Kendall - Private Detective - Box Set

by John Holt

  “And some of those nice chocolate biscuits,” she said. “I know.”

  As she went into the kitchen, Kendall turned around and looked at the mess. Despite what he had said, he knew that clearing up would not be an easy task.

  A few minutes later Mollie returned with the coffee, and the biscuits. She placed them on the desk and sat down. “Right,” said Kendall. “Now tell me how did your day go?” He picked up a biscuit and dunked it into his coffee. Mollie did the same.

  “Well I checked everything I could think of,” Mollie said. “The police were very helpful.” She started to chew on her biscuit, crumbs falling on to the desk, and small chocolate stains forming on her mouth.

  “So what did you find out?” Kendall asked.

  Mollie quickly finished her biscuit. “She’s in the clear,” she replied. “There’s absolutely nothing on Eve Simmonds. Her record is unblemished. Not a mark. Not a stain. Not a hint of anything. Not even a parking ticket.” She paused and wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “She is squeaky clean.”

  It was no more than Kendall had expected. He couldn’t imagine her putting a foot wrong anywhere. She would have made a good nun. “Okay, so she’s whiter than the driven snow,” he said. “What about him, the missing husband, Carl Simmonds?”

  Mollie had started to chew on another biscuit. She held up her hand indicating that Kendall should wait a little while. A few minutes passed by, then she was ready once again. “Totally different,” she said. “He has a string of petty crimes, as long as your arm, going back several years.” She reached into her handbag and took out a small notepad. She flipped through the pages. “Here we are,” she announced and started to read. “Car theft, breaking and entering, shoplifting, assault, you name it.” She took a breath. “For a short time he was into drugs. He has done time in prison,” she continued. “He’s been clean for the last five years.” She closed the notebook.

  “Quite a record,” Kendall said. “Well done.” He looked at her. He was glad to see that all traces of tears had disappeared, and she was smiling. That was good. “In fact you did such a good job, I want you to go back to police headquarters, tomorrow, and find out about Mr. Frank Russell. I want to know everything there is to know about him, and I mean everything.”

  She put her notepad back inside her handbag, and smiled at him. “Here we go again,” she murmured.

  * * *

  Kendall had been absolutely right in his assessment. It had taken him hours to straighten up the office. Three hours and forty-six minutes to be precise. He had just put the last piece of paper back into its rightful place in the right file. The file was now sitting neatly in its rightful position on the shelf. He sat back in his chair. His back was aching through bending down. He was exhausted. His knee was still paining, although it had eased slightly. Clearly he would be able to walk again. Whether or not he could return to championship tennis was, however, something else. It had been quite a day. In fact the last couple of days had been extremely tiring. He looked around at the room. At last it was all neat and tidy again. Everything was back in its place. All ship shape and ready for action once more. Pity he wasn’t the same.

  He stifled a yawn, and stretched his arms above his head. He heard a loud creak, and suddenly felt a pain in the back of the neck. His legs were aching, and he could feel a headache starting. All of that effort had taken it out of him. He just knew that he wasn’t as fit as he should be. Sure age had a lot to do with it, he supposed. Not that he was old. Well, not that old. Okay, so he was near forty, and he could no longer do the things that he used to do when he was twenty. Well, who could? Mind you, he couldn’t do those things when I was twenty-two. No, he had to agree, he was just not fit, and he needed to lose some weight. Not a lot, just a few pounds. A little streamlining that was all that was needed. But he did need to lose a little, and fast.

  He ought to get down to the gym that much was certain. So what was stopping him? Time? No it wasn’t anything to do with time. Laziness? Well, maybe a little. No, that wasn’t correct. It wasn’t that he was lazy, because he wasn’t. No, it was something else. He thought for a few moments. Motivation, he murmured. That’s it. It was motivation. Well he would just have to get motivated, that was all. He had to do something. He could not continue as he had been. He needed to do some kind of exercise, to go on a diet, to do some training. He thought for a few moments. He vowed to walk more, and to leave the car behind. That would help. He drove everywhere. Well, in future he would walk. Jogging, he suddenly announced. That was it. He would go jogging, that would be ideal.

