Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  “You’re looking really sharp. Very fit,” remarked Kennedy.

  “Look, I’m sure we all have other things we could be doing, Inspector, could you please be a chap and get on with the questions?” Russell fidgeted with his clean notebook, pen hovering at the ready to jot down any and all infringements. Anderson, however, was proud of his looks and happy to continue with this line. “Thanks, yeah, I guess it’s the new diet. You eat nothing but fruit before midday, no coffee, no fags, lots of green, a little steak, no fried food. Hey, I’ve got to look after myself at this stage in my life, I’ve got a new lady, you see, and I want to stay around for a bit to enjoy her. Know what I mean, Guv?”

  At that point Kennedy helped himself to a banana. Anderson averted his gaze from Kennedy and glanced down at the fruit bowl. He reached to it, displaying an expensive-looking gold watch and a simple gold cufflink about the size of a five pence piece with the letters HA engraved on it. As Kennedy concluded his banana peeling exercise - he hated bananas and hoped he wouldn’t be forced to eat one - Anderson helped himself to the largest of the apples, slowly polished it on the leg of his trousers and pushed it into his mouth. A third of the apple disappeared behind a fine set of snow white molars untainted by the years.

  “Ah, look, you’ve spilled some apple juice on the cuff of your shirt,” Kennedy said, as he rose and handed Anderson a Kleenex (one he’d prepared earlier) from his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you.” Anderson placed the apple on the table and started to wipe the nonexistent stain under Kennedy’s direction.

  “No, there, yes there, just by the cufflink.” Kennedy leaned further over the table, “carelessly” knocking the third-eaten apple to the floor. “Oh shit. Sorry. I am sorry,” he said with all the sincerity of a hotel receptionist taking a complaint. He went round to Anderson’s side of the table, retrieved the apple and carefully placed it in the waste paper basket. “Listen, help yourself to another one,” he suggested, returning to his seat a contented man.

  “No, Guv, it’s okay. Look, you’ve got some questions for me and you know briefs aren’t cheap these days.” Anderson smiled in the at his ever ready solicitor. “Perhaps we should get on with the questions.”

  “Yes, certainly,” replied Kennedy, happy to have avoided the banana now also resting in the waste paper basket guarding the precious apple. “You were in the Spread Eagle around closing time yesterday evening?”

  “Yes, as it happens, I was actually.”

  “And you were talking to an estate agent, Mr John B. Stone?”

  “Was that the little geezer with the funny hair at the bar?” “Yes.” “Yeah, I did as it happens, I did talk to him a bit.” “Well he was murdered last evening. About an hour after you were seentalking to him he was beaten to death.”

  “Dead! Beaten to death? Surely not. Are you sure he’s dead?” Yes, quite sure,” Kennedy quickly replied. “Excuse me Inspector Kennedy,” said Russell, “but is there any way myclient is a suspect in this murder case? I’d like to go on record and remind you that Mr Anderson came in here of his own free will to help you with your inquiries but certainly not to incriminate himself.” The page in his notebook had its virginity. “No, it’s okay Mr Russell,” said Anderson, “I’ve got nothing to hide. He, the geezer in the bar with the funny hair - “ “John B. Stone,” Kennedy interjected. “If you say so, Guv. Anyway this geezer Stone had heard I was lookingfor a property to invest some money in. I’m into those kind of deals these days.”

  Kennedy shifted in his seat, nodded and said nothing.

  “Anyway, he had this little garage the other side of 125 Parkway, and it was in bad nick and he reckoned I could pick it up for about eighty G. He thought if I put another thirty or so into it doing it up I could sell it for about two hundred G. Apparently the property on the other side, the York and Albany pub, had been bought up by a theme restaurant group and when they do it up the garage will be a prime site.”

  Anderson and Kennedy continue to stare one another out during this exchange.

  “I told him I’d have my people check it out and I’d get back to him. He worked down the other end of Parkway in the Camden Bus Estate Agents. That was it basically: I bought him a drink, a white wine, poofs drink if you ask me, Guv, and we went our separate ways.”

