by Paul Charles
He and his team were gathered around the twelve by four foot Perspex sheet (which had replaced the traditional blackboard) in the basement of North Bridge House. The magic of the Perspex sheet was it was easier to attach photos to, easier to write on, and you could use various coloured pens to clearly show the different lines of your investigation.
It was just after lunchtime, and they still had a lot more interviews to do, but Kennedy felt they should regroup and catch up before proceeding any further.
“Slim pickings so far,” Irvine offered, as he studied the names on the board and the notes and connecting lines.
Irvine was, as usual, spot on. They had a lot, but not anything meaningful. Kennedy had a sense of the investigation slipping away from him. Was it really a murder investigation or had he been hoping for something more serious than a suicide to get his teeth stuck into as a way of putting his illness behind him? Or was he allowing the case to slip away from him by being distracted by Miss Sharenna Chada? No, he refused to accept that. His dallying with Miss Chada, pleasant though it was, wasn’t preoccupying him. So what was?
Kennedy knew from experience that he needed to have a session with his team as a way of focusing everyone, including himself, on the case. These meetings served to put a shape on the case; people could see and discuss the threads. They could talk over the frustrations of a lack of progress or leads and go away feeling they knew what they needed to do. They would know whom they needed to talk to; they would know which facts they would need to check or recheck. They knew that removing people from the suspect list was sometimes even more productive in solving the case than adding suspects.
Kennedy also knew that this case could be as simple as a rich man - a man with more money than he’d ever spend - taking his own life. A man disappointed by an artist he’d respected turning on him just because he’d been in some way responsible for the artist becoming successful again. So, rather than being allowed to feel a sense of achievement and shared responsibility for the new resurgent success, he was made to feel guilty. A man who, if his acquaintances were correct, had no love in his life and surprisingly few interests apart from tennis and the stock market. A man who just maybe woke up one day, like last Saturday for instance, and decided that, all things considered, he would rather not go on. Kennedy knew that this was never a route he would have chosen - even in the worst days with his back. However, there was still something in the way Mylan was found that troubled Kennedy. Could this perhaps be a statement of some kind, of an intended final humiliation for Mylan? Suicide could be the answer to the question: “What happened to this man?” And if that was the solution to his case, then so be it, he didn’t need more. It was still a puzzle to solve, and solving such puzzles was Kennedy’s one and only drug.
“Who are our suspects so far?” he asked, as he took a green marker and started to write on the Perspex screen.
Kennedy didn’t even think about it, and before he knew it, his hand had produced the first name on the list.
Tim Dickens He looked at the name for a little time, and then wrote underneath, but joined by a seagull:
Marcus Urry With a blue marker and at the other side of the board, he wrote down the names:
Jean Claude Banks Cynthia Cox Roger and Maggie Littlewood Martin Friel Tony Stevenson Rodney Stuart Chloe Simmons Nealey Dean Kennedy then linked Roger and Maggie, Friel and Stevenson with lines - broken in the middle with the note Credit Suisse - to the name at the top of the board: PATRICK MYLAN, in thick black lettering and capitals.
“Has anyone studied the autopsy report?” DC Dot King asked.
“Yes,” Allaway replied. Everyone knew Allaway read everything available on each of the cases. Since he’d been promoted to DS, he’d also shown that he had an ability to recall most of the information he read.
“And was Mr Mylan physically healthy when he died?” King continued.
“Yes. According to Taylor, he was in remarkably good shape. The only evident medical intervention - apparent from several old scars - was having his appendix removed.”
“So we can scrap a terminal illness from his motivation to commit suicide then,” King surmised, scoring through some lettering in her notebook several times.
“Also,” Allaway continued, checking his notes, “Dr Taylor discovered there was an extremely high level of alcohol present in Mylan’s bloodstream at the time of his death.”
“None of his acquaintances claimed he was a big drinker, did they?” King asked.
“None so far,” Irvine agreed.