  Mollie had actually suggested it some weeks back. She had given him a Pedometer. “Wear that,” she had said, “and try to take at least ten thousand paces per day.”

  Ten thousand paces, he thought in horror. Let’s say that one pace is about a yard, he murmured. Ten thousand paces, that’s ten thousand yards. “There’s, let me see about two thousand yards to a mile, roughly. So that’s five miles,” he declared incredulously. Five miles, he repeated. In fact, it was a little over five miles. There were actually one thousand seven hundred and sixty four yards to a mile. So ten thousand yards would be between five and six miles. He could never walk five or six miles.

  He could start gently, jogging slowly over a short distance, say a mile. Well a half mile anyway. No point going overboard was there. A half a mile was a good start. And then he could gradually build up, at his own pace. Gradually getting faster, and going further, but only when he was ready. He would be doing five miles, and more, in no time, a few days at the most, maybe a week. A month tops. That was the plan. He would do it. Why he was beginning to feel better already. He would start the very next day, bright and early. Well perhaps not bright, but certainly it would be early. Well sort of early. There was no need to be too silly about it was there? A nice civilised time would do, like ten, or ten-thirty. After all what was the rush? You could burn up calories just as easily at twelve, as you could at six. He would make a start the next day. Well maybe not actually tomorrow. He was worn out with all of the tidying. He needed a rest, a long, long rest. No, it would not be the next day, but it would be soon, real soon. Perhaps in a day or two, a week at the most. Yes, a week should do it.

  There was no holding him back, not now. He could not wait to get started. Excitement was beginning to build. He was raring to go. He lay back in his chair happy and content. Within a few short minutes he was fast asleep.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Go Kendall Go

  Kendall’s heart was thumping loudly. His lungs were ready to burst. His head throbbed, and his legs felt heavy, just like lead. He was gasping for breath, and the sweat was pouring down his face, and into his eyes. With every step he silently screamed out in agony at the pain radiating throughout his entire body. Every muscle in his body ached, and longed for rest. But there was to be no rest. He could not relax, not for a moment. There was to be no stopping. There was to be no let up. Not yet. He knew that he had to keep on going, to keep on running. His mind was focused on one thing and one thing only. He had a race to finish. More than that, he had a race to win.

  Every muscle and sinew was stretched to the very limit, every ounce of energy that he could generate, was for that one all consuming purpose, that one goal. Nothing else mattered. There was nothing else. Not much further now though, I’m almost there. He was almost finished. He was on the last lap. The final few yards, and it would all be over. Then he could rest his weary body. Then he could sleep.

  He looked over to his left, across to the far side of the track. There was the finish line, no more than three or four hundred yards away, five hundred at the most, a quarter of a mile maybe. He looked to his right, up into the packed stands. Everywhere he could see the flashes of light as hundreds of cameras took his photograph. The newspapers certainly had their headlines for the next day. He smiled, and raised his right arm high in salute.

  The spectators were up on their feet, yelling wildly to him. “
KEN-DALL, KEN-DALL,” they screamed excitedly. “KEN-DALL.” Willing him on, urging him forward. “Go Kendall, go,” they chanted loudly. “Go Kendall, go.” He moved his legs ever harder, pumping his muscles, pushing him forward, ever faster, the adrenaline building and building, the pain becoming more and more intense, more and more unbearable. The winning post was now no more than two hundred and fifty yards ahead. Just one more bend that was all, just one more. He quickly glanced behind. There was no one in sight. He had left everyone else far behind, long ago. The race was his for the taking. The winning post beckoned, now only two hundred yards away. The gold medal was waiting for him. No one could beat him now. No one would catch him. He could afford to ease up, to take it easy, but he chose not to. He forced ever more power into his legs, his speed increasing. Faster and faster he went. The crowd screamed with delight. “Go Kendall Go.” The applause was deafening. Then the foot stamping started, the thunderous noise filling the air, and echoing all around the stadium.