  “Did you leave the pub together, or separately?” Kennedy inquired matter-of-fact.

  Anderson hesitated for the shortest of beats, which would not have been noticeable had they not been eyeballing each other.

  “As it happens, I believe we did leave the pub together. He went up Parkway and I went down.”

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “I went to a card game up in Islington and then on home from there. I was home around 2.30, I think. I couldn’t swear though, it could have been ten minutes either side.

  Kennedy decided to leave it there for now. There was no point in continuing until he had something more to go on. He announced the termination of the interview, said his goodbyes and hung around the interview room until PC Gaul had shown Anderson and his solicitor out of the station.

  He then carefully retrieved the apple from the wastepaper basket. Already the exposed fruit was turning brown as the air contaminated it. That was in a matter of minutes; what must the same atmosphere be doing to our bodies in a day, not to mention a lifetime? Kennedy gingerly carried the apple between thumb and forefinger out to Sgt Flynn and asked him to send the evidence to forensic with specific instructions to see if the teeth prints matched those found in the apple discovered at the Fountain of Sorrow, the final resting place of John B. Stone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You’re looking like you lost a fiver and found a tenner,” Coles, at the wheel, announced to Irvine as they drove the short distance to the offices of National Properties at the Old School House on Regent’s Park Road just across from the (pedestrianised) bridge over the railway at Primrose Hill station.

  “Is it that obvious?” Irvine, evidently well pleased with himself, replied.

  “Frankly, yes. No need to ask who’s got the spilt milk. But should I be asking to whom does the spilt milk belong?”

  “Well, it’s Bella Forsythe’s actually, if you really want to know,” says Irvine, no great deal of prising required.

  “Really? What about… I thought you and Rose Butler were stepping out,” said Coles, risking another question into no man’s land. She and Irvine usually didn’t get into this kind of conversation, but he’d opened it up by volunteering Forsythe’s name.

  “As eloquent a turn of phrase as my mother would have used,” Irvine replied, “but sadly, no.” He volunteered no more, and Coles refrained from pushing any further.

  She would have liked to pry but she thought better about it. Rose Butler was a true bright burning flame, she believed in true love, Christian values, cannabis (a little), sex (a lot) and Ferrari red lipstick, lots of lipstick. If Irvine had been prepared to offer more, or indeed if Coles had been prepared to pry just a little bit deeper, she would have discovered that James Irvine and Rose Butler had reached the point where they had to either discharge their bowels or arise from the chamber.

  They had agreed (reluctantly) to the latter, at least on a trial basis. It had been Irvine’s sad experience that when you reach the “Let’s take a break from each other for a while” point you usually Mean, ‘let’s end this as painlessly as possible.’ And so they had, and so they did.

  rvine thought as they drove towards Primrose Hill that he would have relished the opportunity to discuss his romantic situation. He had recently been considering it a hell of a lot himself in private and he had come to the conclusion that he had a character flaw. The flaw was no matter how much he liked his (romantic) partner he always reached the stage where he found himself looking for the hit of the excitement of a new playmate. He hated himself for it and he had so far avoided cheating on his lover. But eventually his eye would wander, and then it would be great: the whole chase ritual, the romancing, the wining a
nd dining, the lovemaking and then, as sure as New Year’s Day follows Big Ben’s chimes, the distraction.

  “So is this the first date?”

  “No, the second,” sighed Irvine as he was drawn away from his reflections and regrets.

  “God, two already. You kept that quiet.” Coles smiled, happy that Irvine was for the first time opening up to her.

  “Well, me ma said never kiss on the first date, so I always start with the second,” Irvine laughed, avoiding further revelations as they were pulling into a gift of a parking space opposite the Boys’ School on Regent’s Park Road in Primrose Hill Village. Within two and a half minutes they were sitting in the extremely modern offices of Mr National Properties himself, Kevin Burroughs, drinking coffee. Irvine, white with one sugar, and Coles, black no sugar, watched in amusement as the wagons began to circle before their very eyes.

