I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 2)

by Paul Charles

  As Kennedy saw it, he had one remaining suspect, Colette Farrelly. In spite of ann rea’s violent opposition to the theory, Kennedy felt that it had distinct possibilities. Colette had certainly had the opportunity – her husband had been locked away in the music room, giving her the freedom to come and go as she pleased – and she had the motive, or rather a string of motives. Was she a jealous, spurned lover or the avenger of her husband’s treatment at the hands of Peter O’Browne? It couldn’t be both. Or could it?

  Kennedy didn’t think so. His other problem was that he couldn’t make either motive stand up on its own. It was only when you put the two together that you had some substance. Individually, the motives seemed to be as useful as Radio Four’s Shipping Forecast was to Londoners. He thought he might just be putting two and two together and getting five.

  He turned his chair to face his noticeboard and sought inspiration. He needed a break. Genius was ten per cent inspiration and ninety per cent perspiration, so he decided to spend the rest of the day talking again to all the main characters in the case. It was a bit like a TV series the way each case threw up its own cast of characters.

  What Kennedy wanted to know was, had the star entered the ensemble yet, or was that great director in the sky saving him – or her – for a very dramatic last scene.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  When trouble gets too close to home

  My anger turns to fear

  - Christy Moore

  As they drove to their next meeting, WPC Coles used the opportunity to quiz Kennedy about the possibility of moving over to the detective side. He was encouraging her to apply to become a WDC, Woman Detective Constable, and in the meantime – limbo land – she would be an accredited Detective Constable.

  ‘I hear you’ve been checking out my alibi again,’ was the greeting Kennedy and WPC Anne Coles received on being shown into Tom Best’s office in Camden Town.

  ‘Well I’m sure you would not wish us to be anything but thorough, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m impressed. I gather that both Brian and Sally and Ted and John have been re-interviewed to see was there anything they’d forgotten,’ Tom smiled, as always giving away the Y of his first word with silent mouth movement.

  ‘Yes, well on a murder case such as this, we have to check and recheck every eventuality,’ Kennedy explained in an official tone.

  ‘Of course. What did you expect them to come up with? “Yes, actually we’ve just remembered, haven’t we dear”,’ Tom grinned sarcastically, his voice rising an octave or two, as he mimicked his camp friends, ‘“that during desert Tom excused himself and disappeared for forty minutes to murder that bastard O’Browne”.’

  ‘No,’ Kennedy smiled. ‘Not exactly, sir. But as I say, you’d be surprised what people remember about certain situations a few days later.

  ‘Anyway, here we are again, to see if you yourself have recalled anything new that might be relevant to the case?’

  ‘Listen, as I have told you already, I wasn’t exactly sorry that someone topped him. In my book he had it coming, what goes around comes around, and all that. I have to tell you that, since we last spoke, Peter O’Browne has been the furthest thing from my mind. I’ve been much more preoccupied with a single we have breaking at the minute by a new singer called Laurel McHardy.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ offered the WPC.

  ‘Good. Great in fact,’ Tom Best smiled at the WPC as they all stood around in his office. ‘If the bobby on the beat has heard of him, I must be doing my job properly.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s just charted and I’m afraid that’s been taking up an awful lot of my time. So I haven’t really had that much time to dwell on your case.’

  ‘Oh, well. I’ve just got a couple of questions for you, Mr Best, and then I’ll leave you to bask in the light of your star,’ Kennedy replied, annoyed at Best’s dismissive air with the WPC. ‘Had you and Peter O’Browne ever committed any details of your working to paper?’

  ‘No, of course not, if we had there would have been no need for all the trouble. I trusted him. We were mates when we were starting out, as I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But it’s usual, when two people are starting a business, friends or not, for them to write something down, or even just to discuss how they are to work together. I mean, if the WPC here and myself were to form a pop group, we’d have a discussion about how best to set it up.

