Fountain Of Sorrow (The Christy Kennedy Mysteries Book 3)

by Paul Charles

  Camden Market was a party. A magical, colourful Saturday-and-Sunday fifty-two-weekends-a-year party, so why not position his team in key strategic spots and let the masses pass them all by? Surely they would have a greater chance of spotting Rory Nash using this technique? Kennedy’s logic being that if they all moved around, the laws of coincidence meant the chances of their paths crossing diminished.

  As for Dr Bella Forsythe, well he had to assume that she knew the police were on her trail and so, equally they had to assume she’d be in one of her master (mistress?) disguises, but definitely not the Miss Dipstick one.

  Kennedy radioed through to Sgt Flynn, described his idea, and had him work out a location system and radio through to the team the new plan and the part (where) the various members of Camden CID were to play in it.

  Kennedy himself took up residence at the main gate to the Stables where he could observe people come in from the Chalk Farm Road entrance, see them come down through the Stables from the Safeway entrance, or see them come in from behind him, through the side entrances which led to the Lock.

  After about ten minutes he spotted some regular activity going on behind one of the stalls on the way through to the Lock. Dealers (drug) at work. He watched them work the patch and worked out their system. They would politely approach potential clients with all the charm of a cobra luring its prey. A deal would be nodded through to one of their fellow charmers behind the stall. This fellow would act as the mule, to ensure the dealer was never actually caught with any drugs about his person, and even if the mule was caught he would only have enough of whatever the vice was “for personal use”. The dealer and mule would meet up with the client, the client would pay the dealer. When the dealer had the money in his hot sweaty hands he would quickly vanish. Only then would the mule pass the consignment over to the client. The dealer would reappear behind the stall, depositing the money with the banker and starting the entire process over again. Kennedy realised he need not take any immediate action; they’d be there for the rest of the day, and he’d tip off the drug squad on his return to North Bridge House.

  A scuffle broke out at the main gate. A middle-aged lady caught a young ginger-haired boy trying to pick her pockets, actually trying to nick her purse out of her hand. However, the woman was a match for the boy, she grabbed him violently by his Hendrix-styled hair and swung him around, screaming at him. Within seconds the Stables security and three of the closest stall workers were over and rescuing her, or rather the boy, shortly before he was about to have no ginger hair at all.

  It was very important for the stall owners that no such criminals worked their patch. Hence the extreme politeness of the dealer and his team. Tourists had to feel safe, and news of pickpockets or interference from drunks or gangs of any sort travelled fast. So they duffed the ginger-haired boy up a bit, nothing too violent, Kennedy noted, just enough to frighten him off and a sign to other potential tea-leaves. Talking of tea, Kennedy would loved to have had a cup right now. Being around the crowded market with it’s major dust movement was thirsty work.

  The other thing to consider was all the various aromas floating around the market. Fresh bread, crêpes, delicious crêpes with their various hot or cold, sweet or sour, healthy or enjoyable fillings. Fried bacon, sausages, falafel with salad in pitta bread, fish and chips, doughnuts (the doughnut stall was about twenty yards from Kennedy but he could still smell the toppings: chocolate, caramel, honey, fresh strawberry jam, cinnamon, Smarties, - yes, doughnuts covered with Smarties - ginger, cream and on and on, all hitting his taste buds. And all a lot more appetising than the taste of dust. The thought of a fresh cup of tea to wash it all down made the craving irresistible.

  The other smells circulating were less enticing but equally aromatic. Blankets and carpets which had been sitting in the stalls a little too long, clothes, smelling of sleep, sweat and cannabis (not necessarily in that order) and beer (there was invariably the odd empty beer can lying around but the stall owners made sure no alcoholics made the market their patch for boozing or begging, again very bad for business).

  At that precise moment a beautiful young woman passed Kennedy giving off a symphony of other rich and enticing aromas, smelling absolutely body beautiful with a slight hint of coconut, believe it or not, and freshly washed skin and hair. She looked clean, as in very clean, apart, that is, from a smear of chocolate around her mouth from a fresh-filled crepe which was slowly disappearing, enticingly, into her exquisite mouth. Kennedy found himself gawking at her and he tried to convince himself his gawking was at the gorgeous crêpe and not at the delicious lady.

