Book Description
While attending a funeral in a rain-drenched churchyard, Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy is as surprised as anyone by what’s found in the recently-dug grave. His subsequent investigation uncovers a labyrinth of secrets, lies and deceit. All members of Kennedy’s team – especially Detective Sergeant James Irvine – find themselves personally involved and vulnerable. And is WDC Anne Coles paying as much attention to solving the case as Kennedy’s estranged lover ann rea would like?
From the Publisher
This mystery series is constantly being compared (favourably) with Colin Dexter's Inspector Morse books and with Peter Robinson's novels. A TV deal is imminent.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
About the Author
Paul Charles was born and raised in the countryside of Northern Ireland. He now lives with his wife in Camden Town, where he divides his time between writing and working in the music industry. He is currently writing the eighth Christy Kennedy mystery, Sweetwater.
Excerpted from The Justice Factory by Paul Charles. Copyright © 2004. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
FUNERALS ARE FOR dead people. So why do so many of the living show up? Maybe they hope, if they turn out for funerals regularly enough, they’ll get a good showing at their own. But then again, what does it matter? They’re never going to know who goes or doesn’t go, because... funerals are for dead people.
One Thursday morning Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy of Camden Town CID was standing in a rain-soaked graveyard distracting himself with such thoughts, and waiting for the recently deceased Daniel Elliot to be laid to rest. Although it was the middle of July, London had endured seventy-two straight hours of sheet rain. Every time Kennedy found a solid piece of ground to stand on, in a matter of seconds it would start to give way under his feet.
No doubt the delay of the arrival of the funeral procession was due to the slowness of London traffic in the rain, Kennedy thought. He headed off to stand under the largest tree in the graveyard, not for shelter so much as for the firmness of ground he thought he’d find close to the trunk. Kennedy disliked funerals. They were for dead people. But now and again, as on this particular morning, he was professionally obliged to attend. There was a social reason as well: Daniel Elliot was a friend of Kennedy’s ex-girlfriend, ann rea. Kennedy had met Elliot a few times while working on a case concerning Elliot’s daughter. It hadn’t altogether been a pleasant experience but Kennedy had been impressed with the way Elliot had dealt with the situation and had continued to be supportive of his daughter, Bella Forsythe.
Miss Forsythe, currently detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, was here on a morning’s compassionate leave. She was handcuffed to two guards. At the far end of the graveyard Kennedy could just about pick out the silhouette of Forsythe, her guards, and the lonely figure of ann rea, separated from the trio by about two yards of mucky earth and quite a few gallons of water.
Kennedy saw the hearse draw up at the gates of the graveyard and watched about a dozen old soldiers stiffly hobble around to the rear of the hearse. Kennedy made his way over to the freshly dug grave. Bella Forsythe was standing at its foot between her guards; all three were soaked to the skin. ann rea had come better equipped, in a body-length, see-through mac and a pair of Wellington boots. She walked over to Kennedy as he arrived and kissed him politely on the cheek. She nodded to him, saying nothing. Kennedy walked over to Miss Forsythe to offer his respects. She ignored him completely, looking straight through him as though he didn’t exist. Maybe in her life he didn’t exist. She just continued to stand, hands restrained by her side, and directed her stare down into her father’s grave.
The coffin bearers – eight instead of the usual six – made their precarious way along the path towards the mourners, slipping and sliding all over the place. Kennedy half-turned towards them and made to offer assistance. The undertaker, positioned at the front of the coffin, gave a discreet shake of his head that no one but Kennedy would have noticed.
Kennedy turned back to the grave and followed Forsythe’s gaze down. In the split second that he thought he saw two marbles in the mud, Forsythe let out a scream so loud and sinister it would have frightened a banshee. ann rea ran over. The security guard on Forsythe’s right raised the palm of his free hand towards her, as his partner turned towards their captive. He seemed to think she was being overcome with emotion and wanted to offer her some comfort.
Forsythe was having none of it and pushed him away. He stumbled in the mud and fell to his knees, barely managing to keep himself from falling into the chasm. Forsythe kept staring and screaming at the top of her lungs. She was trying to raise one of her hands to point.
Kennedy moved closer to the edge of the grave and looked down into the mud. For a second he nearly offered a scream of his own. The marbles he thought he had spotted were not, in fact, marbles after all. They were a pair of open eyes and, as the rain washed away the soil around them, it became increasingly clear that they were still attached to a body, albeit a dead one.
One Thursday morning Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy of Camden Town CID was standing in a rain-soaked graveyard distracting himself with such thoughts, and waiting for the recently deceased Daniel Elliot to be laid to rest. Although it was the middle of July, London had endured seventy-two straight hours of sheet rain. Every time Kennedy found a solid piece of ground to stand on, in a matter of seconds it would start to give way under his feet.
No doubt the delay of the arrival of the funeral procession was due to the slowness of London traffic in the rain, Kennedy thought. He headed off to stand under the largest tree in the graveyard, not for shelter so much as for the firmness of ground he thought he’d find close to the trunk. Kennedy disliked funerals. They were for dead people. But now and again, as on this particular morning, he was professionally obliged to attend. There was a social reason as well: Daniel Elliot was a friend of Kennedy’s ex-girlfriend, ann rea. Kennedy had met Elliot a few times while working on a case concerning Elliot’s daughter. It hadn’t altogether been a pleasant experience but Kennedy had been impressed with the way Elliot had dealt with the situation and had continued to be supportive of his daughter, Bella Forsythe.
Miss Forsythe, currently detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, was here on a morning’s compassionate leave. She was handcuffed to two guards. At the far end of the graveyard Kennedy could just about pick out the silhouette of Forsythe, her guards, and the lonely figure of ann rea, separated from the trio by about two yards of mucky earth and quite a few gallons of water.
Kennedy saw the hearse draw up at the gates of the graveyard and watched about a dozen old soldiers stiffly hobble around to the rear of the hearse. Kennedy made his way over to the freshly dug grave. Bella Forsythe was standing at its foot between her guards; all three were soaked to the skin. ann rea had come better equipped, in a body-length, see-through mac and a pair of Wellington boots. She walked over to Kennedy as he arrived and kissed him politely on the cheek. She nodded to him, saying nothing. Kennedy walked over to Miss Forsythe to offer his respects. She ignored him completely, looking straight through him as though he didn’t exist. Maybe in her life he didn’t exist. She just continued to stand, hands restrained by her side, and directed her stare down into her father’s grave.
The coffin bearers – eight instead of the usual six – made their precarious way along the path towards the mourners, slipping and sliding all over the place. Kennedy half-turned towards them and made to offer assistance. The undertaker, positioned at the front of the coffin, gave a discreet shake of his head that no one but Kennedy would have noticed.
Kennedy turned back to the grave and followed Forsythe’s gaze down. In the split second that he thought he saw two marbles in the mud, Forsythe let out a scream so loud and sinister it would have frightened a banshee. ann rea ran over. The security guard on Forsythe’s right raised the palm of his free hand towards her, as his partner turned towards their captive. He seemed to think she was being overcome with emotion and wanted to offer her some comfort.
Forsythe was having none of it and pushed him away. He stumbled in the mud and fell to his knees, barely managing to keep himself from falling into the chasm. Forsythe kept staring and screaming at the top of her lungs. She was trying to raise one of her hands to point.
Kennedy moved closer to the edge of the grave and looked down into the mud. For a second he nearly offered a scream of his own. The marbles he thought he had spotted were not, in fact, marbles after all. They were a pair of open eyes and, as the rain washed away the soil around them, it became increasingly clear that they were still attached to a body, albeit a dead one.