  ‘Now I imagine the WPC, because of her looks, would be the front person,’ Kennedy carried on, enjoying exercising his imagination. WPC Coles felt herself blushing. ‘So, she’d probably have a lot more work to do. If that were the case, I’m sure it would be fair for her to receive a share of the money commensurate with that role. But equally if, say, we used some of my money to get the project started, then perhaps I would want a larger share to pay off my investment.

  ‘Did you use any of your money to set up Camden Town Records?’

  ‘You know I didn’t!’

  ‘And you didn’t agree a deal in advance?’

  ‘No. Peter always said we’d work it out and he would look after me.’ Best was fast becoming ratty and was trying hard not to show it.

  ‘Tell me, did he pay you regular wages?’

  ‘Why yes, of course he did.’

  ‘Good wages?’ Kennedy prodded further.

  ‘Yes, I suppose they were.’

  ‘Can you see what’s been bothering me? If two people are partners, I mean real partners, then one doesn’t pay the other wages. It affects the balance of power, you see.’

  ‘Look, Detective Inspector, I really don’t see where this is going. As I’ve said, I’m very busy, very busy; so, if–’

  ‘I’m not quite finished yet, sir,’ Kennedy cut in as he extended one of the silver balls on Best’s desk toy and let it go. It smashed into the remaining five, repelling the lone one at the opposite end of the set, which in turn swung back into the troupe and sent the original ball back towards Kennedy’s waiting fingers. ‘You see, what I’m trying to suggest sir, is that Peter O’Browne looked after you very well. I believe you received a very handsome pay-off when the Grabaphone deal was finalised?’

  ‘Only because I fought for it and, even then, only thanks to the intervention of Leslie Russell who wanted to avoid resorting to the courts.’ Tom Best reached for his tobacco and skins on the desk to develop a roll-up.

  ‘Now, there again, I would take a different view. Perhaps they were taking pity on you.’

  ‘Pity? Pity? I’ll give you pity. I built that fucking company. I was the reason, the sole reason, that fucking asshole got his six fucking million pounds. Without me Camden Town Records would have been worth nothing. He was a flake. I did all the fucking work, he did all the fucking up. The guy was a walking nightmare.’ Best rose from his chair, the veins bulging in his neck. His normal pale complexion was rising to match the colour of his hair. Now that he found himself on his feet, he made an excuse of crossing to the other side of the room to fetch the lens-cloth to clean his glasses.

  ‘Yeah, it was a pity, a pity that I was always saving his ass. He’d go out to a gig, meet a beautiful girl, give her a line, you know, “I think you could make a great record”. Girls always fall for that; always. You’d be surprised even today how much of that still goes on and the more powerful the record company person is, the more it goes on.

  ‘Peter would take them home, do the biz and kick them out with an “Oh, speak to Tom Best about fixing up some time in the studio”. And I’d have to be the bad guy, the one who says, “No, sorry, that’s not going to work, we’re going to need demos first”, and then just keep delaying until eventually the girl gives up. Or, if she was really great in the sack and he wanted a return bout or two, I’d have to put them in the studio and pretend we were doing something and keep up the façade until he got bored and ditched her.

  ‘Pity me, did they? Peter was the pathetic one. He did that once too often.’

  ‘Well, he didn’
t exactly do badly since you parted company.’ Kennedy looked pointedly round Best’s office. There was no comparison with Peter’s set up.

  ‘If you’ve got money, it’s fucking easy. You can buy everything you want, even success. You can even buy your fucking records into the charts. Surely even you must know that by now. But I don’t see what this has got to do with anything. Peter is dead, and all that’s over. What difference does it make if we had a written deal or not.’ Best sighed and took a large drag, such a large drag that the WPC couldn’t help wondering whether perhaps he was wishing his brain was being massaged by another plant.

  ‘Well, as I say, we have to follow up every angle,’ said Kennedy calmly. ‘We never know what is going to show up. Could you please tell me what you were doing on Friday before last? From say, six o’clock until midnight.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Best began without batting an eyelid. He took another large drag before answering. ‘I was here, by myself, working late. I was finishing off the marketing plans for the Laurel McHardy single. I find it the best time of the day to do things like that. The phones are dead and you can give it your full attention.’

