by Paul Charles
“Holy shit!” Coles exploded into the mouthpiece. “Do you have the autopsy report there as well?”
PC Burke didn’t hear her question because he was still holding the phone away from his ear waiting for the ringing to die down. When he got back to her and she repeated her question, “No,” he said, “that would be in a different file. If you want I can dig it out for you if you just want to hold on for a few minutes.”
“No - look, could you possibly fax it to me as soon as you can, it’s Camden CID. There is someone who needs this information ASAP,” Coles replied excitedly.
“Okay, fine. Faxing should prove easier on my eardrums,” said Burke.
Chapter Forty-One
The interview of Rory Nash by Irvine and Kennedy was interrupted by a gentle tap on the door. Esther popped her head around the door and said “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, Inspector Kennedy, it’s North Bridge House on the phone for you, and they say it’s urgent.”
“May I?” Kennedy inquired of Nash. Yes, please, use the one on the desk.” “Hello. Yes. Really?” is all Irvine and Nash hear before “Okay we’llbe back in about ten minutes.”
Kennedy walked back purposefully to his seat, his fingers twitching, and sat down. “That was WPC Coles, a colleague of ours,” he announced. “She’s just had a word with Birmingham CID and, well, Mr Nash, I have to tell you that Jerry Mac Kane has also been murdered. About eighteen months ago. He too was savaged by a dog, just like Flute Burton.” He paused, then said solemnly, “I’d like to take you into protective custody immediately, sir.”
Nash thought for a while before spraying his mouth again. When he had completed this ritual he said, “I thank you for your concern, Inspector, but I assure you it’s not really necessary. I mean apart from anything else it’s going to look bad, isn’t it? What happens if you have to keep me in for a few days, maybe even a week? Tongues are going to wag, and, as I explained to you before, I can’t really afford that.” Nash rose from his chair and went across to his Corgi Classic collection. He seemed to lose himself in the models. Kennedy thought that he looked and acted like someone who was being intrigued by this world of models for the first time rather than being an old hand. Nash lifted a bus from the shelf like a pigeon fancier with a prize bird.
“You see this? This is a Bedford OB Coach,” he said. This particular model, the Southdown coach, was the sixth one Corgi made in this series, hence its serial number C949/6. They have made sixty-one Bedford OB Coaches in total but for some reason this one which was made in 1987 is the most popular and consequently the most sought after and therefore the most expensive. It’s worth about four hundred pounds. Now for some reason, unlike the earlier OBs in the series, Corgi made only 4,400 of this Southdown and to me it’s not as beautiful as say the Mac Baynes or the Pearce & Crump, or even the Grey-Green of George Ewer, but for whatever reason this one caught people’s imagination, perhaps it sparked off memories of childhood journeys to the seaside, and the entire run sold out very quickly. And now they’re near impossible to find for love or money.”
Kennedy was interested, to a degree, but he felt better for any interruptions and felt that Nash might just be dealing in his own way with the devastating news which the detective had just relayed to him. The collector took what looked like a large make-up brush, one with very flexible bristles, from a lower shelf and proudly dusted his Southdown Bedford OB coach. He turned to the detectives, model in one hand, brush in the other, and continued the shop talk.
“To a non-collector this probably looks like just another £5 to £10 toy, but, as I’ve said it’s actually worth about £400 if it’s in as good a condition as this one and the box and packaging are mint. My point, Inspector, is that looks can be deceptive. Should I accept your protective custody then it wouldn’t matter how much I were to protest my innocence, or how much you were to back me up in my claims, a certain fraction of the media would say there’s no smoke without fire and other such rubbish.” He returned the Southdown neatly into its pride-of-place position on the well dusted shelf and Kennedy guessed that Nash had each and every one of the sixty or so Corgi Classic Bedford OB coaches if not the entire Corgi Classic range. His body language, clasping his hands as if in prayer, advised the detectives that the Nash address was not yet over.
