The Hissing of the Silent Lonely Room (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 5)

by Paul Charles

  Without waiting for a reply, the doctor rose from his chair and crossed the burgundy carpet which separated him from the fireplace and pushed a bell on the wall. Somewhere in the recesses of the house Kennedy was sure he could hear a bell ringing. The tea must already have been prepared, because by the time Watson had returned to his chair, the door opened and an old woman, tray in hand, wobbled in. Kennedy jumped up to help her with her load but Watson said, ‘No it’s okay, you’ll get her flustered. Won’t he, Ma?’

  The old woman nodded and smiled, set her tray on the coffee-table between them and hobbled out of the room again.

  ‘Your mother?’ Coles asked incredulously. Kennedy felt that Coles was shocked that a man as seemingly educated as Hugh Watson would have his mother, or any woman pushing eighty, wait on him.

  ‘No, no, dear me, no. My mother’s long gone, God bless her. No, Ma’s been here for years, longer than me in fact. She comes with the house. Lives in the basement and knows everything about everybody. She’s obviously too old to work but she feels guilty if she’s not doing something to earn her keep. She always has a pot of tea brewing – it’s usually strong enough to put hairs on your chest – oh, sorry,’ Watson looked at Anne Coles and as his eyes inadvertently wandered to her chest he found himself apologising again, ‘no offence intended.’

  ‘None taken.’ Coles replied chirpily.

  Kennedy hoped that his WDC hadn’t noticed that his own eyes had strayed in the direction of her chest.

  ‘Sorry, anyway, as I was saying, she always has a pot of tea on the brew and with certain patients, when I ring the bell in her parlour, she troops in. I bet she’ll tell me all about you when you leave,’ Watson said as he helped himself to tea, leaving his guests to fend for themselves.

  The tea certainly was strong but not unpleasantly so. Very refreshing, Kennedy thought. Nonetheless, he hoped it wouldn’t have the hair-growing qualities Watson had mentioned. He would not want it to spoil Coles’ magnificent…but best not think about things like that now. He shook his head a few times, as if to dispel the thought, and said, ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘Her father, we were discussing Esther’s father. For some reason he couldn’t and wouldn’t deal with her. He never let her in, so to speak. Even though she was just a young child, something somewhere deep inside her was picking up on her father’s thingamabobs…vibrations, yes that’s it, vibrations.’ Watson once again apparently had found the missing word floating around the ceiling.

  ‘But aren’t all of us meant to be closer to one parent than the other?’ Coles enquired.

  ‘Yes, and with girls it’s usually their fathers. In Esther’s case her father was rejecting her and she, in return, was rejecting her mother. I don’t know why she should start this process at such an early age, we can surmise of course but I doubt if we’ll ever know. The first part is simple, well relatively so, she felt unloved because her father showed her many reasons. Sexual, reasons of ego, being too busy, or perhaps he hadn’t wanted a child in the first place and the mother had somehow tricked him into it. But that doesn’t explain why Esther would then reject her mother.’

  ‘Maybe Esther picked up on the father’s negative feelings towards her mother and blamed her for her father’s lack of love?’ Coles offered.

  ‘Quite possible, and a very good assessment,’ Watson said, his eyes breaking back into a smile. ‘So we can assume it all starts there for Esther. She thinks – I can’t depend on my father, I won’t depend on my mother. I certainty can’t depend on them together. Therefore, I must find someone I can depend on. Answer – I will depend on myself. I must drop them before they drop me entirely. It is better for me to be the victor rather than the victim. My body is my friend, it is also my hater of my parents. My body is my only instrument with which I can get what I want in this world. I can control my world by ruling my body to do as I will, gain a stone, lose a stone. I can cut my body and let the marks show I’m in charge of it. I can do as I wish with it and the marks I give it will hurt others. And the ace is? If life gets too difficult I can turn my life off for ever.’

  ‘So, she was cutting herself?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Yes, a lot when she was younger, but not recently. She hadn’t done that for ages; she’d found more sophisticated ways of marking her body, leaving scars on her mind.’

  Coles looked bemused at that.

