearing no make-up. Short, black hair, but not boyish short, more like a Beatle-cut from the era of A Hard Day’s Night. She wore a quiet black suit with a white shirt and carried an overcoat over one arm. Her other hand held a book and she periodically pushed a brown leather shoulder bag back into position so that she could browse. He couldn’t quite make out the title; he squinted in a wasted effort to identify the book but quickly gave up in case anyone thought he was staring.

  Kennedy walked to the other end of the bookshop to position himself for a better look at her. She had such gorgeous eyes which broke into a wonderful, brief smile whenever someone excused themselves to pick up a book she was blocking.

  He sometimes felt that this was the only way for true love. You see someone for a glimpse, a split second, and their body-power overcomes you to a point of total distraction. In that second, you find true love. You have no arguments, no fights, no jealousies, no guilts, no sorrows, no games, no hate: that love is perfection. It’s only when you have to deal with the weakness of human nature that it starts to crumble.

  The second time was when their eyes locked in the arrivals hall at Dublin Airport. Again, a second – a split second – and she was gone. But that hint of a smile burned into his mind’s eye.

  The third time was when she took the seat next to him on the return flight the following day. Technically this was the third time, although he was not sure such a statement would hold up in court. But once they were both seated comfortably, he formally introduced himself. He was not altogether certain this was what his mother had meant but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Kennedy always felt awkward on these occasions but there was something about her that gave him the confidence to try and make the connection.

  ‘I saw you in the bookstore yesterday at Heathrow – did you find anything worth buying?’ Well, it was a start.

  ‘No,’ she half-laughed. ‘I don’t know why I browse in airport bookstores, I rarely find anything I want to read.’

  He didn’t know what else to say; it was one of those occasions when you’re so busy trying to think of something that won’t sound stupid that you end up wordless.

  She seemed at her ease. ‘It’s just that I have this problem walking past bookstores, I love them. I could, and do, spend hours in them.’

  ‘Same here. And at airports it at least kills time,’ he replied, not even thinking of what he was saying. It seemed a suitable moment to introduce himself. ‘I’m… erm… Christy Kennedy.’

  He offered his hand.

  ‘I’m ann rea,’ she answered.

  They shook hands.

  ‘I know that name. Yes – small a, small r. You write for Camden News Journal, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  And the smile in her eyes lit up Kennedy’s heart. Kennedy could picture it now, as he waited for her in The Queens.

  They had talked about her work, and she explained the lower-case business. ‘If I’m honest, it’s probably to gain attention. I got the idea from kd lang. Apparently she nicked it from ee cummings.’

  They talked about music, their likes and dislikes. Up to that point, Kennedy had never heard of kd lang. He had since listened to, and been inspired by, ‘Crying’, a duet kd had performed with Roy Orbison.

  The flight and conversation ended at about the same time. Kennedy really wanted to find a way to continue, to make the connection. He couldn’t find a convenient way to do so. ann rea had been friendly and jovial, to a point. Kennedy thought she was comfortable communicating with strangers, totally at her ease. He didn’t want to appear to hassle her to he left her packing her gear on the plane with a quiet, ‘Nice to meet you. Goodbye.’

  The Queens was filling up. He looked at his watch – seven forty-five. It would be another fifteen minutes before he saw ann rea again.

  Following the plane journey, their next meeting had been six weeks later, in The Queens. Kennedy had been sharing a reared ring with DS Irvine. He enjoyed these occasions with Irvine, who didn’t need to consume vast quantities of alcohol to be entertaining company. The detective sergeant had hundreds of stories and an amusing delivery.

  ‘So, did you listen to kd lang yet? The voice had enquired from behind him.

  Kennedy didn’t require visual confirmation – he knew immediately that it was ann rea. He turned and smiled his rare smile. ‘Yes, I did, actually. I love her duet with Roy Orbison – what’s the song called… “Crying”. Yes, that’s it, “Crying”.’

  He offered her his hand to shake. She took it but used it to pull him towards her to kiss him on the cheek. This kiss warmed his soul and he became embarrassed as he felt a flush rise in his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘this is my colleague, James Irvine.’ Irvine and ann rea shook hands.

  ‘What are you doing in The Queens? A bit off your path isn’t it?’ Kennedy enquired.

  ‘I’m doing an interview in the studios in Mayfair Mews – just along the street a bit. You know what it’s like, any sign of a break in the work and they all pile down to the pub. But they seem to be going back now so I’d better leave, too,’ smiled ann rea.

  ‘Ah,’ was all Kennedy could manage.

  ‘Good to see you again, Christy.’

