A Pleasure to do Death With You

by Paul Charles

  Kennedy remembered the Half Moon Bay Police Department motif on the door to Mactoo’s patrol car. Right beside that was the banner bearing the legend: “Serving Our Community With Pride.” He remembered it clearly because the style of the script typeface of the lettering had made Kennedy originally misread it as “Sewing Our Community With Pride.” The crest on Mactoo’s uniform jacket also boasted a Half Moon Bay motif. Apparently this was the very same Half Moon Bay where Patrick Mylan had bought the house he’d eventually given to Sharenna Chada as a gift in full and final settlement for services rendered; with Mylan’s emphasis on the word “final.”

  “… he,” Nolan continued, “just popped you in here so we could meet up face to face. He’s going to take you back down to Half Moon Bay to meet his chief, Edward Donohue. He’s a good man, and he’s going to look after you.”

  Chief Nolan was a friend of the family and had just wanted to extend his hospitality personally. Kennedy would have preferred to use the time to start working on the case, but he tried not to let his disappointment show.

  ***

  “Tell me this,” Mactoo asked in his best DJ voice as they hopped back into his two tone patrol car: “Christy - is that a real name or a madey-uppy name?”

  “It’s short for Christopher,” Kennedy replied.

  “Ah, and I can see why you’d want to use Christy as a handle,” Mactoo replied after a few seconds’ consideration. Then they commenced the seventy-minute, conversation-free journey. Kennedy wasn’t being rude, but once the car started to move, his jet lag kicked right in and he fell asleep.

  ***

  “She’s got an airtight alibi. We can’t just pick her up,” Chief Ed Donohue said in genuine disbelief.

  It was later that evening and they were in Chief Donohue’s office at 537 Kelly Avenue in downtown Half Moon Bay. In attendance were Officers Kevin MacCormac, Grace Scott, and Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy. Chief Donohue, a slim-framed man with a chiselled, serious face but gentle eyes, was a dead ringer for the famous fifties’ cowboy actor, Randolph Scott. He was a little north of six foot. His greying to white short hair made him look wise, as opposed to old.

  Grace Scott looked preoccupied. The only feminine signs she betrayed were wisps of copper-colour hair escaping from the side and back of her Half Moon Bay Police Department baseball style cap. Kennedy figured she’d be in her early thirties. She was married (although the white ring of skin of her wedding finger showed she preferred not to wear her wedding ring while working) and, as it was now twenty-past-eight in the evening, she was most probably anxious to get home and have dinner with her husband and children. And then again maybe not, Kennedy thought. She didn’t look like a mother, but perhaps motherhood was something she also had to leave at home with her wedding ring to be able to do her job properly. She and Mactoo seemed to be giving each other a lot of space.

  In the centre of Chief Donohue’s tidy desk lay the Patrick Mylan file and case notes, all officially rubber-stamped by the Home Office. The chief had obviously studied the file very closely, because he quoted relevant facts from the case without once checking the file.

  “What is her alibi?” Grace Scott asked.

  Donohue flashed her a “that was a dumb question” look, but she just glared at him. To Kennedy they were behaving like a man and a woman with a history, where the niceties of gently discussing their way through things they disagreed on gave way straight to the ‘let’s do battle’ approach.

  “She was with me at the time Patrick Mylan was being murdered.”

  “Okay, right,” Scott started up again, this time turning on Kennedy. “So you thought you could arrest her and extradite her, why?”

  “I…” Kennedy started.

  “Look, let’s back up a bit here,” the chief ordered, glaring furiously at Scott.

  “Yeah, you’re right, Chief,” Scott replied, but the intensity of her voice was still charged. “Inspector Kennedy, what exactly were you and this Chada woman doing at the time Mylan was being murdered?”

  “Grace,” Donohue shouted. Mactoo perked up as if he’d got the best seat in the house for the final seconds of a tied basketball game.