  ‘Yes, they…’ Watson began, looking over his right shoulder again, ‘they tell us that we can see the mind. The mind, Donald O Hebb tells us, is “what the brain does”, and suicidal tendencies depend largely on mental pain as created by the…the cootermegig…the…the mind. Yes, the mind. The majority of our behaviour is based on our fundamental biological needs. You know, all the basic things like oxygen, water, warmth and food. We include our sense of achievement, of domination, of self-protection, of self-control, our need to be loved and comforted. As we live our lives, we are continually chasing these essential, inherent psychological needs. That’s what keeps us going. When an individual tries to commit suicide, what they are trying to do is to end the unbearable psychological pain that rises from frustrated psychological longings vital in that person’s life.’

  ‘But surely, even in a low mental state, no one could think of death as a solution to their problem?’ Kennedy asked. As he asked the question he wondered, had he felt that way because he’d been brought up to believe that all life is precious. This was the very foundation of his work, the basis of his chosen career. All life is precious, therefore all who would take it must be policed by society. It’s very basic, incredibly simple, but true, at least to Kennedy. He was willing to concede that he might have felt this way only because he had been brought up in a loving environment by two of the most wonderful people he had ever met – his parents.

  ‘Now, I’ve found there’s no such thing on this earth as a little question, but that’s certainty one of the bigger ones. You need to realise that suicide is the need to abate the painful pressure by ceasing the unbearable rush of consciousness. In simple terms, it’s like being able to black out the gaudiest room you’ve ever seen with the simple flick of a light switch. Think of the peace and satisfaction you experience when you turn off a troubled engine after willing it those last several miles home, and you just make it, maybe even with the help of a steep hill which rolls you down to your front door. You turn off the ignition, the rumbling stops, the rattling ends and the noise is no more. You’re left with beautiful silence and the people on the street stop staring at you, so you can sink back into your seat and enjoy the blissful, wonderful feeling of peace. In a perverse way it’s almost worth the unpleasantness of the final few miles just to be allowed to savour the pleasurable state.’ When Watson concluded, his voice was gentle and almost a whisper.

  ‘Mind you, all that…unreliable cars, I mean, only came into being in this country when they…’ Watson again nodded over his right shoulder, ‘started to encourage the sale of foreign cars.’

  This time his entire face broke into a big smile, which lit up all of the front room. He hiked his shoulder quickly as if to say: oh excuse me, it’s just another of my pet hates.

  Kennedy mulled over the information they had just gathered. Had they learned anything? Definitely. Did it help with the current investigation? Possibly – he wasn’t sure. He turned to the doctor.

  ‘Would you say from your dealing with and treatment of Esther Bluewood, that it’s possible she committed suicide?’

  ‘I’d have to say that we are all capable of suicide,’ Watson replied clasping his hands and placing them under his chin. He was reclining so far into the seat Kennedy was slightly worried that should the doctor’s anchor – his spectacular pair of cowboy boots – slip, he would fall out of the chair and on to the floor. Watson looked deep in thought as he surveyed Kennedy’s eyes, perhaps looking for some clue of his own. ‘Tell me,’ Watson began, breaking his clasp and stealing a quick glance at his watch, ‘did you find a diary or anything like that?’
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  ‘We have some journals, yes,’ Kennedy replied.

  ‘Well, if I could read through those, particularly any covering the last several days, I would be in a better position to give you my opinion on whether or not she committed suicide. That which is on paper comes straight from the soul.’

  Kennedy and Coles smiled.

  ‘I’ve got a patient arriving in a few minutes,’ Watson announced, rising to his feet. ‘Why don’t I spend some time with the journals and then we could meet and talk some more?’

  ‘Obviously the contents…’ Kennedy began.

  Watson shook his index finger several times from left to right. ‘No question about it. I assure you one hundred per cent confidentiality,’ he offered as he led them to the front door.

  ‘I’ll send the journals around in a little while,’ Kennedy said. ‘When could we meet?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow morning, if you like.’

  Kennedy hesitated, so Watson spoke in his place.

  ‘You understand, I can’t just flick through them. I have to try to assess what may lie between the lines.’

  Kennedy smiled. ‘Sorry. Yes of course, we’ll see you first thing in the morning.’