  Kennedy could resist it no longer and so he made his way to the crêpe stall, eye still clocking the gate and the entrance from the lock. He was now closer to the Safeway entrance and sohe could observe this more easily from the stall at least. He placed his order. A crêpe filled with banana, nuts, raspberries and honey plus a cup of tea, white with two sugars. Kennedy hadn’t considered how he was going to manage to negotiate eating, drinking and watching all at once.

  Just as he was reaching across the counter to claim his prize he felt a solid thud on his shoulder.

  “Inspector Kennedy, what an unusual place to find you.”

  Kennedy immediately recognised the voice, with its affected diction, and turned to face the man in black (black apart from the white pumps of course), Rory Nash.

  Kennedy looked to the heavens with a wry smile. The sky was blue, a stunning ice-blue, and was filled with lots of little fluffy clouds, a bit like cotton wool on an ambient music CD cover.

  “Mr Nash, we’ve got the entire Camden police force out looking for you. Am I glad to see you,” Kennedy said, unzipping his windbreaker.

  “I’ve rarely received such an effusive greeting in this market,” said Nash, “I’m happy to have made your day.” He sighed and smiled and turned to catch the stall owner’s attention. “Two crepes please, one with chocolate, vanilla, nuts and apples and one banana, strawberries, chocolate and lemon - oh, and a mineral water too, please.” The last part of the order was emphasised, as if he believed the sugar-free value of the mineral water was going to compensate for the high fat content of the double crêpe.

  Kennedy now had his treat in hand and started to munch and sip. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a woman running at great speed in their direction. She had long flowing grey locks and a full-length loose red dress which flapped in the wind and waved around violently behind her as she made her way fiercely towards them. She had a Mike Tyson look fixed in her hazel eyes, the look you have just before you’re about to bite into someone’s ear.

  Kennedy chucked his tea and crêpe swiftly to the ground. The crêpe hit the ground with a sad, dull thud but the tea splashed up from the cup and exploded in several directions, each one leading to Kennedy and Nash’s legs.

  Nash shouted, annoyed and very London, “What the eff are you doing, mate?”

  Kennedy pushed Nash forcefully towards the other end of the stall, hoping to get him out of harm’s way. But the man wouldn’t move. He stood staring at Kennedy in belligerent disbelief. It was all happening in slow motion. Kennedy could still see the red-dressed witch baring down on them at a great rate of knots out of the (trusted) corner of his eye.

  The detective didn’t have any time remaining to argue with Nash, so he charged full-on into him, taking the pair of them in the direction Kennedy required. Nash lost his balance and both of them fell to the ground in a heap which included the rubbish from the bin they had toppled over in the process.

  As they were gathering their wits about them, Nash still in shock, Kennedy jumped to his feet and turned to tackle the witch. He was just in time to see her run spiritedly past him shouting, “Nigel!”

  Kennedy looked to his right and saw Nigel running towards her shouting, “Audrey!”

  They reached each other with arms and jackets and red skirts making a great theatrical to-do for the benefit of anyone caring to watch. Most not caring to watch were l
ooking instead at the man in black still lying in the rubbish and the man with the green windbreaker trying to find a hole in the ground big enough to climb into. Nigel and Audrey both kissed the air beside their cheeks and went away arm-in-arm to view the futons, or some such. Kennedy was left to pick up the pieces, or Mr Rory Nash, future politician of the parish.

  Luckily Nash saw the funny side of it. For this Kennedy was grateful. Castle would have been most upset if he (Kennedy) had made an enemy out of a future (potential) politician. On the positive side, at least Nash was still alive, dirty and bruised with ruffled feather and pride, but still alive and still with his tea and crêpes. Which was more than Kennedy could claim.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “She rang, sir.”

  “Who has rung, Jimmy?” Kennedy replied, immediately recognising the spirited Scottish tones.

  “Dr Forsythe, sir. She rang me just a couple of minutes ago.”

