A Life to Kill

by M. R. Hall

  ‘Well spotted.’ She closed the file and set it on the ground.

  ‘Which service?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not the RAF. It’s the army. Some poor lad on the last day of his tour.’

  ‘Let me guess – roadside device?’

  ‘No. A firefight. They were attempting to recover a hostage. Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘A civilian hostage?’

  ‘Another soldier. Please? I think I’m ready for a glass of wine. How about you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Jenny got up from her chair and reached for the file, but Michael’s hand got to it first.

  ‘Mind if I have a quick look? Just curious.’

  There were several reasons she would like to have said no, not least of which was that Michael had finally shaken free of the symptoms of post-combat stress that had dogged him for the years since his retirement from the RAF and he had been warned to avoid any triggers. Close behind was the fact that her files were strictly confidential, and while she trusted him completely, the rules were there for a good reason.

  She let out a sigh. ‘If you promise—’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled and shook his head, as if the very idea that he might breathe a word was preposterous.

  Against her better judgement, Jenny went through the stable door into the kitchen and fetched a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. She poured two glasses, took a large mouthful from one of them, then topped it up again before carrying them outside.

  Michael set the file aside. ‘Thanks.’ He took his glass and clinked it against hers. ‘To happy times.’

  Jenny smiled, ‘Happy times.’

  They drank in silence for a moment watching the sun slowly dip towards the tops of the trees. House martins flitted busily, chasing the insects that rose out of their hiding places as the air began to cool. Jenny sensed a dip in Michael’s mood. Had he guessed already?

  She glanced across with a look that invited him to say what was on his mind.

  ‘Your case looks like trouble,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Worried about it?’

  ‘Reads like a typical military case to me,’ Jenny said. ‘Not much different from all the others I studied on the course back in April.’

  ‘You’d expect an incident like that to make the news. I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘I haven’t caught up with it yet today,’ Jenny said.

  ‘There’s a hostage, it says. Taken the day before they’re due to pull out. Sounds like a pretty big coup for the enemy. Not one the army’s going to publicize, if it can help it.’

  Jenny had feared that reading the file would ignite all the feelings he had worked so hard to leave behind. Two decades in a fighter cockpit had taken a heavy toll. He had ultimately proved too sensitive a soul for the work he had to do. And the more troubled he had become by it, the more frightened he had been to resign his commission and venture out into the real world, where people weren’t trying to blow each other up. She regretted ever having let him read it.

  ‘I’ll try to keep it simple,’ Jenny said briskly. ‘The cause of death shouldn’t be hard to ascertain. It may only take a day or two. And I want you to know this now – I shan’t be bringing this one home with me. That’s a promise.’

  Michael forced a smile and took a sip of wine.

  Jenny shuffled her chair closer and hooked her arm under his. The physical connection between them broke down the invisible barrier. She felt the tension in his muscles slowly abate. The expression of contentment returned. She hated to spoil the mood yet again, but if she left it any longer it would only be worse.

  Michael beat her to it. ‘We’re not going away next week, are we? You’ve been asked to clean this mess up first.’

  Jenny threaded her fingers between his. ‘Simon Moreton turned up this afternoon. He didn’t exactly present me with a choice. We’ll go straight after. It might even be nicer. The beaches will be quieter.’

  ‘There’s always that.’ Michael nodded with an air of resignation. ‘I like September in Italy.’ His expression changed to one of concern. ‘So long as you know what you’re getting into, Jenny. You think you’ve had a tough time in the past, wait till you come up against the MOD.’

  ‘I’ll just follow the protocols. It’ll be fine.’

  Michael stared into his wine glass. ‘It’s interesting they chose you. The coroner who must have caused them more trouble and embarrassment than all the others put together.’

  ‘Simon said it was because of my local connections.’

  ‘Sounds to me like this is it, Jenny. The powers-that-be are putting you to the test. Jenny Cooper is facing her Waterloo.’

  ‘I think you’re being a little overdramatic.’ She leaned over to give him a reassuring kiss. She had intended a quick peck, but the moment their lips touched it became something else entirely. They hadn’t kissed like this in days, probably not in weeks.

  Jenny broke off to catch her breath. ‘It’s getting a bit chilly out here. Shall we . . . ?’