  Chapter 10

  I Don’t Like Mondays

  Monday 8th February

  I’VE JUST seen Josef. I’ve just been with Josef. Again. I wonder about my wisdom sometimes. Sleeping with a fan! There must be a rule somewhere in Yeatsie’s as yet unwritten manual about the dos and don’ts of sleeping with fans. I can just hear him say, ‘Esther, how could you sleep with a fan?’ He wouldn’t say, ‘How could you be unfaithful to me?’ He wouldn’t be annoyed that I’d slept with someone, but he’d be disgusted I’d slept with a fan.

  In my mind it’s not that I’ve been unfaithful to Yeatsie, it’s more that I’ve used a person to masturbate on. That’s callous I know, but that’s exactly how I see it. I cared not for his pleasure, not even a little. I was only interested in my own and I know my body well enough to have manoeuvred him to my gratifying advantage. It’s delightful I can tell you, everyone should have a human dildo and JJ’s mine.

  When I first saw him, I was convinced he was gay. He had that air young girls and gay boys have when they’ve just discovered the power sex can give them. They flaunt it in a brazen yet slightly inhibited way. Like at any time you could, with the right word, cut the sea legs from under them in one swipe.

  Maybe that’s JJ’s power. By parading his apparent gayness, women feel safe. We let him closer than you would a macho like Yeatsie, for instance. Mind you, I don’t seem to attract those kinds of fans. It’s mostly gays and young girls. And then before you know it they are taking liberties. Mmmm, I was the one who took the liberty with JJ. I’ve always had the itch and, anyway, why scratch it yourself when you can get someone else to scratch it for you?

  But that was all. Just someone to scratch my itch. Nothing more. It made me feel quite decadent to be as detached as that. We never once attended to his pleasure. But I know I should stop. I know what I’m doing, meaning I know I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing. Mind you, Yeatsie always left me to attend to my own pleasure. It’s just that I think of him with her and I know he’s not really with her, because pleasuring his partner is not high on his list of priorities. At the same time, though, I can’t help imagining it’s different with her and they’re at it all the time, and so that’s probably why I want some of my own.

  I wonder had JJ told anyone? Does he have anyone to tell? And would they believe him?

  I remember when I was in high school I slept with a poet, an Irish poet who visited Boston each year. He was so rugged, not quite handsome but with a gorgeous voice and all the girls used to swoon over him, and I slept with him. But my best mate didn’t believe me. Well, he had to sleep with someone, I reasoned, why not me? Physically it was very forgettable, he was only after his own plea… Now there’s a thing, that’s a similar report to the one Josef would give me, I’m sure.

  I can imagine the scene: at a café or a stage door, waiting for someone. ‘Esther Bluewood,’ he’d say, ‘I’ve done the wild thing with her. She’s not much cop in bed. She only thinks about herself.’ I would hope my fans would stick up for me and say, ‘On your bike, you spotty little Herbert. She’s the most beautiful woman in the Western world, maybe even the whole world. She’s not going to go with a nobody like you, and if she did it would be the most pleasurable night of your entire life!’ or words to that effect.

  To be fair, JJ’s not spotty, neither is he a Herbert, little or otherwise. He’s quite intelligent, always looking dapper in his four-button black suit and white shirt, top button done up, no tie – always the same. And he can be very funny. God, I’m starting to boast about his qualities, it must be time to get rid of him.

  It’s like a drug. I suppose I think I can give him up at any time. That’s not, of course, accounting for his feelings. I need to go and get some sleep. I’ve got to go over to Jim and Jill’s early in the morning and collect Jens and Holmer.

  *

  By the time Kennedy and Coles returned to North Bridge House, Irvine was busy tracing the smartly-dressed mystery man who’d been seen lingering around the Bluewood household on the morning of the death. The early edition of the Evening Standard had a piece on Esther Bluewood’s death. It was a below-the-fold front-page story with a fair-sized photograph of the scene outside the home in Fitzroy Road earlier that morning. A few uniformed police were hanging around, and the beginning of a crowd had gathered.

