Kendall (Kendall Book 5)

by John Holt

  There would be the humorous comments. “Free At Last.” “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” And that would be that. It would all be over, done and dusted. That’s how it ends. Ten years. Gone, just like that.

  “Tom,” he heard somebody yell out. “Tom, we’re ready.”

  He looked up. There was Fraser waving to him. “Come on Tom, it’s time.”

  Kendall looked at the wall clock. Six o’clock on the dot, the allotted time. Not a minute before and not a minute after. There was no word from the governor. There was to be no reprise, no stay of execution. Kendall nodded, smiled and stood up. He looked down at his desk, and ran his hand over it once more. It had been home for the past ten years, his refuge, and his sanctuary. He shook his head and patted the desk gently. He then shrugged his shoulders and slowly walked over to where his colleagues were waiting.

  “Speech” someone called out.

  Speech indeed, what on earth was he to say?

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Kendall had finished his speech. Already he had forgotten what he had said, but it seemed to have gone down well.

  Detective Sergeant Fraser patted him on the back. “Tom,” he said. He looked around at his fellow officers. He looked back at Kendall, and lifted his hand, and waited for silence. He was holding a small package, maybe twelve inches long and four inches wide. He looked at Kendall. “Tom,” he repeated. “This is for you.” He handed the package to Kendall. “We all chipped in.” He paused and smiled as he looked around at the assembled gathering. “Including the Lieutenant, he figured it was worth the two dollars just to see you go.”

  Loud laughter erupted from the gathered throng. Kendall smiled, and laughed nervously. He wasn’t entirely convinced that it had been said in jest however. He and the Lieutenant hadn’t always seen eye to eye, and quite often there had been open hostility between them.

  “Go on open it,” called out Detective Martin.

  “Yes let’s see what they did with my money,” called out Officer Yvonne Caldwell. “Hope they spent it wisely.”

  Kendall smiled, and started to carefully remove the wrapping. Inside was a brass plate, attached to a polished hardwood stand. On the plate were the words “Tom Kendall, P.I.”

  * * *

  As Kendall came out of the building he stopped and turned. He looked back at the entrance. The building was at least a hundred years old, and was affectionately known to the inhabitants, or inmates as Kendall called them, as the Workhouse. Oliver Twist would not have felt out of place in it. Kendall smiled as he looked at it. It was an extremely dismal building, drab, and covered with grime from the traffic. It was in need of substantial repairs, and a fresh coat of paint.

  He shook his head and looked at the steps. How many times had he gone up those steps he wondered? It was certainly hundreds of times, maybe thousands. He shook his head. If he had a dime for every step he had taken, he would be a wealthy man. Well he wouldn’t be doing that again would he, except maybe as a visitor. Despite its faults he was going to miss the old place. He was going to miss it a lot.

  Would they miss him, he wondered. They said they would, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Must keep in touch, they had said. What did that mean? A card at Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and that would be it. Don’t be a stranger. But did they really mean it? He hadn’t got that kiss from Sylvia had he? Or if he had it must have been so insipid that it never registered. What did he expect anyway? This time tomorrow they would have forgotten all about him. Out of sight out of mind, that’s how the saying went.

  Starting tomorrow things were going to be a whole lot different, for them and, most of all, for him. In the meantime he could really use a stiff drink, and quite possibly more than one.

  Kelly’s bar was just around the corner. If he was quick he could get a head start before the others arrived.

  * * *

  Chapter

  Five

  Freeport Street

  After leaving the New York Police Department, Kendall moved away from New York. He wanted somewhere new, somewhere where he wouldn’t be constantly reminded of the Department. More importantly somewhere he wouldn’t keep running into people that he had arrested, or people he had worked with. He could just imagine how it would be. “How you doing, busy are you?” “Got plenty of work on?” “I bet you’re sorry you left us.”

  It was to be a completely fresh start, and that meant a start in a new place. He headed south, into Virginia, and set up his office in a small town, Cedar Springs, close to the State border.

