I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 2)
Page 22
‘Interesting, verly interesting. But again highly unlikely.’
‘Why?’ ann rea drew the word out into three syllables.
‘This is the real world, not a PD James novel. Besides, if the chances of getting away with one murder are pretty slim, the chances of getting away with two are practically zero. And anyway, there’s no body.’
‘What about what’s-his-name and his wife who murdered all those people, including some of their own children, and buried them in the basement of the house?’
‘The West family. Yes, but that’s my point: they didn’t get away with it. If one person commits a murder, he or she can keep it to themselves, but more than one and pretty soon everyone knows about it. Okay, it was ages before they were caught, but I get the feeling this is different. From the appearance of this corpse, whoever did it was on a mission, a mission of vengeance, and he or she planned it down to the smallest detail.
‘If you overpower someone with chloroform you do have control over their body, but you still have to move the body around. Was Peter O’Browne dragged into the centre of the room, assuming he was overpowered at the door, and a rope placed around his neck?
‘Did the murderer then throw the end of the rope around the roof rafter and did he then hoist the comatose O’Browne from the ground? Did he then secure the other end of a rope to something, a door handle perhaps, and watch the life drain from the body as it twitched around?’
‘Ugh, Kennedy. Pl-ea-se, not before breakfast,’ ann rea declared discontinuing the hair-extending exercise. ‘You are forgetting he was kept captive for a few days. Why was that?’
‘I don’t know. Alibi, maybe. Perhaps the first attempt at murder failed. Maybe the murderer wanted to put Peter O’Browne through a few days of misery before finally killing him. No, I think instead of trying to solve the case and then find the murderer I should try and first find the murderer and then let him–’
‘Or her,’ ann rea reminded him.
‘Or her,’ Kennedy corrected, ‘tell us how the murder was carried out.’
‘Are murderers usually so co-operative?’ ann rea inquired innocently.
‘Sometimes. They can be a pretty vain lot. And I feel that this one will be quite proud of his work. Yeah, he’ll want to boast about it quite a bit,’ Kennedy surmised.
‘Okay, Detective, who could it have been?’
‘Well, let’s see,’ he replied holding out his first hand. ‘Martyn Farrelly.’ He withdrew his index finger.
‘Motive?’
‘Two, maybe even three. First Peter lands him in a bad publishing deal. Second he uses Martyn’s money to start up what becomes a very successful record company. And, three, Martyn could have found out about Peter and Colette sleeping together. Enough of a reason on its own.’
‘Alibi?’ ann rea rose from the bed and searched for her underclothes.
‘Allegedly Martyn was in his music room. However, by his own admission, no one, not even his wife, saw him around the key time. So, in theory he could have slipped out, done the evil deed, and returned unseen to the seclusion of the music room.’
‘Hang on a second, Kennedy. If you assume Peter O’Browne received a telephone call from the murderer on the Friday, just as he was about to leave his office, and you further assume that the murderer, in his telephone call, summoned Peter to a meet at Mayfair Mews Studio,’ ann rea paused to try to get her own brain around the concept she was about to propose.
‘Yes?’ Kennedy said, distracted by the vision performing the dress tease.
‘Well,’ the performer continued, ‘then surely you should also be checking his alibi for Friday evening, say seven to nine as well?’
‘Good point, very good point,’ Kennedy answered, making a mental note to do that very thing.
‘Okay! Next suspect?’ ann rea inquired as she moved across the room and plumped herself into Kennedy’s very comfortable reading chair in the right-hand corner, a window to one side and a packed bookcase to the other. She flicked through Kennedy’s current reading matter – Writing Home by Alan Bennett – without paying attention to the contents. It must be a very funny book because she had heard Kennedy laughing out loud as he was reading it.
‘Tom Best.’ Kennedy raised his hand again so that he could retract a second finger.
‘Motive?’
‘Simple. He feels aggrieved that although he helped Peter set up the successful record company he did not share in the spoils.’