  ‘No one else here with you?’

  ‘I only wish I could find staff who would work that late,’ Best smiled, the lack of colour returning to his face.

  ‘My final question is, did you on or about last Wednesday murder Peter O’Browne?’ Kennedy did not change his measured tone, or raise the level of his voice. WPC Anne Coles was totally gobsmacked by the question and she imagined Best must have been thunderstruck. But if he was, he wasn’t showing it.

  Instead he forced a laugh. ‘But I was having dinner with Brian and Sally and Ted and John, as you know perfectly well. You’ve asked them about it enough,’

  ‘I was just checking.’ Kennedy made to depart the tea-less interview. ‘We’ll find our own way out.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  But kids don’t know

  They can only guess

  How hard it is

  To wish you happiness

  - John Prine

  Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy was happy to report that at his next interview, with Colette Farrelly, the tea flowed more abundantly. She answered his questions freely and obviously had nothing to hide. It helped that she had a watertight alibi for the Friday evening, she had one of her mates over for, ‘a little dinner, a bit of gossip and a lot of wine.’ Deep inside, Kennedy knew that Colette could not have murdered Peter. He just needed to prove it. The scenario that was building slowing in his mind, piece by piece, was already pulling him in a different, but more difficult direction.

  ‘How are you and Martyn getting on?’ Kennedy asked, shifting away from interview mode having heard all he needed to hear.

  ‘Oh, I think we’re going to get through it. I think – I hope – the worst is over. There’ll be a few scars which will take time to heal, if they ever will heal entirely. But I suppose the main thing is, in spite of all the pain, we want to stay together. Splitting up is not an option either of us want to consider.

  ‘You know,’ she laughed. ‘We were married for better or for worse. Well, this is definitely the worst. It can only get better from now on. It’s a bit like that Beatle song, oh what’s it called? The one where Paul sings, “It’s getting better all the time”, and John chips in with, “It can’t get much worse!”.’

  Kennedy and WPC Coles rose to leave. Offering thanks for his tea, Kennedy declared, ‘I don’t think we’ll be bothering you any more, Mrs Farrelly.’

  ‘Bothering us? After what you did for Martyn, it’s no bother, believe me. Come back and see us some time and bring your girlfriend along, the one you told me about from the Camden New Journal. Come to tea. Yes, come to tea and I’ll make sure we’re well stocked up on your favourite shortbread, Walkers isn’t it?’

  Kennedy smiled. It was his job to be objective, but he couldn’t help being happy that neither Colette nor Martyn were involved in the murder of Peter O’Browne. That was the good news. The bad news was that he didn’t know how to proceed with the case.

  The ideas taking shape in his brain were improbable, to put it mildly. By the process of elimination and deduction, he was down to one suspect. He was ambivalent about this. If his hunch was correct, he was on the home straight.

  If not, he would be back at the beginning again, or rather, even further back than the beginning. The first time round he had been given several avenues to investigate. But should this number one and only suspect, the suspect with a perfect alibi, prove to be innocent, then Kennedy had nothing other than a big mighty zero on which to hang his case.

  If that happened, it would take more than a couple of gold discs for Superintendent Thomas Castle’s wife to appease him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I need the noises of Destruction

  When there’s nothing new

  Oh nothing new

  The sound of breaking glass

  - Nick Lowe

  That evening Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy took his girlfriend out on a hot date. He took ann rea to the scene of the crime. Wandering around the Mayfair Mews studio, Kennedy’s fingers flexed furiously.

  ‘I can see why you are so successful with girls,’ said ann rea.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You take them to all the exciting places.’

  Kennedy just grunted. ‘There’s that smell again!’

  ‘Listen, Kennedy, I told you about being rude on dates. I have to tell you that not all girls are going to be as forgiving as me. But that’s only because they don’t know what’s for afters dearest.’