  As he ran he constantly pumped his hands, opening and closing them, forcing extra blood into the muscles, to give even more power, even more strength, even more speed. The crowd went wild. Now there was less than one hundred and fifty yards to go. The crowd became louder still. “KEN-DALL, KEN-DALL.” The World record was about to be broken. In fact, it was about to be shattered, totally demolished. Several track officials began to run alongside him, clapping as they went. “Go on Tom,” they screamed encouragingly. “Go on.” Now there was less than one hundred yards to go, seventy-five yards, now fifty. The finish line was getting closer and closer. He could almost touch it as he reached forward. Victory was within the grasp of his outstretched hand.

  Suddenly there was a loud ringing noise that filled the air. Kendall looked to the side. The yelling had now ceased, the crowd had all disappeared, and the track officials had all vanished. The stadium began to crumble, and disintegrate in front of his eyes. He watched in disbelief as the row upon row of seats collapsed on to each other, and then disappeared completely. There was a bright flash and the floodlighting suddenly exploded and evaporated. Thick black dust began to spread across the track. Kendall’s eyes began to sting, and he had difficulty in focusing. His throat was burning and he began to choke. He stumbled, and fell heavily to the ground. The winning post was now only twenty yards away. His feet sank into the dust, dragging him down, like quicksand. He tried to pull himself forward, along the ground, but he could not move. He tried to move his legs, but they were stuck fast. He opened his mouth to call out, but there was no sound. The ringing sound grew louder and louder.

  * * *

  Kendall opened his eyes, and stared out into the room. Staring back at him was a large round clock face, which told him in no uncertain terms that it was now five past six. He sat up quickly, and rubbed his eyes. “Five past six,” he mumbled incredulously. “Five past six,” he repeated. “In the morning?” He looked towards the window. It was still dark outside. It was the middle of the night. He could not believe it. What was going on? What had he been thinking of? “Five past six,” he repeated once again.

  And yet that is precisely what he had agreed with Mollie just the day before. He would take an early morning jog along the beachfront. He would be up at no later than six. Out on to the beach by six thirty, and be finished by eight. Then back for a cold shower, and a bowl of muesli. This was to be part of his new health regime, a regime that would ultimately lead to a healthier, fitter, and slimmer, Tom Kendall. That was the plan anyway. “But why did it have to be so early?” he had asked her. “Wouldn’t I be just as healthy, just as fit and just as slim, if I started at ten, or maybe even ten thirty?”

  * * *

  “Because six o’clock was the best time,” she had replied quite simply, completely ignoring his latter comment. “There were less people around at that time, and it was still quite cool.”

  The whole thing had been Mollie’s idea. “You need to get fit,” she had said emphatically. “You need to get healthy. And you need to lose some weight.”

  Kendall looked down at his stomach. Sadly he had to admit that she was probably right. He was a little out of condition. Just slightly, he conceded, although nothing too major. He just needed toning up, that was all, a little fine tuning. Perhaps he could just lose a pound or two. That should do it. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. No more than five pounds anyway. He had to admit that he could be fitter, a lot fitter. He was a little out of breath these days, and just lately he was certainly getting one or two strange aches and pains that he never used to have.

  “Besides,” she had said. “It will help with your concentration. Stimulate the old brain cells. Help you stay focused.” He smiled. That would be good, but not so much of the old. “Help you keep awake, and more alert.”

  He had to admit that he certainly needed some assistance in that direction that was sure. He was always falling asleep, especially in front of the television. He only needed to switch it on, and in a few moments he would be out like a light. The fact that most of the programmes were rubbish was not a valid excuse either. His concentration was poor, and as for his memory. Quite often he would start to do something, and then forget what it was that he was doing. Many times he would open a drawer, and then stop to think what it was that he wanted. He would shake his head, and close the drawer. Sometime later he would suddenly remember what it was, usually when it was too late. Oh yes, she was absolutely right.