‘I thought that it was Best who made the decision not to continue after the sell-out, when perhaps he could have made some money.’
‘Not exactly. I think by that point the deal had been done and Best had accepted that he was not going to get anything, let alone the percentage he felt he was entitled to. I would guess that if Peter had offered him a fair share of the money and a major role in the new set-up with a high salary, he would have been happy with his thirty pieces of silver. I think he may have invented his principles as a way to vent his anger at Peter publicly. And, I must admit, after hearing the story a few times I’m not sure that he was not justified in his grievance.
‘The truth is that they probably needed each other. Best hasn’t exactly been successful since the split. His office is hardly a hive of activity.’
‘Alibi?’ ann rea listed as she kept up the pace.
‘He was giving a dinner party. He was with five people during the entire evening. They’ve all been checked out.’ Kennedy sat up in bed, grateful for the comfort the tight bandages were now affording him.
‘What about last Friday at seven?’
‘I’ll check that. But it won’t make any difference, because the bottom line is that he has a strong alibi for the time Peter O’Browne was actually murdered.’
‘Make sure you do check Kennedy. I don’t want any sloppy police work on this,’ ann rea teased. ‘Okay, next?’
Jason Carter-Houston was finger number three.
‘Motive?’ ann rea pumped.
‘Okay. He thinks he was stiffed big time by Peter O’Browne. The group he managed were on the brink of success and he was assured a bright financial future, but the deal went sour and band and manager fell out with Peter. His career has followed the direction of a cow’s tail. The more successful Peter was, the more annoyed Carter-Houston would have become.’
‘Alibi?’
‘Night of murder, he’s at a concert by the Splendid Café Orchestra.’
‘Penguin Café Orchestra,’ ann rea corrected.
‘I’m sure they’re splendid. Anyway he’s at the concert with his partner on the night of the murder – but – I’ll check last Friday,’ he smiled.
‘Next?’
‘Barney Noble.’
‘Motive?’
‘Blackmail. Or a blackmail that went wrong. He would have less of a conscience than most of our suspects, although if it were him, I’m not sure he would have gone to the trouble of such an elaborate plan. He’s more of a knife or a gun in a dark alley and dump the body in Camden Lock type of chap, but, who knows? One thing’s for sure,’ Kennedy offered rubbing his ribs, ‘he’s certainly not the friendly type, nor is he exactly intelligent. He’d think “Home thoughts from abroad” was Madonna’s new tour book.’
‘Alibi?’
‘Night of the murder he was drinking with his mates, who’ll all swear to it, on a pint of Guinness. Again, Friday night last, I’ll check.
‘Next?’ ann rea inquired noticing Kennedy had only his thumb left.
‘I suppose this,’ Kennedy replied staring at his thumb, ‘has to be the wild card, the Joker. It could be anyone inside, or outside, our frame.’
‘For instance?’
‘Let’s see, Colette Farrelly? Dumped, jealous and…’
‘No! I can’t see that, Kennedy. Next?’
‘Mary Jones?’
‘Why on earth Mary?’ ann rea was genuinely shocked.
‘Because we don’t know, ann rea. We don’t know what goes on between two people
. We know only what we are told, what we are intended to think. But it wouldn’t be the first time a PA and her boss have had an affair. Maybe they split up, maybe he was seeing someone else, maybe she was still in love with him; maybe she couldn’t bear it and maybe…’
‘Maybe pigs might fly, Kennedy. I think you’re quite a bit off the track there.’
‘ann rea, you just would not believe the number of murders that are committed by exes and shunned lovers.’
‘She would have told me that she was having an affair with Peter. Or I’d have guessed. I’ve known her a while, Kennedy.’
‘Do you know her well enough to know that she is having an affair with Leslie Russell?’
‘No! Mary and Leslie? No…that’s not true.’
Kennedy said nothing. He just grinned at ann rea.