“You know, this is all great,” and he unclasped his hands and used one to draw an arc over the room in particular, but the building in general. “We’ve got a fabulously successful company. Malan are a good band. I don’t believe for one second they’re a great band in the way our generation had the great ones, the Beatles, the Kinks, the Stones, the Small Faces, the Spencer Davies Group, Them… they were all great in the true sense of the word. So coming from that background I can’t really take any of these new groups seriously can I? As I said Malan are a fine band, but I’m sure you’ve noticed that every single one of their eleven hits have been rewrites of Marc Bolan and T Rex songs.”
“Now you come to mention it,” said Irvine, “I did think that “Sailing on White Wings” was dangerously close to “Ride a White Swan”.
“Yes, you’re right but we still had a big hit with it and half the publishing on someone’s else’s song if you know what I mean. But you don’t know the half of it - another time, perhaps. Anyway, the buzz is fading for me, you know. You know the buzz of having your first chart hit? That is such a great feeling, you’ll never know. You get your midweek chart prediction on Thursday and, say, if it’s 39 you spend every second wishing and hoping that by the time it comes to the chart announcement at seven p.m. Sunday evening that you haven’t slipped to 41 and out of the public view. And then again, when you start off at 30 and the midweek is 23 but by the Sunday night it drops to 28 and you’re totally devastated even though your net chart is three places better. And the other feeling of elation is when your single is rising and it looks like it stands a chance of going to number one and it does, it’s like winning the lottery, the Cup Final, the Masters, the British Grand Prix, having sex for the first time, your first child being born, buying your first house, all rolled into one. But do you know what the problem you have then is?”
Neither Kennedy nor Irvine knew or were prepared to hazard a guess, so Nash did the gentlemanly thing and told them, because he had been there and done that.
“The problem is that after reaching number one in the charts there is nowhere else to go. And that is the biggest come down there is. But once you’ve been there a few times it’s like you’re repeating yourself trying to relive that initial virginal excitement. There was also a time when it used to be great, a great feeling to know that somewhere, even tonight, an act is going to go on stage in some dark corner of this country and that I am (maybe was) one of the six managers who could take this act and could turn them into world beaters. Pop managers are the new wise men of the 21st century, they know everything about everything. We have to, we’re dealing on a worldwide stage: Hell.” Nash paused for effect. “People don’t realise how important an ingredient the manager is,” he concluded.
“Oh, I don’t know, I think that someone like the Beatles could have been managed by anyone and would have been just as successful simply because they were brilliant,” Kennedy challenged.
“Brian Epstein is all I have to say to you, sir, Brian Epstein.”
“Well now, there is a very good point. He couldn’t even get them a record deal in the early days. And then signing them to the lowest of the low, a record label for comedy artistes. And even that couldn’t get in the way of the band. And wasn’t he famous for doing bad deals, publishing, movies, merchandising, records… wasn’t all of that supposed to be a mess?” Kennedy inquired.
“But gentlemen, he had a vision, he believed in his band, he believed they were as great as they were to become. And who’s to say that his unconditional belief didn’t give them a little bit of the freedom needed for them to be as creative as they were to be? When he was doing those deals he was sailing unchartered seas, he was making it all u
p as he went along. But hear this, a lot of the artistic favours which we all now insist are in our clients” contracts are only there because men like Brian Epstein paved the way for us. And you know, he took the Fabs to the top, you can’t do much better than that, can you?” Nash smiled and continued before either could answer. “But my point is that I can do all that, make an act a world-beater, it’s not a challenge to me anymore. However, politics does hold a challenge to me. To someday be able to serve as a member of parliament, to perhaps spearhead Britain’s foreign policy. You see, with my worldwide knowledge I’d be very good at that, and I will be, just wait and see. And that is why I can’t come with you,” he concluded.
Irvine merely shrugged his shoulders.
“Look, sir,” said Kennedy, choosing his words carefully, “I can’t stress enough to you how much your life is in danger. The facts are all there plain as daylight. Of the four people involved in this incident, you are the only survivor. If we believe, as we do, that Anna Elliot is behind this, then you are next. Simple as that.”
“Yes, I take your point, but don’t worry about me. I’ve got some private security people who will watch me around the clock and I assure you I’ll be okay. If you want me to I’ll sign something stating that you advised me of the danger, offered me custody and, of my own free will, I chose not to avail myself of your kind offer,” Nash replied, enjoying his heroics.