  Freeport Street

  He managed to find an office in a small purpose built block on Freeport Street in the centre of the town. Four blocks further to the west Freeport Street became Freeport Drive. Here was located the fashionable, smart, and expensive business and commercial district of the town. In this section were the designer shops, Armani, Gucchi, Chanel, Harry Winstone. They were all there. Further west the Street changed once again, and became Freeport Avenue, a luxury residential area complete with all the trimmings. Here were the swimming pools, the tennis courts, and the security gates. Here were the imported Bentleys, the Rolls Royces, the Jaguars, the Mercedes, and the Cadillac. The area just oozed class, the kind of class that only came with money, lots and lots of money. It was just the kind of place that Kendall liked, the kind of place where the clients he wanted would live. The kind of place he himself would like to live, one day.

  Where Kendall’s office block was located it was just plain old Freeport Street, a million miles away, and altogether vastly different. This was the poor section of town, the run down and neglected section. It was not very fancy he had to admit, but at least it was cheap. It was also convenient to a couple of nice looking diners, and an inviting bar or two, just in case he had some spare time, besides a man’s got to eat hasn’t he?

  The office block was an old Victorian building, six stories high with a basement. Architecturally it had nothing going for it. Probably it had never been what you might call an attractive building. Now it looked positively ugly. It was run down, shabby, and badly neglected. The brickwork was grimy, with dirt from the traffic in the street below, and a number of damp patches were clearly evident in the main walls. Several cracks could be seen in the brickwork, and substantial repairs were required almost everywhere. As a bare minimum the doors and windows were badly in need of a coat of paint.

  Kendall’s office was on the third floor, at the corner of the building. It wasn’t exactly a large office. Compact, the landlord had said when Kendall agreed to take it on. It was convenient, and manageable. They were the main selling features of the complex, which was just as well because there was nothing else to recommend it.

  The suite comprised a main office area, a small kitchen area, and a storeroom. Storeroom was probably an overstatement. It was, in reality, nothing more than a large walk-in cupboard. Down the corridor were the facilities, as the brochure proudly described the cloakrooms. The next door office was the home of Martin Thompson, Plumbing and Building Services. Further down the corridor could be found Freeport Fashion, specializing in “clothes for the discerning woman”, whatever that meant. Judging by the lack of business, it was clear that “the discerning woman” was a rare breed. Mr. Thompson, on the other hand, seemed to have a constant stream of discerning customers, both men and women.

  Although serviceable, the office area was drab and uninviting. Kendall had tried to brighten it up a little by laying a bright red carpet on the floor. It wasn’t enough.

  “A fresh coat of paint will work wonders,” the landlord had said. “Really give the place a face lift.”

  Kendall agreed that it would certainly make a tremendous difference. However it very quickly became abundantly clear that although the landlord had suggested the coat of paint it wasn’t going to be the landlord who would actually provide it. Reluctantly Kendall vowed that one fine day he would certainly get around to doing it himself, or at least he would get someone to do it for him. He wondered i
f painting and decorating were included in the range of building services offered by Mr. Martin Thompson. He made a note to discuss it with him, when funds allowed that is.

  The office was sparsely furnished, and what furniture there was looked as though it had come from a charity shop. Over by the window was Kendall’s desk. A second desk was located opposite, close to the door. That was for his secretary when he had found one.

  Along one wall was a rack of shelving. On the top shelf, in pride of place, was a battered nightstick that, at one time, belonged to Sergeant George Kendall of the New York Police Department, Kendall’s father. Next to it was a small dark blue case. It was lying open to reveal a solid silver medal that had been presented to the same Sergeant Kendall for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. Last, but by no means least, was an old wristwatch. It no longer worked, the glass face was cracked, and the leather strap was worn. On the back was a simple inscription “To Tom, with love from mum.”