  Kennedy, perhaps something to do with his hunger and jet lag, didn’t feel uncomfortable, figuring he was being used as bait for another of their confrontations. But then again, there looked to be a good thirty years between them; they couldn’t possibly be a couple, could they?

  “Look,” he said, staring directly at the very earnest Grace Scott, “I might as well tell you…”

  “Inspector, you don’t have to,” Donohue cautioned.

  “I was in bed with the suspect,” Kennedy admitted near enough simultaneously.

  “Right,” Scott spat in sheer liquid disbelief, “and so then you know she nipped out, killed the victim, and then nipped back into bed with you. I’ve heard all about these cosy crimes you English have…”

  “Irish,” Kennedy interrupted.

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m Irish actually, Northern Irish.”

  She just shook her head and glared at Kennedy in disgust.

  Kennedy felt Mactoo was either going to nip out for some popcorn or break into applause.

  Scott stood up, turned to Donohue and hissed, “I can’t believe you took me off my case to work on this.”

  On the word “this,” she slammed her open right hand down with all her might on Mylan’s file and turned and stormed out of the office. Mactoo blew a visible sigh of relief. Kennedy wondered if he had been expecting it to develop into blows.

  The chief rushed to the open door and called after Scott, “I’m advising you for the final time, you don’t have another case. You’re working on this. You and MacCormac are detailed to Inspector Kennedy for the duration.”

  By this time Scott was nearly outside the building, so Kennedy couldn’t be sure what she said in reply, but he thought there might have been a word thrown in repeatedly that rhymed with the word “luck” and prefixed with “dumb.”

  “MacCormac,” Donohue started up again a few seconds later, “would you take Inspector Kennedy out for dinner and then take him back to the guest cabin up on my ranch?”

  “Are you sure?” Mactoo replied, his disbelief obvious.

  “No, it’s fine,” Kennedy offered. “I’m fine to stay in a hotel.”

  “No, you won’t. MacCormac just meant there was someone else already staying in the guest cabin, didn’t you, MacCormac?”

  “Oh yeah,” Mactoo smiled largely.

  “There are always people coming and going there,” Chief Donohue continued, “and there’s more than enough room for a whole squad of police. You’ll probably never even see the other guest.”

  Kennedy went to protest but was cut short by the chief.

  “I insist and that’s it, Inspector. Take it as a direct order. Now go with MacCormac here, and he’ll set you up with a good supper.”

  ***

  It was now nearly five o’clock the following morning on Kennedy’s body clock.

  He found it difficult to concentrate on his comfort food - the all day breakfast he ordered in a restaurant cum bar on the waterside. He remembered his wine being undrinkable and Mactoo having a cheeseburger and quite a few bottles of beer. He also remembered Mactoo looking at him and smiling a lot, as though he knew something Kennedy didn’t. He also recalled Mactoo listing the top ten golden rules of avoiding jet lag:

  1. Immediately set your watch and your mind to USA time.

  2. If you’ve got a sweet tooth, now would be a good time to hit the Hershey bars.

  3. Eat your meals only at USA meal times.

  4. Never lie on a bed or sit in a chair for a rest.

  5. Never lie on a bed or sit in a chair and watch TV.

  6. Keep both brain and body active all the time.

  7. Stay up as late as possible for the first couple of nights.

  8. No matter how little sleep you get during the night, still get up early.

 
; 9. Don’t drink alcohol in the afternoon.

  10. Don’t sleep with murder suspects.

  Mactoo apologised for point number ten, but that was only after he’d laughed the whole way home on it.