  It was early evening on the Saturday. Kennedy and his team were relaxing a little. Rory Nash was under police supervision. Not at North Bridge House, as Kennedy had hoped, but safely in a top floor suite at the Marriot Hotel at Swiss Cottage. Camden CID would only have sprung for the regular single-room rate and Nash, clearly a man who liked his home (and away) comforts insisted he pay the bill himself. Kennedy had agreed, feeling good about protecting both Castle’s budget and Nash’s life in the one deal, and so Nash had booked the Marriot’s best suite with an interconnecting room. And there he was safely holed up for the foreseeable future with three police officers.

  One, PC Terence Shaw, was in the hall. Luckily the suite and ajoining room were the only rooms down the corridor to the right as you came out of the lift, so there was no reason for anyone to be there unless authorised. The other two, PC Tony Essex and WPC Doreen West shared the interconnecting room, doors open. Kennedy had given specific instructions to give Nash as much space as possible. He’d heard from ann rea that music business types like to have as much ‘space’ as possible. So Kennedy told his constables to maintain a discreet presence but to keep the interconnecting door open at all times.

  “And?” “She said she wanted to see me, but only me, sir.” “What are her other conditions, Jimmy?” Kennedy replied into thephone, the phone in his house near the foot of Primrose Hill.

  “She said she just wanted to talk. She knew we’d picked up Nash in Camden Market.”

  “All of bleedin” Camden Town knows that,” Kennedy declared, his face reddening at the memory.

  “Yes. And she said that it was all over now but she’d like to meet to talk before she gave herself up. She said for it all to work she had to give herself up, but before that she said she wanted to spend some time with me and for us to talk. She said after that she’d allow me to bring her in to North Bridge House. I’d like to do it, sir.” Irvine could not conceal the emotion in his voice.

  “Jimmy, please don’t forget that this woman has now killed three times, three times that we know of. She could be wanting you for a hostage; perhaps she sees you as a way of doing a trade for Rory Nash, or something along those lines. Don’t forget she doesn’t think the way you and I think.”

  “She seems resigned to the fact that it’s all over, sir.”

  “Jimmy, you’re not asking me to go along with this are you? Because you know that I can’t, you know that you can’t. Now where did you agree to meet?”

  “Euston, sir. Euston Station at seven-thirty. She told me to walk around in front of the arrivals and departures board and said that she would contact me but if she saw any sign of police she’d be off and we’d never find her. Surely it’s worth the risk, sir?”

  “No, Jimmy. I don’t know what has gone down between you and this woman and I don’t want to know. But here’s what we are going to do.” And he explained his recently formed plan.

  So, at precisely seven twenty-five a very nervous DS James Irvine walked back and forth across the concourse at Euston Station. Being a Saturday, Euston was packed. People with a free Sunday making their way to the Midlands or Manchester, or people returning to London from the Midlands and Manchester for work on Sunday, or people returning North, or coming from the North for the purpose of viewing twenty-two men and a wee man dressed in black with a whistle chasing a leather ball about a large field. Or people simply coming down for a Saturday night of fun in the west end.

  “The train now standing on platform three…” the estuary-accented voice began to announce over the PA.

  “…should get off the bleedin” platform and back on the rails,” Irvine said to no one in particular in his best English accent. He went and bought himself a cup of tea - polystyrene cup, tea brewed to death and long-life milk, the most consistent spoiler of a good cup of tea known to humankind. He took one swig and dumped it, from mouth and cup, into the nearest rubbish bin.

  Just as he released the cup from his fingers and was watching it fall, in slow motion, in with the rest of the rubbish, he felt a hand gently squeeze his elbow.

  “Sir, would you give some money to help a London child?”

  “No,” Irvine thought, “I’d kill a social worker.” At the same time he said, “Not today, sorry. Thank you.”

  Then he recognised Annabella Forsythe née Elliot and with that he gave the prearranged signal of tipping his newspaper into the same rubbish bin. In seven seconds flat, a very long seven seconds for Irvine, they were surrounded by three officers, two (including Kennedy) dressed as Railtrack staff and one (Alloway) dressed as a commuter (lots of mystery, no substance). Kennedy and Alloway each grabbed one of Forsythe’s arms, gently, for it has to be said she offered no resistance, none whatsoever.