  Burroughs was not what either had been expecting. He was friendly, very friendly in fact. He dressed well: designer denim jeans, mustard Doc Marten boots with protected toecaps (Irvine guessed) and a denim shirt, all buttons opened revealing a blinding white T-shirt. He had long (ish) blonde (ish) hair parted unevenly in the middle, the beginning of the receding hairline visible through the drape-like arrangement of hair behind the ears. Burroughs had a weather-beaten but plain face distinguished only by his dark eyebrows.

  The office had plans of his various current development projects covering the walls. The only distraction was a twenty by thirty (inch) poster of the waif-like Kate Moss. Behind his door hung two yellow hard hats.

  “We understand you did some business with Mr John B. Stone of the Camden Bus Estate Agency?” Coles opened the bidding with a single club.

  “Yes, love. I’ve heard from some of my mates that he went and got himself topped,” Kevin Burroughs, replied with a hint of Brum drawl.

  “When did you last see him?” Irvine offered two spades. A bit of digging was going to be necessary.

  “Let’s see. Yesterday I guess. The days pass so quick, don’t they? Sometimes it’s hard to place people to the days. Yes, it was yesterday. He dropped in here after lunch time. Yeah that’s it, he was in the area, he had a bunch of people at the Queens and he came around to see me afterwards.” Burroughs spoke in fits and starts like a car with its choke out too long trying to get up to speed.

  “What time would that have been?” asked Coles. “About two-thirty, give or take.” “How did he seem?” Coles continued. “Fine, I mean fine, same as usual. There wasn’t much to him, littlechap, but he seemed fine to me.”

  “He didn’t seem worried or anything?” Coles again.

  “I mean he didn’t seem unduly concerned.” Burroughs shrugged his shoulders. “But it’s like you don’t exactly pay that much attention. I mean if I had known it was going to be the last time I saw him I would obviously have looked at him differently. To be perfectly honest I wasn’t particularly interested in how he felt, or looked for that matter.” The Birmingham drone was less concealed now.

  “Oh?” nudged Irvine.

  “Yeah, well he was bringing me some bad news,” Burroughs replied, rationing his words.

  “Which was?” Coles uncrossed and crossed her legs.

  “We’d done a deal? Like on a property?” His accent had a habit of making some statements sound like questions, American-style. “The large one out the back, actually. Part of it used to be the local mission house, probably a toilet or something, and some of the local tossers got together and tried to block planning permission. Well, they won first time around, then we appealed and got it by the council, and then they appealed and he’d come to tell me that he’d heard we were going to lose the appeal. He was tipping me to put the property on the market quickly, before judgement was announced.”

  “Were you annoyed at him over this?” Irvine raised the bid to a three of diamonds.

  “For heaven’s sake, no.” Burroughs laughed nervously. “What? Do you mean did I top him? Top him just because a deal went pearshaped? No, not at all. I blame the local authorities. Look, if I lived around here, I mean it’s beautiful around here isn’t it? Well I wouldn’t want any major development going on in my backyard. But you get the feeling the council don’t give a toss about the people around here, if anything they even resent the residents, so they don’t go out of their way to discourage people like myself. And so, you know, if there’s a few bob to be made I might as well be making it as someone else.”

  The developer let his eyes wander to the plans on the wall to hisright and maybe even allowed himself to think, just for a few moments, on the money he was losing. He continued to address the two police officers.

  “No, I think all our lives would be easier, much easier, if the councils would do what they are meant to do and protect the interests of, and listen to, the locals. Instead they seem to spend most of their time battling with each other.” And Kevin stopped talking. Maybe he’d had a revolutionary thought or revelation or maybe he’d said all he needed to say on the matter and was awaiting the next question.

  Neither Irvine nor Coles had the next question lined up and each left it to the other, resulting in a silence which Burroughs felt compelled to fill.

  “No, of course I didn’t feel bad about John Boy and top him just because of one bad deal. I mean on our slate he’s still very high in the black, his standing here is good, or should I say was good. And you know, on the place out the back, who knows how it’s going to turn out? I can afford to sit on it and see what happens. Maybe even let it get run down a bit over the next few years until it becomes an eyesore and then cop a few bob from the council or English Heritage to restore it to its former glory and sell it on. No, don’t worry about me, a deal’s never over until the fat lady stops sinking in the cement.”