  By the time they reached Donohue’s ranch, it was dark and surprisingly cold. They pulled in beside the other Half Moon Bay patrol car parked away from the main house by a grove of trees and waited as Chief Donohue, dragging furiously on a ciggy and backlit by the cream-coloured light from his kitchen, wandered over to them. He was now out of uniform and looked every bit the Randolph Scott about to hitch up and ride out to right some wrong. Maybe not Kennedy’s wrong though; that would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Kennedy was so zonked at that stage, he didn’t remember much else save Donohue instructing him, in whispers, as to where the bathroom, kitchen, and the spacious bedroom were located and to treat the wooden building as his own. He flopped out on top of the bed and fell asleep immediately.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Kennedy woke up with a start, totally disorientated. It took him a few seconds to reorient himself to his new surroundings. He felt like he’d been sleeping for over twenty-four hours and it was the following evening. He checked his watch, which he’d reset to local time. It was ten forty-five and still dark outside. It must be the following evening. He couldn’t possibly have been asleep for only half an hour, could he? His sleep had felt so deep. But the date on his watch confirmed that was exactly what had just happened. He felt hungry. He felt grubby. He had a crick in his neck from lying face down on top of the bed. His neck discomfort reminded him of Miss Chada.

  As he showered he thought of Sharenna. She was also somewhere among these rolling, tree-covered hills. What was she doing just now? He wasn’t allowed to arrest her. Truth be told, he knew he wasn’t quite ready to arrest her. He still had to figure out how she could have pulled off Mylan’s murder. But what should his plan of action be in the morning? Should he show up on her doorstep and let her know he knew where she was and he was on to her? Should he just keep a low profile until he solved the puzzle of this crime? In his now charitable moment, he did acknowledge how clever she’d been. Who better than a copper to give you a cast-iron alibi? He had been well and truly duped. Could it be that the reason he’d been keen to get out of Camden Town so quickly was not as much to apprehend the suspect as to avoid being in Camden Town when his colleagues discovered what had happened?

  The power shower was exactly what he needed. It invigorated him and washed away the doziness from his brain. Now totally awake and alert, he decided to investigate the accommodation. The second he opened his bedroom door, he thought he heard someone crying and saw someone sitting over by the fire place, the grate aglow with burning logs. Kennedy loved the smell of burning wood.

  The other guest was aware of his presence but surprisingly seemed unable to stop crying. Kennedy wondered if this was a cultural thing. In England people would go out of their way not to be seen crying in the presence of strangers. The Americans were meant to be more in touch with their feelings; could this be the living proof?

  Kennedy considered what to do. He could just disappear back into his bedroom or he could walk across the large log-walled room and offer some comfort. He returned to his bedroom, but no sooner had he closed the door than he chastised himself under his breath, opened the door again and walked across the room in the direction of the fire.

  Okay, Kennedy thought, as he noticed the vibrant copper-coloured hair of the woman sitting rocking gently back and forth in the sofa in front of the fire, this is weird. It was Officer Grace Scott. Not only was the chief having a scene with her, but he was also putting her up in his guest cabin, which probably meant his wife was still alive and installed in the main house. No wonder Chief Donohue had been forgiving of Kennedy’s indiscretion back in Primrose Hill. Why was Officer Scott sobbing so uncontrollably? Had the chief dumped her? Still, neither Scott nor Kennedy acknowledged each other. Kennedy felt he was now intruding on her space. Just as he was about to return to his bedroom, she swung her head around in his direction, her hair arcing out in a fiery copper umbrella as she did so.

  “Ah, Inspector,” she announced, using the palms of both hands to aggressively wipe the tears from her face and eyes.

  “Sorry.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. Come on up and take a seat. Even better, get yourself a glass from the liquor cabinet behind you; no one likes to drink alone.”

  “Sure,” Kennedy replied as he did as bid.

  She poured him a generous glass of a Napa Valley red, which Kennedy found very agreeable, maybe even too agreeable. He sat beside her in the sofa, which was bigger than some of the Camden Town bedsits he’d been in.

  They both sat sipping silently, looking deep into the low flames.

  “Okay, Inspector, I appreciate that.”

  “What?” he prompted, when it seemed she wasn’t going to complete her thought.