“Okay,” Kennedy said, gathering up the momentum again, “let’s check Tim Dickens’ PA’s alibi for her boss. She said she was with him all day Saturday.”
“Really?” King asked.
“Don’t get too excited, like I did,” Irvine said; “no dirt is about to be spilt. She claimed they spent Saturday locked up in the office, phones off, going through the royalty statements they’d just received from his publishing company for songwriting income and from the record company for CD sales income. Accordingly to Alice Robbins, the statements together are larger than a bound edition of the complete works of Charles Dickens, and if they didn’t take time to analyse them properly, then ‘Timothy,’” and Irvine paused to make air quotes around Timothy, “could have substantial amounts of money slip away from him.”
“How much money does the man need?” Allaway asked, voicing his own recent preoccupation with money.
“Before I could ask her that question, which she obviously saw in my eyes, she said, ‘All Mr Dickens needs is that which is his.’”
“No witnesses to the accounting session incarceration then?” King asked.
“No. She said it was a lockout: no phones, no visitors. She said it’s the only way they can get through it,” Irvine replied.
“Okay,” Kennedy said, “let’s check with the neighbours. Maybe someone saw them coming or going. Saw some lights on at the weekend. Did they send out for food? Did he take her to a restaurant afterwards?”
“Are they having a relationship?” King asked.
“I’d say not,” Irvine replied.
“Why?” King pushed.
“She seems very professional. She doesn’t look at him that way, and…” Irvine paused for quite a long period of time.
“Yeah, and?” King asked, more forcefully this time.
“And I think he doesn’t give off that vibe…”
“Doesn’t give off what vibe?” King repeated incredulously. “Which police manual did you find that approach in?”
“Yeah, it’s just a feeling. He seemed content, happy as he was. Like earlier today when we were questioning him about his deal with Mylan, yes, he got a bit loud about it, but he never really seemed to… you know… boil over about it.”
“I’d be more nervous of someone who keeps it in check all the time. When they eventually lose it, there could be hell to pay,” King argued.
“Let’s check it anyway. Someone must have seen them. And if they weren’t there, where were they? He’s a public figure; someone would have spotted him near Mylan’s, if that’s where he was. Let’s dig further into this Patrick Mylan/Tim Dickens deal. Have the SOCO gang anything yet?”
“I just checked on the way in, sir,” Allaway replied, “and nothing so far.”
“Okay, let’s get back to talking to people. We need a better picture of Patrick Mylan. We need to track this Marcus Urry roadie chap. We need …” Kennedy faltered.
“Something,” King offered.
“Something would do great,” Kennedy replied with a generous smile.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kennedy wasn’t entirely sure of the reason, but the meeting ended on a bit of an up. When Sgt Tim Flynn came to find Kennedy as he was exiting the basement chatting with Irvine, he said he’d contacted Wimbledon CID, as requested, and handed Kennedy a name and a number on a piece of paper.
Kennedy returned to his office as his team drifted off to attend to their own chores. He
absentmindedly dialled the unique collection of numbers which, thanks to Alexander Graham Bell, amongst others, resulted in a telephone ringing on the desk of a police officer less than a dozen miles away in Wimbledon.
“Hello, Detective Inspector Anne Coles here; how can I help you?” announced the chipper voice on the other end of Kennedy’s line.
Kennedy nearly dropped the phone in shock. In fact, for a microsecond, he considered setting the phone down again without saying a word. In that same microsecond he considered Tim Flynn’s message for a second time: “Ring D.I. A. Coles Wimbledon CID Re: interview subject.” He hadn’t twigged the “A” as being for Anne, probably because the last time they’d come into contact was just over four years ago when she was a DC.
“My goodness, DC to DI in four years, that’s quite an achievement,” Kennedy said, finding something neutral to say at last.
“I wondered if you’d ring yourself,” Coles replied, sounding every ounce like the English rose Kennedy remembered. “To be honest, south of the river, four years is considered quite a slow rise.”