‘Kennedy, no. She couldn’t. He’s… How did you find that out? Mary and Leslie? Are you sure?’ Now ann rea was smiling, her disbelief having made way for amazement.
Kennedy continued only to smile.
‘God, I’ve known her all this time and I’d never guessed. And you’ve only known her a couple of days. How on earth did you find out?’
At last Kennedy broke his smile and spoke, ‘Actually I didn’t. I don’t know if they are.’
‘Kennedy!’
He laughed. ‘You see. Within a few seconds you went from knowing I was totally wrong and saying “Impossible” to “Well, perhaps, how did you find out?” and in the end I know you felt that it was true. Anything can be true. People do the strangest things.
‘Why? I don’t know, maybe because they are lonely, because their true love doesn’t want to know, because they feel they are never going to meet Ms or Mr Right, so they’ll go with anybody. Because they are sexually frustrated. Necessity dictates what we do, not principles or emotions.’
‘You don’t believe that, Kennedy, I know you don’t. Look how long you were alone before we met. And you’re…you’re…well you don’t exactly look like the back end of a double-decker bus!’ ann rea said as she rose from the chair and joined Kennedy on the bed, stroking his hair.
They sat in silence for a while until Kennedy said, ‘Oh. It suited my argument. But you know what I mean, ann rea, we just do not know what goes on between two people or even what goes on between a person and themselves. Don’t rule anything out. We can’t afford to.’
‘Okay.’
‘And besides, to me it seems natural that Mary and Leslie would have had a scene. To me, they seem made for each other.’
ann rea mulled over this prospect for some seconds.
‘Possibly,’ she agreed. ‘Any other wild cards, Kennedy?’
‘Well now that we are talking about Leslie Russell, his name must be in there somewhere.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Anything is possible, remember? They could have been doing a deal together. The deal could have gone wrong.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Leslie was Peter’s lawyer for years.’
‘Yeah, and what about Sting and his accountant? They had been together for years and he helped himself to millions of Sting’s money. The more money there is around, the more likely it is that something will be going on. Then there is Johnny Heart, Paddy George. Someone out of the frame.’
‘God you’ve got more suspects than cat’s eyes on the M25. Still, I know who definitely didn’t do it.’
‘Who?’ Kennedy urged.
‘OJ Simpson.’
‘Just as well. If he did, we’d never prove it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Oh my, oh my, oh my, my, my, my
- Otis Redding
On Monday morning the case went pear-shaped. The day started off well for Kennedy. Forensic had been through the rubbish found in Mayfair Mews Studio and had discovered two interesting pieces of information.
The lone pages of the previous Monday’s edition of the Evening Standard found beneath the cardboard at the top right-hand end of the studio, were found to contain traces of fish – haddock, to be precise – and chips. Now at least it was certain what Peter O’Browne’s last supper was, and maybe it had been purchased at the Regent Chippie.
The other clue was slightly more baffling. Forensic had also discovered the remains of a shop receipt. Just the top left-hand corner, which featured what looked like a ram’s head in black print, and the letters ‘R’ and ‘A’ and the figures 300849.
The boys and girls from Forensic liked to play the old Watson and Holmes routine sometimes, just to prove that they were not merely back room boys and girls. So, by the process of elimination, deduction and the use of Yellow Pages, they discovered that the full name of the shop was RAMS – Rope and Marine Services Ltd (estd 1948) – situated at 31 Yorkshire Road, London E14. The shop, according to the Yellow Pages advert, specialised in lifting gear. They hired, they sold, they manufactured, they repaired, they even tested, and on top of all that they stocked steel wire rope, fibre rope, kuplex chain, chain blocks, tirfor winches, pull-lifts, shackles, etc.
This information was proudly presented for the attention of Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy. At that stage in the case Kennedy was very happy to receive any scraps thrown his way.
However, as the inspector was bumming a lift with WPC Anne Coles in the direction of the aforementioned RAMS, the case was breaking (as they say in the papers) wide open a few miles across town at the home of Mr Martyn Farrelly.