  Irvine saw fat ladies sinking to the bottom of cement foundations and wondered if that was the metaphor this property developer wanted to leave the local police with.

  “Besides which, we had a couple of other sweet deals about to go down,” Burroughs added as an afterthought.

  “And what will happen to those?” Irvine inquired.

  “Oh, I imagine Billy Boatend will finalise them for me now. Billy Boatend, what a name for an estate agent!” Burroughs laughed.

  “Do you know of anyone who would wish to harm John B. Stone, sir?” Coles asked, deciding it was time to shift direction.

  “No, not really. I mean in the area he’s in, it sometimes borders on… well, you don’t really know who you’re dealing with, do you? Maybe he pissed somebody off. I don’t know. He was a bit of a loner really, wasn’t he?”

  “Apparently,” was all Irvine would offer in reply.

  “Did you ever mix with him socially?” the WPC asked, feeling they were about to run into a wall. She also knew that there was more information to pick up. Kennedy was always telling them that the information is always out there waiting for you to find it, all you had to know was where to look and what questions to ask.

  “A couple of times yeah, but not a lot. Look, my vice is the grape, I’m not into the chemical stuff, if you know what I mean, and well, our two cultures didn’t really mix well.”

  “I see,” the WPC replied, hoping that she did see. She shrugged at Irvine while Burroughs” eyes were elsewhere. Irvine nodded and said, “Well that seems to be it for now, sir. We may need to question you further but before we leave could you tell us what you were doing last night between the hours of eleven-thirty and one-thirty?” It was a four clubs bid but Irvine wasn’t really sure it was a strong enough bid to win the hand.

  “What? You still think that I could -”

  “No, we just have to eliminate you from our inquiries, and if we know for definite you were elsewhere yesterday evening we do not have to consider you further.” It was time to see Burroughs” hand.

  “Well, you see that’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t really have an alibi for last night. I was here till about ten o’clock by myself costing a new project. By the time I fini
shed that, I was so cream crackered I went straight home, made myself some tea and toast, watched TV for about ten minutes and then went to bed.”

  The WPC replaced a few wisps which were threatening to escape the clips which restrained her beautiful natural blonde hair, giving her more of the main mam look which she liked to cultivate for the force rather than the wild child she could just as easily have played. She was thinking, Wow he’s a decent enough looking chap, dresses well, takes care of himself, in good shape, obviously well off, and he’s going to bed at ten-thirty by himself with tea and toast and a bit of telly. Why do all these people work so hard if that’s all the life their money is going to give them? Or is he saving for his retirement when he’ll have no energy, and even less inclination, to spending money and partying?

  “What exactly was on TV last night, that you saw?” Irvine asked.

  “Oh, nothing really. I did a bit of channel surfing; there was some music, an American movie, some political debate, a wildlife thing, two football matches and Channel 5 was crap.”

  “Just your average night on TV then, eh?” Irvine smiled as he and the WPC placed their empty cups on Burroughs” desk. They then said their goodbyes and departed the office.

  “We’ll see he’s entered in the competition, then?” Coles smiled as they got in the car.

  “What competition is that then?” Irvine replied.

  “The one to see who can be the richest corpse in the graveyard,” was Coles” reply as they headed back to North Bridge House.

  Chapter Twenty

  Late in the day Kennedy noticed amongst his messages one which said “area rang”. For a split second he wondered which area had rung him and who from that area. But when he spotted the space between the ‘a’ and the ‘r’ he realised ann rea had rung him and left no number.

  Kennedy knew she was happy to use the trip to see Daniel Elliot to put a bit of space between them. He didn’t know why he felt things were going “okay” between them. But then perhaps “okay” was a bad, if not terrible, word to describe a relationship between two people. He really was becoming fed up with all this “in between” period which seemed to be continuously going on with them. For heaven’s sake, he had realised the moment he had set eyes on ann rea, at Heathrow, that he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. Scary, perhaps, but then sometimes the truth is.