“Goodness, it’s great to hear your voice again,” he said, stopping worrying about the weight and content of his words.
“How are you, sir? I mean after your…”
“Never felt better,” Kennedy interrupted, jumping in immediately, hoping to prevent her feeling guilty about their history.
Just before Kennedy had very nearly met his maker in the tumbled-down version of the York & Albany, Anne Coles had declared her romantic interest in him. She’d invited him out on a date. He and ann rea were in one of their “this just isn’t going to work out” phases, so Kennedy had accepted her invitation. However, before the date could take place, Kennedy had been stabbed while on duty in the York & Albany, and because she’d let her personal feelings rule her head, she’d panicked in helplessness. If it hadn’t been for ann rea’s instincts that Kennedy was in some kind of danger, and if she hadn’t gone to seek him out, Kennedy could have bled to death. Superintendent Thomas Castle felt it was better for all concerned if DC Coles were transferred out of Camden Town; and that is how she ended up in Wimbledon CID four years later, talking on the telephone to DI Christy Kennedy.
“So this Chloe Simmons, what kind of bother is she involved in?” Coles asked, changing the subject so quickly he felt there must have been other people able to tune into her conversation.
“Difficult to know. We found this man dead in a… well, shall we just say a compromising position. Maybe an accident, maybe he committed suicide, and maybe he didn’t. Miss Simmons had a relationship of sorts with him, and I need to chat with her.”
“That’s what I’m here to help you with,” she said, then paused. “I suppose you still don’t drive?”
“Correct.”
“How’s about you get the tube over here. It’ll be much quicker than driving anyway, and I’ll pick you up at the station.”
“Sounds like an idea,” Kennedy replied.
The thing about four years is it’s either miraculous or totally destructive in what it can do to a person. In Anne Coles’ case, it wasn’t that a miracle had ever been needed, but the ageing process had delivered her to a perfect thirty-two-year-old woman. She had a few more lines around her eyes, she was slightly more drawn than before, and she displayed, without being particularly cocky, an air of confidence that had been absent when she was stationed at North Bridge House.
When he met her at the entrance to the busy joint underground and mail line station, she immediately kissed him briefly on both cheeks. He wondered whether her newfound confidence came from age or promotion.
“You’re thinner,” she said, looking a little shocked.
“And you’re stunning,” he replied, still taking in the vision before him.
She was full figured, but more Scarlett Johansson than Ma Larkin, and her long luscious blonde hair was no longer restrained under her uniform cap the way it had been the last time Kennedy saw her. She looked simply beautiful. Kennedy thought she’d put considerable effort into looking stunning, but such efforts made her none the less attractive. When she’d kissed him briefly, he’d immediately recognised her distinctive scent.
“So we’re off to see Miss Simmons,” Coles said, reminding Kennedy that the reason for the visit wasn’t a trip down memory lane.
“Yes,” Kennedy replied, nudging himself back to the professional he hoped he was.
“Tell me more.”
“Okay. We found this man, a Mr Patrick Mylan. It would appear, or it was made to appear, that he died while in the throes of a solo sexual act.”
Coles wriggled her nose in confusion the way she had sometimes done before.
“Oooo- k-a-y,” she said, “I get it. Very discreetly put, sir.”
“As a detective inspector, I don’t believe it’s necessary for you to call me sir, or else I’ll have to start calling you ma’am. Christy, okay?”
“Okay, Christy and Anne it is then,” she replied as they reached her car, a VW Polo. So obviously not from the Wimbledon CID car pool, Kennedy thought as she continued, “So why are you suspicious about it?”
“Mainly because, at the time of his death, Mr Mylan was wearing suspenders…”
“A woman’s suspender belt?” Coles asked.
“No, a man’s. I believe is the exact term used to describe them are sock garters.”
“Men’s? Do such items exist?” she asked.
“Yes, but not for quite some time, or so I thought. They go on just below each knee and are used to hold up your socks.”