  The rest of the shelving contained several dusty files, many of them stamped N.Y.P.D. There were also a number of old books relating to crime, law and order, and court cases. As far as could be seen it was more than obvious that none of the books had ever been used. Kendall kept them simply because they looked good. They made a statement. They looked impressive.

  Next to the shelving was a small glass fronted cabinet. Completing the layout was a small sofa, and a low table.

  On one wall there were a number of framed photographs that had been taken at an Awards Ceremony for the Department at the Hotel Lexington, in New York.

  Kendall heaved a sigh, stood up and began walking around the room. So this was it. This was his office, his domain. His little pool and he was the big fish. He patted the back of his leather chair as he walked past. He looked down at the desk, and nodded. He walked over to book shelves, brushing his hand across the spines as he passed. He then made his way over to the doorway. He stopped and opened it, looking out at the corridor. What he was expecting to see wasn’t entirely clear, but if it was a line of potential clients he was sorely disappointed. The corridor was deserted except for Doris, the cleaning lady. She looked up at the sound of the door opening. She smiled and waved, then went back to mopping the floor. Kendall waved back, and then he turned and looked back at the door.

  * * *

  “Now Mr. Kendall what did you have in mind for the door?” The decorator asked, gently tapping the glass.

  “The door?” Kendall repeated puzzled. It was a door, so why should he have anything in mind?

  “Yes the door,” the man replied. “You know the glass. What would you like?”

  Kendall was still puzzled. What would he like? Apart from a large scotch you mean?

  “What did you want painted on the glass?” the decorator explained slowly.

  “Oh,” said Kendall suddenly realizing where the decorator was coming from. “Just there,” he continued as he indicated the centre of the pane. “I want Tom Kendall, Private Investigator.”

  The man looked at the door and shook his head. He began to count. “That’s thirty-one characters and three spaces. It’s too long,” he pronounced knowledgeably. “Far too long.”

  He shook his head once again. “What you want is Detective, Private Detective. Trust me it’s shorter and sounds far better anyway, more professional.”

  Kendall shook his head. “No no,” he said. “Tom Kendall, Private Investigator, that’s what it should read.”

  “It’s too long,” the decorator had repeated. “I’d have to make the letters that much smaller, so they would fit. Then they would be too small to read,” he announced knowingly. “There would be no point having them.” He shook his head and rubbed his chin. “No, you take my advice, Mr. Kendall. You make it Detective. It sounds more substantial, more reliable. Take my word for it. Leave it to me.”

  Kendall thought of the ream of paper sitting in his storeroom, every sheet headed ‘Tom Kendall, Private Investigator’. He sighed. “I really think it should be Investigator,” Kendall protested. “You know all of the …”

  However, the decorator knew best, he had the experience. “Trust me on this one,” he had said. “Make it Detective, you won’t regret it.”

  And so Detective it was.

  * * *

  Kendall stepped back from the door. He could visualize the decorator standing there, in front of him, putting the finishing touches to the sign. As he completed his final stroke, the decorator straightened up, admiring his work. “It’s all done, Mr. Kendall,” he announced, as he stepped away from the door. “Hope you like it.” Kendall looked at it closely, and smiled. Yes, he had liked it fine. He had to admit that the decorator had been right it did look more substantial.

  All he had to do now was do something about the ream of notepaper sitting in the stockroom, a sticky label perhaps?

  * * *

  Kendall slowly closed the door behind him. He looked over at the desk. There was the shiny brass sign, “Tom Kendall P.I.” it said with an air of authority. He looked back at the door. “Private Detective,” he murmured. For a moment he wondered if he could get the plaque altered. “Tom Kendall P.D.” He smiled. It was possible. All he had to do was change the I for a D, problem solved. Maybe he’d get it done, sometime.

  Okay, so he now had an office. Next on the agenda Kendall needed to find a secretary, someone to take messages, and book appointments while he was working on a case, somebody to take care of the paperwork and keep an eye on the accounts. He needed someone to generally manage the office after all he would be far too busy to do it himself. Okay, let’s think what we exactly require. He started to scribble a few notes.