“No, it’s okay. No need for that. You know where we are if you need us.” And with that Kennedy and Irvine were up and out of the building and just short of running back to North Bridge House. Irvine was convinced that Kennedy was about to break into a trot at any second and was trying (very hard) to keep abreast.
“I just hope,” Irvine began breathlessly, “that if, and when, Rory Nash comes face to Anna Elliot and her wild dog, that he’s got his brown trousers on.”
Chapter Forty-Two
It was six o’clock Friday evening and all of the team, including Superintendent Castle, were in Kennedy’s comfortable office. It has to be said though, that at this point in the proceedings Kennedy was feeling anything but comfortable and, rather than Castle, he was the one asking the questions.
“What are we missing here?” No one replied. “Okay, let’s go through it all once again and see what we have,” hebegan, turning to his crowded notice board. “Neil ‘Flute’ Burton and now Jerry Mac Kane have both been butchered by a ‘mad’ dog, nearly two years and exactly 110 miles apart. John B. Stone is beaten to a pulp by Hugh Anderson, who claims he was paid to carry out the evil deed, and that when he left Stone was still alive.”
No comments nor observations from the floor, but Kennedy paused and wandered back to his desk to take another sip of his tea before continuing.
“Anderson advised us of the mysterious Miss Dipstick, who is so unbelievable that she is either a figment of his vivid imagination or someone trying so hard to be unnoticeable in a noticeable way.” Castle looked decidedly confused at Kennedy’s last statement, so the DI explained. “She got herself up in a way which was so noticeable that the character stuck in your (Anderson’s) mind - but gave no clue to the actress playing the part.”
Castle nodded in agreement.
“Now, subsequently, we find out that John B. Stone, Jerry Mac Kane and Flute Burton, along with a colleague of theirs, Rory Nash, were accused, twenty-four years ago, of raping Anna Elliot. The charges were dropped, but we have to believe that Anna Elliot and Miss Dipstick are one and the same and she is out seeking revenge. It would seem to me that there are two basic points here. One, we have to find Anna Elliot, and two, until such time as we do we have to assume that Rory Nash’s life is in danger.”
“But he doesn’t want police protection,” Irvine complained. He was keen to get the briefing over with; he still held a faint hope that Dr Forsythe was going to ring him and he was going to have a last chance of seeing her before she departed on her holiday.
“Yes, I know. But if he’s not going to come to us then it’s still our duty to go to him, I want us to, at the very least, have a visible presence so that if our assassin does get close, she will realise she’d get caught and scarper. It would appear that our Miss Anna “Dipstick” Elliot has a mad dog. So, if she is planning such an end for Nash, perhaps we can ensure, as our friends from America would say, we don’t present her with a window of opportunity to carry out her evil deed. I’ve spoken to Anderson again and Miss Dipstick never mentioned requiring his services again in the future.”
“Maybe she felt it would take away from the credibility of her story, sir. You know, using Anderson twice?” Coles offered.
“True,” Kennedy replied, “but how about if we are discussing two different investigations?”
Castle grunted “What?” Irvine said, “I beg your pardon?” and Coles cried, “Pardon?” all at once.
“Well, let’s look closer at this. Let’s assume for argument’s sake that John B. Stone was murdered by Miss Dipstick and Anderson. Let’s assume further that Miss Dipstick is in fact Jean Stone seeking revenge. We know Jean Stone is not an alias for Anna Elliot. Stone has never lived outside of London in her life; Elliot has spent a lot of time in the Midlands. Stone uses Anderson, Elliot uses a mad dog. It’s a coincidence that John B. was involved with Burton and MacKane in the original rape. That’s why Anderson’s only involved in the one case. Jean Stone doesn’t have an alibi for the night of John B.’s murder, apart from spending it at home with her husband, that is. Miss Dipstick didn’t ask Anderson to murder Burton because she wasn’t involved.”