  Irvine felt about three inches tall though, because Dr Forsythe, the woman he’d grown quite fond of, even though he’d never actually managed to get close to her, showed nothing, nothing save the look of disappointment in her eyes. Disappointment (total) in Irvine. He tried to speak to her several times but found it impossible to complete a sentence.

  “I’m sorry… look, I… I couldn’t really have.. you have to realize… we have to face… I’m really sorry.”

  With that Kennedy and Alloway led Forsythe away to the awaiting police car. They took her back to North Bridge House where Sgt Flynn attended to the paperwork on Annabella (Forsythe) Elliot for the second time in his career. This time he was offering her less sympathy, a lot less, as in none. The abovementioned doctor would not say a word, not a simple word to anybody during the interview, so at nine twenty-four Kennedy discontinued the proceedings, advising Elliot that they would resume at nine on the Monday morning.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Saturday night was blown for Kennedy, and ann rea, who by this time had dropped Daniel Elliot off at his house, the house they used to share, the house that a young Anna Elliot had also shared, which is how ann rea had managed to get stuck in the middle of this whole episode in the first place. In a way it was lucky for Kennedy, and Camden CID, that she had. Because without ann rea’s involvement it would have taken Kennedy and his team a hell of a lot longer to get a handle on this complex and confusing case, let alone solve it.

  Kennedy had personally rung Nash and told him that Forsythe was now in custody. Nash immediately decided to throw a party - “Why waste the suite?” - and duly invited Kennedy “and your partner.” Kennedy declined. ann rea never did find out about the invitation.

  The conversation between ann rea and Kennedy turned to their relationship. It took this somewhat predictable turn about halfway through the first glass of wine (St Venan).

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about us since yesterday, Kennedy.” “Aha?” “To be honest I couldn’t not think about us really, what with allthis death and talk of death and seeing how much Lila and Daniel had meant to each other and also seeing, Christy, how much you want us to be together.”

  “You mean, as in I want it too much?”

  “Well frankly, probably, yes,” she replied, solemnly taking another sip of wine.

&n
bsp; “I don’t think this is about who loves who the most, you know,” Kennedy said shakily, feeling things beginning to spiral recklessly out of control.

  “But Christy, I don’t think I’d ever be able to love you the way you love me and I feel that’s exactly what it’s about. I do love being with you, I love hanging out with you. I love making love with you. It’s absolutely great when we have a laugh together. But surely there has to be more? In fact there does seem to be more for you.”

  Kennedy just shrugged as if to say, “so?”

  ann rea read his body language easily.

  “Two things actually, Christy.” This is bad, she keeps referring to me by my first name. “One, I don’t want your love to eventually turn to hate just becauseyou think it’s not being returned; and two, and I’ll admit this one is selfish, I want more of what you are feeling and I don’t want to leave it too long. Time is slipping by and I might want to have children.”

  ‘Children?’ Kennedy thought, ‘she’s never discussed having children with me. Christ, this is serious. I’ve fecked it up, big time.’ But he said nothing. They just sat there, physically close but emotionally miles apart, on the sofa.

  “So what? So what are you saying exactly? Are you saying you want to end this?” Kennedy could hear himself say the words but he couldn’t believe that he was saying them. What would happen if she said “Yes”?

  ann rea didn’t reply. She tried, in vain, to smile.“This is weird,” he said, “recently I’ve been thinking that you are not really in love and you’ve been trying to find a way to break up without hurting me. I’m a big boy, ann, I’ll get over this. This is what happens to people. I can deal with it, you know. As you get older you learn two things, you learn how to keep secrets and how to get over a failed relationship.”

  “Well, yes, Kennedy, sometimes I do feel I don’t love you, but not all the time. Most of the time I was feeling that it was great. And, shit, it is great, and you’re the nicest… and the best thing which has ever happened to me,” ann rea declared, draining the last of her wine. Kennedy rose from the sofa, went to the kitchen and retrieved the bottle from the fridge. He freshened both their drinks and said very quietly, “But it just isn’t enough, is it?”