  Irvine was busy on the phone when Kennedy entered his DS’s large office, picked up a copy of the Standard and glanced over the story and the picture. Irvine had completed his phone conversation and was setting the phone down when Kennedy exclaimed, ‘That’s him, I’ll bet. That’s Josef Jones, aka JJ.’

  ‘Who?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘Esther’s lover, the fan…there he is. “Always looking dapper in his four-button black suit and white shirt, top button done up, no tie, always the same”.’ Kennedy pushed the newspaper towards Irvine.

  They both studied the picture of the fan. He was looking side-on at the camera. Kennedy thought he must have been half-frozen. It had been cold out there this morning and he was dressed only in a suit and shirt. Kennedy had felt the nip of the cold and he’d worn an overcoat as well. The well-dressed lad in the photograph, he was hardly a man, was fresh-faced. Kennedy seriously doubted if he had even been shaved by a blade. He’d a sharp-featured face with a tight crop of black curls falling about his crown. Kennedy couldn’t be sure but he thought he could make out a hint of eyeliner, serving to emphasise the very boyish eyes.

  ‘I would bet you our friend Judy Dillon will have the whole nine yards on this guy, James. Give her a ring and see if she can give you an address.’

  ‘Grand,’ Irvine returned to his duties, newspaper in hand, reading the story. It was one of those news articles that revealed nothing but filled plenty of space. Basically, the only discloser was the announcement of the death of Esther Bluewood. As Kennedy reread the story he wondered what ann rea’s take on it would be. He should ring her. He knew he should. But it seemed bizarre to ring her now just because someone they both knew and admired had died. ann rea had met the singer-songwriter several times. They weren’t exactly bosom friends but from ann rea’s side they’d gotten on very well and sometimes spent evenings together.

  To ring or not to ring, that was Kennedy’s dilemma.

  He was saved from making a decision on it one way or the other when his phone began to ring, just as he opened his office door. Kennedy was glad of the diversion.

  On the other end of the telephone, once he rescued the handset from its cradle, was the very same ann rea.

  ‘Christy, I hope you don’t mind, I just had to talk to you. Poor Esther, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I know, ann rea. It’s totally fine to call. I was about to call you anyway.’

  ‘Listen, I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. Can
we meet?’ ann rea requested in a quiet, feeble, almost childlike voice.

  ‘Sure, yes, of course. Ahm, shall we meet at the Queens at eight?’ Kennedy replied.

  ‘Look, that’s going to be very crowded, would you mind if we met at The Albert. If there’s any chance of earlier than eight I’d be ever so grateful. Could you make it at seven o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll see you then. Will you be okay?’ Kennedy asked, just as he was about to set the phone down.

  ‘Yes, Christy, I’ll be fine. Now that I know I’m seeing you, I’ll be fine.’

  This time Kennedy did set the phone down, because ann rea had already disconnected.

  He didn’t have much time to dwell on the state she was in, because Irvine came charging into his office, saying, ‘We’re in luck. Miss Dillon didn’t know where he lived but she told me he worked part-time as a barman at the Jazz Café. They gave me an address – he lives in a bedsit up in Kentish Town.’

  ‘Great,’ Kennedy said. ‘Well, there’s no time like the present, as they say.’ And he grabbed his coat and headed out the door before Irvine had a chance to say another word.

  Eight minutes later, just as the BBC London Lives’ five o’clock news was concluding on the car radio, they pulled up outside a dilapidated, converted house on Greenwood Place, just off Highgate Road. They rang the doorbell marked ‘J Jones’ several times before they heard stirrings from within. Eventually, following a lot of muttering and grunting and groaning, the fresh-faced Mr Jones answered the door, looking somewhat dishevelled.

  Following the presentation of warrant cards and introductions, Josef invited the two policemen into his flat. Well, more like bedsit really. Although the enterprising Mr Jones had commandeered what appeared to have originally been a washhouse or an outhouse of some kind to double the floor space offered by his back room, it looked as if he, or perhaps a former tenant, had used a window to make a doorway so that his living quarters consisted of the small back room of the house (used as a bedroom), an open entrance to a very narrow covered porch, two steps lower than the back room, and then through another doorway, a windowless room. It was in this darkened room that Josef Jones entertained the two members of Camden Town CID.