  ‘ann rea!’

  ‘What, Kennedy? That sounded very nearly like capitals to me, and you promised.’

  ‘That smell. I know what it is. It’s putty. I knew what it was, but it didn’t surface into my consciousness because I didn’t register it as being important. But it’s putty, most definitely putty.’

  ‘Okay. I concede that one – it’s putty. Take the full ten points. But what year is it?’

  ‘This year – a vintage year for putty.’

  With that Kennedy went on a wander round the studio and found exactly what he was looking for in the annex. Just to the left, near the entrance to the domestic quarters, a single pane of glass in a six-pane window had recently been replaced.

  Although the putty had been fixed for about a week, it was still soft to the touch of Kennedy’s fingers.

  ‘Great, so they know how to replace windows, Kennedy. Big deal.’

  ‘Actually, it is a big deal!’

  ann rea came to look.

  ‘Because there was no apparent forced entry we assumed that whoever was waiting for Peter O’Browne that Friday had his own keys.

  ‘That’s exactly what the killer wanted us to think. Another smoke screen, just like the whole Corfe Castle trip.’

  Kennedy took a page from the Evening Standard stuffed in his pocket. He used one of the sports pages – the main story was about Formula One driver Eddie Irvine leaving Jordan to join Ferrari, another step forward in a future world champion’s career. Kennedy placed the page over the window pane and traced the perimeter with his pen. Then he closed up the studio and led ann rea by the hand to the hardware store, RJ Welsh, directly across the street at Regent’s Park Road.

  ‘They’re closed, Kennedy,’ ann rea proclaimed. ‘And don’t forget you promised me an Italian. If we don’t hurry up, Vegia Zenia will be full up.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, the owner lives on the premises.’ His mind was speeding ahead as he rang the doorbell.

  ‘Hello, sorry to disturb you at night,’ Kennedy began as he flashed his ID card to a smiling elderly lady, someone’s favourite grandmother. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy from Camden CID.’

  The woman smiled one of her Bet Lynch ‘What can I do for you, chuck?’ smiles. Kennedy heard the strains of the theme music to Coronation Street flowing down the stairwell. He knew he needed to be quick. ‘I wonder if y
ou remember somebody recently buying a pane of glass this size?’ he asked holding up the marked page of the Standard.

  The woman opened up the door wider and revealed herself as a shorter fuller version of Bet Lynch. She thought for a moment. ‘Aye, come to think of it, love, I do actually. About a week ago, it was.’

  ‘Do you remember anything, about the person who purchased it?’ Kennedy asked. He would have crossed his fingers if they (his fingers) were not so busy in their own flexing activity.

  ‘Yes, love, funnily enough, I do. I’ll tell you why. He came late – just as we were closing. It would have been a Thursday, yes two Thursdays ago. I know it was a Thursday because it wasn’t a Coronation Street night.

  ‘Anyway, I told him to come back the following morning and I’d have it cut and waiting for him. But he refused to leave. He said it was urgent and he needed it immediately, something about his mother and how she would only be able to get a good night’s sleep if she knew the window had been repaired. Well, love, I couldn’t really refuse after that could I. So I closed up the shop front and took him through to the back and he waited while I cut it. Now let me see, it came to four pounds and thirty-five pence and he gave me a fiver and by the time I’d managed to get his change he’d gone. Let himself out. I heard him walk over the mat. It triggers the bell, you see.’

  ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘Aye now let me see, not much to him, wire-frame glasses and copper-coloured hair.’

  A few minutes later Kennedy and ann rea were walking hand in hand down Sharples (as in Ena) Hall Street, through Chalcot Square and down Chalcot Road towards Princess Street, the home of Vegia Zenia.

  ‘But it can’t be Tom Best!’ ann rea declared as they turned the corner of Princess Street. ‘He has a perfect alibi.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps it’s too perfect,’ was all that Kennedy would say on the subject. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m so hungry I could eat a tree.’