  Must be able to type. Tick.

  Do the filing. Tick.

  Answer the phone. Tick.

  Oh make the coffee. Double underline.

  Get the chocolate cookies. Triple underline.

  He started to rub his head. What else? He had to admit that he really didn’t know what else. Perhaps he should keep it simple. So he did. The following day there was an advertisement in the local newspaper merely stating that a Secretary for Private Detective’s office was required. The only other item listed was a telephone number. All he had to do now was to sit and wait for the calls to come flooding in.

  Over the subsequent few days there were three calls. Kendall shrugged. Three calls only. So what, he only wanted one secretary didn’t he? Arrangements were made for the three applicants to come along for an interview.

  * * *

  Two days later the first applicant arrived. “My name is Joyce,” she said as she sat down in the chair indicated. “Joyce Woods.” She placed a large bundle of papers on the desk in front of Kendall. “My certificates and references,” she explained. “I have certificates for typing, shorthand, and computer operation. I am proficient in word processing, spreadsheets and databases. I have a basic knowledge of book-keeping. I have worked for several large organizations, and come with excellent references. I would require a salary of two thousand dollars per month, and six weeks holiday per year. I imagine a private healthcare plan would be included.” She paused for a moment, took a deep breath and smiled. “Are there any questions?”

  Kendall could not think of anything, not right at that moment. “Well thank you for coming Miss Woods,” he said leading her towards the door. “Very impressive, I’ll let you know.”

  As she walked out of the room Kendall heaved a sigh. “Well that went well,” he murmured. I don’t think. I could use a drink.

  He went into the kitchen area and poured himself a large scotch. He glanced at the sink faucet. He shook his head. “Forget the water,” he murmured. He took the drink back to his desk and sat down. He glanced at the diary which was lying open on his desk. “10.30 Joyce Woods,” was the top entry. He picked up his pen and drew a thick line through the name.

  “Who’s next?” He looked back at the diary. “11.30 Isabel Driscoll.” He sighed and looked over at the clock on the wall. It was five minutes to eleven.
He sighed once again, and drained his glass. He was debating whether or not to get a refill when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called out.

  The door opened slowly and a middle-aged lady walked in. “I am Miss Driscoll,” she said. “I am very early I know, but is it all right?”

  Kendall looked at her and tried to smile. For some reason he was having great difficulty. “Oh yes,” he said. “That’s fine do come in and sit down Miss, er, Driscoll.”

  She came into the room and sat down. She noticed the glass in his hand, and sighed. “I have to tell you Mr. Kenton, that I do not like ….”

  “It’s Kendall,” he said interrupting her.

  “I’m sorry I don’t understand.”

  “The name,” he explained. “It’s Kendall, not Kenton.”

  “Oh I am so sorry, Mr. Kendall,” she said apologetically.

  “That’s alright,” said Kendall. “Anyone can make a mistake. Anyway carry on you were saying.”

  “Oh yes,” she replied. “I don’t like smoking, drinking or swearing. I do not tolerate loud voices raised in a temper, or expressions of anger. I do not do weekends. I do not do washing, or cleaning. I do not do errands. I start at ten and finish at three. To allow for school times, you understand. This is acceptable?”

  Kendall was speechless. She had said all of that without taking a breath. “Well I had hoped ….”

  She stood up. “If this is not acceptable then I shall look elsewhere,” she said. Then without a further word she walked out closing the door loudly behind her.

  Things were definitely not going well. Kendall looked at the clock it was two minutes after eleven. He turned back to the diary. He picked up the pen and drew a line through Miss Driscoll’s name, a thick black line. He shook his head, and looked down at the list. This was proving more difficult than he had imagined. There was one more name, a Miss Brenda Adams. Only the one and she wasn’t due until two o’clock. He shook his head. He was not over hopeful. He could just imagine what she would be like.