  “Oh, you know, Inspector, that you didn’t say, ‘Come on now, it’s going to be okay.’

  “Christy will do.”

  “But unprofessional to superiors.”

  “I’m a visitor, a guest. I’m not a superior. I’ve no rank here.”

  “My dad says you are, and that I’ve got to ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir’ you.”

  “Your dad?” Kennedy said, wondering why she’d think he’d have a connection with her father.

  “Chief Edward Donohue.”

  “He’s your father? But I thought… sure your name is Scott? And you swore at him?”

  “You thought what exactly, Inspector?” she said turning to face him for the first time.

  Kennedy could mutter nothing more than, “Oh, ehm...”

  “Wait… you don’t mean to say you actually thought I was here… unbelievable…you didn’t actually think I was shacking up with the chief…” and she burst into a fit of embarrassed laughter, but the more she laughed the less she was embarrassed, until eventually she was in the middle of a very infectious full-blown holler.

  Kennedy even joined in, initially in the hope of defusing a potential international incident, but then he also saw the funny side of the situation.

  “Oh, my goodness, Inspector, I needed that. Let me tell you something. It’s true what they say: never drink alone late at night.”

  Grace Scott had a very pleasing voice, more Jennifer Connolly than Keira Knightly. Out of her uniform and even in her black trainer bottoms and the large bright red woollen jumper she was presently camped in, she looked a lot more feminine than she had when he’d first met her.

  She obviously didn’t want to discuss herself, because she kept throwing questions at Kennedy until he stopped giving her one-word answers.

  “So how have you ended up here, Inspector?”

  “As in my career generally, or specifically this current mess I seem to be in?”

  “Let’s start with this current mess of yours.”

  “Okay,” Kennedy sighed, taking quite a large gulp of the delicious wine, “I was on a case and ah, I got stabbed and it didn’t heal the way everyone hoped it would. I started to be troubled by my back, and then my girlfriend…”

  “Are we talking girlfriend-girlfriend, or the suspect in your current case?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Kennedy replied, trying to navigate his way through this awkward situation. He decided the best way was not to dress it up, just tell it like it was. “My then girlfriend, ann rea, before she dumped me, sought out a specialist to give me back treatment. This specialist turned out to be Miss Sharenna Chada. I’ve been seeing her professionally speaking for around a year, but we hardly spoke. I’d address her as Miss Chada, and she’d call me Mr Kennedy. Anyway, in recent months my back has been giving me more and more trouble until, in fact this time last week…” Kennedy paused as he allowed the magnitude of the previous week’s developments to sink in. “I was pretty much immobile in bed. Actually, make that I was immobile on the floor. It’s the wors
t I’ve ever been; I was in sheer agony. Miss Chada came around and worked her magic and ended up staying the night and the next day as well. At the same time as she was with me, Mr Patrick Mylan was being murdered.”

  “But surely, all joking aside, she can’t have been involved?” Grace said, refilling both their glasses. She looked a little unsteady and she’d started to slur some of her words.

  Kennedy then proceeded to spend a good few minutes talking Grace through the Mylan case to date. Even though she was feeling the effects of the wine, she got right into the history, throwing questions and suggestions at Kennedy as he delivered his tale.

  “So then, after you’d given her her cast iron alibi, she dropped you like a hot potato?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Don’t tell me you had a repeat performance?” she laughed.

  “Yes,” Kennedy admitted quickly. If Grace Scott was going to be working with him stateside, it was important she felt he had nothing to hide.

  “How many times?”

  “I saw her every night until she fled here the night before last, or was it last night.”

  “So did you think it might have developed into a relationship?”

  “No, it was a physical thing.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “No, honestly, it really was,” Kennedy protested, “although…”

  “Although you found you had feelings for her,” Scott offered. Kennedy felt she was ribbing him.

  “No. She seemed very concerned when I didn’t show up for a professional appointment with her. She felt I was slighting her in front of her colleagues.”