  So he had made a start. He had joined the local health club, at a cost of seven hundred dollars per year membership fee. He hadn’t actually made use of it yet, but it had everything you could think of. Everything you could possibly want. The gymnasium was second to none. It had the treadmill, the rowing machines, the static bicycles, the weights. There was apparatus for every single muscle in the body. You name it, and it had it, the very latest, state of the art, equipment, all computerized controlled. Then there was the swimming pool, the sauna, the spa, everything. He had his own personal trainer allocated to him. He had his own training programme that had been scientifically worked out, taking into account his age, height, and weight. He had bought all of the necessary gear, including the tracksuit, and the designer trainers.

  Why he was feeling better already, fitter, stronger, and leaner. He had even purchased one of those watches that told you how many calories you had burnt, and what your heart rate was, and how long you had exercised. Whether or not the watch actually told you the time, he wasn’t too sure. She had bought him a pair of Bermuda shorts, bright yellow and orange. “They’ll be great for the early morning jog,” she had said holding them up. “Just the thing.”

  “They’re a little bright, don’t you think,” he had commented. A little bright, that was an understatement, if ever there was one. If they were a little bright, the sun, by comparison, was dull.

  “Everyone is wearing them these days,” she had replied, as she flipped through the latest edition of Celebrity Lives. “They are the very latest fashion. Take my word for it.” She quickly turned the pages. “Here we are,” she said in triumph. “Even Brad Martin wears them. Look”

  Kendall shook his head. “Who on earth is Brad Martin?” he foolishly asked.

  Mollie had looked at him in utter disbelief. “Brad Martin is only the biggest star to come out of Hollywood for years,” she had explained. “He has been nominated for an Oscar for best actor.” Kendall was none the wiser. She offered the magazine to Kendall. “Look,” she said. “That’s him.”

  Kendall took hold of the magazine and looked at the picture. That was him all right, and he was certainly wearing a pair of shorts very similar to the ones that Mollie had bought for him. There was certainly no dispute there. The only difference was that Jackson’s shorts had a designer label, whereas Kendall’s had been mass-produced in China. He looked at the picture once again, and slowly shook his head. So he wears them, but if he does you can bet it’s in the privacy of his own swimming pool, and not out in public. He wouldn’t dare. Bes
ides just because Brad what’s-his-name wears them, is that any reason why I should wear them?

  He was not at all convinced. He looked at Mollie and smiled. “Thanks,” he said quite simply. He looked at the photograph once more. If they are good enough for Brad You-know-who, then they are probably good enough for me. At least he could wear them at night. Then he wouldn’t need any street lighting to see where he was going, would he. And neither would anyone else.

  * * *

  He looked up from the bed. There they were, the famed shorts, draped over the back of the chair near the bed, together with his Slazenger tee shirt, and his Adidas tracksuit. He looked down on to the floor. There, sitting underneath the chair, was the pair of Nike trainers, gleaming, still in their box. He looked back at the clock. It now told him that it was ten minutes past six.

  Another five minutes, he murmured, five more. That’s all, just five little minutes, where’s the harm in that? He closed his eyes, and laid his head down on to the pillow. The telephone suddenly rang. He opened his eyes quickly. He reached out for the phone, and lifted the receiver. “Mr. Kendall, good morning, and how are you today?” a perky voice asked. Kendall thought that it would burst into song any moment. Don’t even ask, he murmured. But then without waiting for a reply the voice continued. “You requested an early morning call. It is now six twelve. Have a nice day.” The voice hung up.

  Kendall stared at the receiver that was still in his hand. “Mollie,” he murmured. “That’s her doing.” He would kill her, or something equally as bad. He would stop her afternoon chocolate biscuits, he decided. Reluctantly he got out of bed. He put the shorts on and then quickly put on the tracksuit trousers. He smiled, well at least he could, in all honesty, tell Mollie that he had worn them couldn’t he?