“How about if Jean Stone and Anna Elliot were mates and now Stone is seeking revenge on all of the people who raped Anna, including one, John B., who also raped her?” Coles suggested.
“Look, Kennedy, aren’t we straying too far from the pathway now?” Castle interrupted with a sigh. “This thing with Anderson, I’m still not entirely comfortable with it. Are we saying here that we don’t believe that he ultimately murdered John B. Stone? That he just duffed him up a bit? And if so, then who finally did kill him? It’s all a bit far-fetched to me.”
At that precise moment (Friday, 18.17) a vital part of the case fell into place for Detective Inspector Kennedy. A bit of the puzzle which had been floating around in his head finally decided to come down and take its place in the ever growing picture this case was turning into.
“An alibi, sir,” he said, “an alibi of sorts. What if, for argument’s sake, our Miss Dipstick did hire Hugh Anderson to do the business on John B. Stone? At the exact time Anderson is concluding his handiwork, Miss Dipstick is elsewhere giving herself the perfect watertight alibi. Okay, Anderson duffs him up a bit, dumps the body, as requested, behind the Fountain of Sorrow. But later Miss Dipstick returns with a baseball bat and finishes off the job.”
“But then her alibi would be totally blown, wouldn’t it? She’d have no one to vouch for her at the actual time of death,” Irvine suggested, adding “Sir,” as an afterthought.
“True, true. However, I imagine when we find this Miss Dipstick, we’ll find she has a black and white kind of alibi, which is probably why we have to rule out Jean Stone. Someone, maybe even several people, at a party or at the theatre or whatever, who will vouch for her company. There will be some grey areas, but as she will have been covered for a major part of the time we would have to rule her out,” Kennedy replied. “I would also bet that the apple was planted there by her to draw attention to Anderson. He’s got form.” Kennedy smiled at the Super. “It’s obvious we were going to suspect him. Miss Dipstick would want the clue to lead us straight, via the Spread Eagle, to Anderson, which is in fact what happened, and we would think that we had our man. Case solved, end of story, no further action required.”
“But what about the mad dog murders, how is she going to be able to account for that?” inquired Castle, ever the doubter.
“It’s simple: what had we first assumed with Neil Burton, the first case up by the bridge?” said Kennedy.
“We’
d assumed he’d been killed by a mad dog,” said Coles.
“Absolutely, and I bet our friends up in the Midlands did exactly the same. Oh, by the way, have we got the autopsy report down from them yet? I want to give it straight to Dr Forsythe so that she can compare them with her own report on Burton.”
“No, sir,” said Coles, “I’ll ring them again. Henry Burke, the PC I spoke to first time, had gone off duty and WPC Davies promised to send it when she had a moment, apparently the locals start drinking early in Birmingham on a Friday and the station was packed with offenders already. Anyway she said she’d dig it out and fax it down to us.”
“I’m afraid you’ve missed Dr Forsythe, sir,” said Irvine. “She’s… well, today was her last day before her holiday.”
Kennedy looked at his pocket watch, an antique gold guardsman’s watch with a matching gold chain attached to one of the buttonholes in his waistcoat. It had a plain white face, no roman numerals or ticks for him, just plain classic numbers. It showed twenty-five past six.
“Give her a ring from here please, DS. See if you can get her before she goes, I’d really love her to check this report for us before she does. She’s up to speed with the Burton one and she’ll be able to spot any similarities immediately,” Kennedy instructed his DS as he returned his prized watch to its pocket.
“I’ll try,” said Irvine and went to Kennedy’s phone and dialled Forsythe’s number, surprising himself that he had already committed her seven digits to memory. “Dr Forsythe, please.” Pause. “When did she leave?” Pause. “At lunchtime? But I thought - “ Pause. “Oh, okay. Thank you very much.” Irvine put the phone down looking surprised. It was a few seconds before he spoke.
“Apparently she rang in this morning, said she wasn’t feeling too well and that she was going to take an extra day’s leave, and go off on holiday immediately. And before I’d a chance to ask,” Irvine continued before Kennedy had a chance to ask him, “they said that they didn’t know where she had gone. I believe she was going to be doing quite a bit of travelling around.”