At precisely ten twenty-eight that Monday morning, Martyn Farrelly, in the comfort of his home, confessed to the murder of Mr Peter O’Browne.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
In ceremonies of the Horsemen
Even the Pawn must hold a grudge
- Bob Dylan
When Kennedy and WPC Anne Coles received this startling piece of information via the car radio, Kennedy asked the WPC to do a Hughie Green at the next opportunity and head back to North Bridge House.
Kennedy felt a bit empty. The case hadn’t really been solved. But then again, the case had been concluded in the manner he and ann rea had discussed on Saturday morning: first find the murderer and then let him (or her) explain how they had dispatched the evil deed.
Kennedy was disappointed and a little sad to discover that Martyn Farrelly, whom he quite liked, had been responsible for the murder. He had expected someone more devious and underhand. Obviously the pressure must have been boiling up inside Farrelly for some time before it finally exploded with such a force that it led to the ultimate sin: the unlawful killing of a human.
Soon all would be revealed. Kennedy had instructed DS Irvine not to start questioning Martyn Farrelly until he returned to the station. It took him exactly eleven minutes to get there, and now he was sitting across the table from a distraught Martyn Farrelly and his poorly-dressed solicitor, with DS Irvine to his right and Constable Tony Essex standing opposite them, behind Farrelly, guarding the door.
‘Okay, it’s Monday morning, ten forty-eight,’ Kennedy began for the benefit of the tape recorder. ‘And present for this interview are Mr Martyn Farrelly; his solicitor, Mr Geoff Marsh; DS James Irvine; Constable Tony Essex; and myself, Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy. Mr Farrelly has been read his rights and has admitted, under caution, that he did wilfully murder Mr Peter O’Browne on or about Wednesday the eighteenth of October, last.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Kennedy carried on, turning his attention to Farrelly.
Farrelly stared right through Kennedy. His eyes betraying no sign of recognition.
‘Tell us what happened,’ DS Irvine prompted.
Silence, not golden but grey, clambered about every corner of the room.
‘Look is there any chance we can get this interview started before I need a shave?’ Kennedy suggested.
‘There’s nothing to start with, nothing to tell. I did him, the effing bastard I did him, and that’s it, that’s the end of it. What do I need to sign?’ Farrelly’s cold words clearly alarmed his solicitor, whose wise words of caut
ion were falling on deaf ears.
‘Well,’ Kennedy said expansively, ‘it’s not quite as simple as that.’
‘It might not be simple to you, mate, but to me it’s exactly that simple. The effing bastard got exactly what he deserved, and I’m certainly not going to waste any more words or energy on him!’ Farrelly’s voice held a sense of finality which convinced Kennedy that further attempts at gathering information at that point would prove about as useful as a Philishave to Gerry Adams.
Kennedy leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers behind his head to afford himself an even steeper recline. He appeared to be deep in thought. Were his thoughts about the complexities of this case? No, they were about how badly the interview room was in need of a coat of paint.
At least it had been possible for someone to work up quite a professional shine on the chessboard-style Marley tiled floor. But the paint was peeling from the walls in some areas, and several futile retouching jobs gave the room its unique three shades of uneven cream, another South Bank art piece.
‘This interview is terminated at eleven oh two,’ Kennedy announced to the room in general and the tape recorder in particular. He hesitated, and did not press the ‘stop’ button. Instead he said to the solicitor, ‘I think, Mr Marsh, you had better advise your client that there is a procedure here to be followed and he had better follow it…’
‘Or what? Or you’ll do what?’ Farrelly interrupted, spitting out the words and covering the table with a certain amount of liquid, none of which reached either DS Irvine or DI Kennedy. ‘I’ve just admitted to murdering someone, so what additional punishment can you dish out that will make a ha’pence of difference to a man who is going to get life in prison?’ His tone turned to mocking laughter.
DS Irvine thought, ‘Oh God, here we go, if this was a film and I had it out on video, I’d fast forward this section.’