“So maybe your Mr Mylan was just a wee bit old-fashioned. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Well, there were no signs on his legs that indicated continued use of elastic. It just looked like someone had wanted to humiliate him in public.”
For the rest of the journey up along Worple Road to midway between Wimbledon and Raynes Park, Kennedy talked her through the investigation so far. Luckily enough, the journey was a short one, so he didn’t run out of facts to tell her, but it was close, very close.
Miss Chloe Simmons’ address was a new build and not the standard older houses both Worple Road and Kennedy favoured. The common parts of the six spacious flats on three floors were very clean and well stocked with fresh flowers. A smartly dressed doorman held the door open for them and advised them to go straight up to apartment six on the top floor. Coles had already checked, and Miss Simmons was in residence waiting for them.
As they rode up in the lift, Kennedy once again had the opportunity to experience Coles’ combination of intoxicating fragrances. Kennedy remembered something else he’d thought about Anne Coles: she always looked so incredibly kissable. It wasn’t that she was sad or had that air, because she frequently broke into a smile and enjoyed a good laugh, but she always looked like her full lips would be responsive to a great kissing session. He wondered if that had been the reason why he’d accepted her original invitation to go on a date.
Just then the lift wheezed to a stop and the doors slid open silently. Chloe Simmons was waiting for them in the hallway, and she went first to DI Anne Coles with her hand outstretched. “Are you the police officer I spoke to on the phone?”
“Yes,” Coles replied, presenting her warrant card, “and this is Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy.”
Kennedy also flashed his card, and they moved into her apartment.
Miss Simmons would have been in a position to enjoy great views… if only there had been great views to enjoy. All they could see out of every window of the spacious and modern apartment was suburbia at its most suburban.
Chloe looked as if she’d just turned twenty, but Kennedy was sure she must be older. She was slim, naturally beautiful, very English - but in a different way from Coles’ rose of England look. She had a pale complexion, long, lush, straight, dark brown hair, and not a speck of make-up. She was in her bare feet, yet still taller than Coles and just as tall as Kennedy. She was wearing thick black tights or bod
y hugging trousers (Kennedy could never figure out which of the two this item was meant to be), and she wore a very short and very tight, black mini-skirt. An extremely expensive looking black shirt subtly accentuated her magnificent breasts.
Miss Simmons was aware of what had happened to Patrick Mylan. “The nice” Rodney Stuart had advised her on the previous day (Monday). She seemed concerned in the way one was concerned when a non-blood relative died, as opposed to someone close to you dying. She was very respectful, but not unduly upset.
She offered Kennedy and Coles a glass of the red wine she was drinking. They both opted for glasses of water, the only alternate offered.
“You look gorgeous,” she said to Coles, when they’d settled down. “I mean, when I saw you first coming out of the lift, I immediately thought, She looks so stunning she can’t be a policewoman. I mean, no disrespect to the Met or anything, but you give a new meaning to the saying, ‘May the force be with you.’”
“Why, thank you,” Coles replied, accepting the compliment graciously and with poise, “that’s very nice of you to say. I will admit I’m seeing someone special later.” Coles flashed Kennedy a look at this stage. Kennedy thought he could read the look, but at the same time he didn’t want to read something into the look that wasn’t there - or be distracted from the reason for his rare visit south of the river.
“We believe you had a relationship with Mr Patrick Mylan.”
Chloe Simmons studied Kennedy for a few moments, looked at Coles again, back to Kennedy and started to smile.
“This feels weird. Neither of you looks like a police officer. I get a good feeling from both of you though, and I go on my feelings a lot. Also, I’m halfway through my bottle of 2005 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon, which I’ve been saving for a while, so I’m happy to be candid with you. However, I would plead with you to be discreet with the information I’m about to give you.”
Without awaiting confirmation, she ploughed on, “I was Patrick’s…for want of a better word, I was his concubine. I was Patrick Mylan’s concubine.”