  By now, Kennedy liked ann rea; he liked her a lot. He found himself thinking about her more and more and longed for their next chance meeting. When that didn’t happen, he took the plunge and rang her to invite her out for dinner.

  ann rea made Kennedy feel comfortable and at ease, but always excited, even when he really wanted to be nervous. The next time, it was she who contacted Kennedy and again they went to dinner. Since then, they’d been out together several times and were in the process of becoming good friends.

  Kennedy wished for more but didn’t want to rush it. There seemed to be no oth
er men in her life and in the meantime, they enjoyed each other’s company.

  Kennedy was brought back to the present by the third chime of eight resounding from the pub clock, just as ann rea made her entrance. They greeted each other with a peck on the cheek.

  ‘The usual, ann rea?’

  ‘Yes please, I’m dying for one; could you fetch me a Ballygowan as well. I don’t want to quench my thirst with wine. Ta, Christy.’

  The landlady – the colourful Mrs Emily Tilsey – served Kennedy.

  ‘Two dry white wines and a Ballygowan please, Mrs T. How’s Hugh – don’t see him around tonight?’

  ‘He’s fine. Pigeon night tonight – best place for him,’ she said as she poured the two glasses of wine. ‘Keeps him out from under my feet. That’ll be three twenty, Christy.’

  Carrying the two wines in one hand and the Ballygowan in the other, he returned to ann rea. She did take his breath away – clichés were only clichés because sometimes they were true. He treasured her company. At this point in their relationship they supposedly didn’t mean a lot to each other so he was always very careful not to be too forward with his affections.

  ann rea had obviously just spent a day working hard, but she glowed rather than wilted. He asked himself, How was it they had met at this point in their lives? How come one so special was not already spoken for? These thoughts filled his head as he sat down beside her. He would have been completely happy just to stare at her and listen to her. He didn’t want to appear to be a complete idiot so he decided he’d better say something – anything – but before he got a chance, she spoke first.

  ‘Are you okay? You sounded so low and so sad when you rang today.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ began Kennedy, remembering the events of the day. ‘We fished this poor sod out of the canal this morning, over at Cumberland Basin. It looks like – but doesn’t feel like – a simple suicide, and I’d just been to break the news to his widow. I still can’t get used to that part of the work, no matter how many times I do it.’

  He searched for the right words.

  ‘I can never do it well, I can’t easily deal with death. I know you’re meant to be detached and unemotional about it but when you inform the relatives and you see the mental explosion taking place… ah, there are no words for it. But no matter how bad I feel, I know that her pain is a million times worse and that nothing – absolutely nothing – can be done to help her. There’s no escaping that pain, there’s no way round it. She just has to go through it herself, the poor woman.’

  They sat in their own silence for a few minutes.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, Kennedy awoke with his usual hunger for the day. He hoped it would be more productive than the one before – in more ways than one.

  The first three items on his agenda would hopefully ascertain how Dr Berry died, whether by his own devices or through foul play. These thoughts filled his mind as he made his way briskly over Primrose Hill and down towards Camden Town.

  The morning was sharp – he could see his breath before him, but at least it was dry. Kennedy never tired of the beauty of Primrose Hill, particularly on such early morning walks. The sky was a powerful blue and the green and brown colours of the hill combined to create his personal living picture-postcard. He felt very privileged to live where he did.

  Seagulls croaked noisily overhead. Stormy at sea, he thought. His normal route to the office took him past Cumberland Basin. This morning, there were no signs whatsoever that twenty-four hours earlier, a man had lost (or maybe taken) his life there. The show goes on with or without you. He reached North Bridge House at his regular time of seven-forty-five, but instead of entering the Camden CID building, he turned left and headed down Parkway.

  Parkway bridges the neo-classic elegance of Prince Albert Road (Regent’s Park) with the vibrant High Street (Camden Town). The buildings are less sober, and more colourful, the further down Parkway you travel. From the top of the road – the traffic lights outside the disused York and Albany pub – to the bottom – the traffic lights just before Camden Town tube station – you have a police station, a record company, six pubs, nine estate agents, two dry cleaners, a launderette, an off-licence, a late night club (the famous Jazz Café), a cinema, and a pet shop.

  Not to mention three hairdressers, two sportswear shops, one optometrist, a post office, a deli, a camera shop, one travel agent, a photo-studio with picture framers included and a toy shop – don’t forget the toy shop. A hobby store, a tile shop, one gents clothes store, a locksmith and a garage.

  And there’s a vacuum cleaner service centre, and talking about centres, there’s the Camden Career Centre and then there’s the International Wrist Watch Magazine headquarters, four Camden-type clothes shops, an art gallery, a florist, a photocopying and print shop, and a mysterious temple of hipness whose contents are unusable, unwearable and unaffordable.

  One bank, three newsagents – well, two-and-a-half really – the one at the top of the Parkway is seldom open and on the rare occasion he is open for business in the afternoon, he’s sold out of papers but he does a great line in ladies tights. Two sandwich shops, one bookie, one council centre for the homeless, one dole office, eleven office buildings, one concert ticket box office, two ugly parking-ticket machines, ten trees, a billboard site, one telephone kiosk, one double telephone unit open to the elements, eleven streetlights, three sets of traffic lights and one of the best bookstores in London. What more could a man, woman or policeperson ask for?

  Oh yes, and we mustn‘t forget the fourteen eating establishments, which count among their number The Salt and Pepper, Kennedy’s favourite café and his destination that particular morning.

  ‘The usual, guv?’ inquired the jovial proprietor.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Kennedy smiled.

  ‘Here or to go?’

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll take it here this morning, boss.’

  Kennedy made his way past the service counter into the comfortable seated area in the back, finding the corner seat – his favourite – available and waiting.

  Kennedy often popped into The Salt and Pepper for a cup of tea and a chat with witnesses, suspects, colleagues or friends. He actually had few friends, as he preferred just a few trusted people rather than a large group who couldn’t be anything more than acquaintances.

  Michael, the owner of The Salt and Pepper, made demon bacon sandwiches, semi-crisp with the fat removed and very hot in brown bread.

  Two rounds of the very same, along with a steaming hot cup of tea (two sugars and a good dollop of milk), were now placed in front of Kennedy and he was ready to tuck in. First he removed the envelope which had been dropped through his letter-box earlier that morning.

  The letter was from ann rea and it was the first letter that she had written to him. Actually, it was more of a note, but you had to be thankful for small mercies.

  Enclosed, the couple of features on Dr Berry I was telling you about. Hope they’re of use. You owe me a drink!

  Talk to you later.

  ann rea.

  He had already read the note earlier. Written with a fountain pen, the handwriting was smooth. No “regards”’, “cheers” or “love” before her name. He considered this for a time as he stared at the note.

  ‘She must have been up early,’ he said quietly to the cup of tea, he raised to his lips. He reckoned ann rea must have gone into her office at dawn, found the articles, photocopied them and driven around to deliver them. What a woman.

  He took some comfort that, for ann rea to go to all that trouble, she must have some goodwill for him. ‘A little, perhaps,’ he said to himself as he tucked into the sandwiches.

  Munching happily, Kennedy read the first of the articles.

  STRANGE DEATH OF LOCAL TEACHER

  Local teacher, Susanne Collins of Primrose Hill Primary School, died late Friday – 22nd January – in St Pancras All Saints Hospital. Ms Collins (28), who lived in Camden Town, had taught at Primrose H
ill Primary School for five years. She was admitted to the hospital on Wednesday 20th January at lunchtime for what was described as ‘routine treatment for a common ailment.’

  Underneath the single-column article was a photo of a smiling, vibrant Ms Collins. But why was it included? There was no mention of Dr Berry. Kennedy took a large swig of tea and read on. He soon had his answer. The larger article, again accompanied by the same picture, was dated a week later, the Camden News Journal being a weekly newspaper.

  MYSTERY DEEPENS IN ‘PRIME-OF-LIFE TEACHER’ DEATH

  Mystery surrounds the circumstances under which much-loved local teacher, Ms Susanne Collins (28) died at St Pancras All Saints Hospital on Friday 22nd January. Ms Collins was a popular teacher at Primrose Hill Primary School.

  Ms Collins was supervising the children in the playground on Wednesday lunchtime when witnesses report that her legs buckled from under her and she fell to the ground. She was taken immediately to St Pancras All Saints Hospital, where she was placed under observation.

  Two days later, her condition deteriorated and she was rushed to the operating theatre where she died during an operation to treat a blood clot. Dr Edmund Berry, the senior hospital doctor treating her, issued the following statement on behalf of the Hospital Trust:

  ‘It is too early to say what happened. We are carrying out a full investigation into the matter and will make public our findings at the earliest opportunity.’

  William Jackson, Ms Collins’ boyfriend and teaching colleague, was said to be ‘”devastated”. A friend said, ‘We just can’t believe it. One day she’s seemingly in perfect health, then she’s admitted to hospital and, two days later, she’s dead.’

  Ms Susanne Collins is survived by her father, Mr Tom Collins and a brother, Mr Norman Collins, who live at the family home in Derby.

  End of article.