  She didn’t need to finish the question. They disappeared inside the house, and for the rest of the evening she managed to forget all about Private Kenny Green and his missing comrade, Pete ‘Skippy’ Lyons.

  EIGHT

  The tragic events at Shalan-Gar caused the homecoming to be delayed for three further days. It wasn’t until the following Sunday that the RAF Tristar carrying the three returning platoons of C Company touched down at RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. Kenny Green’s body was on board. There were no members of his family present to witness it being transferred to the hearse that would deliver it to the mortuary at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. The men stood to attention in two ranks as six pall-bearers in full dress uniform carried the coffin draped in a Union flag across the tarmac. The watching soldiers saluted to their fallen comrade as the hearse crawled past, each of them sharing the same thought: it was only through the grace of God that it wasn’t them coming home in a box.

  The atmosphere in the buses that carried them across country to Highcliffe was muted. A fine drizzle smeared the windows, obscuring the view of what to their unaccustomed eyes was the almost oppressively green Wiltshire countryside. Some men slept, others were plugged into headphones, the rest retreated deep into their own private thoughts. At the front of the lead bus, Major Christopher Norton was seated next to Colonel Richard Hastings. The two men had done their talking the previous day in Hastings’s air-conditioned office in Bastion. Unlike most of the soldiers they commanded, they had made this return trip more times than they cared to remember. Each had developed his own way of managing the traumatic adjustment from theatre to home, and today, each was privately struggling more than they had on any other occasion. On top of all that had happened, the end of the Afghan campaign felt like the end of an era. A full stop. The peaceful future was a dark, forbidding country.

  Major Norton had become skilled at blanking out unpleasant events. He even had a mental image for it: a wave washing over sandcastles and leaving smooth, unsullied sand in its wake. In his mind’s eye he pictured the beach at Ilfracombe, close to where he had spent his carefree, somewhat sheltered childhood playing among the dunes. It was the place to which his imagination inevitably transported him during moments in which there was something he wished to forget. He was there now.

  ‘Mel’s got things organized as usual, I hear,’ Hastings said, looking up from a crumpled copy of the Daily Mail he had borrowed from the bus driver.

  ‘Yes,’ Norton answered.

  He and Melanie had managed to exchange a few stilted emails once he had arrived back in Bastion from the post. She had told him about the arrangements for the afternoon.

  ‘Can’t wait to see her, I bet,’ Hastings added unnecessarily.

  Norton nodded, hoping to avoid any discussion of his family life with his CO. Hastings was married to a jolly, practical, rather unglamorous woman named Lizzie. They had no children but numerous dogs and two horses to whom Lizzie devote
d most of her considerable energies. Norton suspected that theirs had been a marriage of habit and convenience for some time and that Hastings was growing tired of the arrangement. His mention of Melanie carried an uncomfortable subtext – spare a thought for me while you’re lying next to your beautiful young wife.

  ‘You’ll have a few house calls to make, though,’ Hastings remarked, as if Norton needed reminding. ‘Always better coming from the horse’s mouth, and as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll be visiting this evening,’ Norton assured him, ‘straight after the picnic.’

  ‘I’d get straight to it, if I were you,’ Hastings said. ‘I’m sure Mel will save you some sandwiches.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Norton realized that he wasn’t merely being offered avuncular advice; he was being issued with a formal order.

  Hastings lowered his voice and leaned across between their seats. ‘And if you could please stress that they shouldn’t talk to any press? You might tell them that Lyons’s life may depend on it.’

  ‘I had intended to, sir. They’ll obviously want to know what we’re doing to get him back, and why we left without him.’

  ‘His next-of-kin – grandmother, isn’t it?’

  Norton nodded.

  ‘Can we trust her with the truth?’

  ‘I’ll gauge it when we meet, sir. I’m not sure I’ve ever met her.’

  ‘Well, mind how you go,’ Hastings said, returning his attention to the newspaper. ‘Maybe give me a bell when you’re done. Let me know how you got along.’

  With that, the conversation was over and Hastings once again engrossed himself in the sex lives of various minor celebrities he had probably never heard of. Still, Norton thought, it might provide him with something to talk to Lizzie about over dinner.

  Highcliffe town centre had been closed off to traffic. The three buses carrying the troops came to a halt and parked on the small cobbled square outside the town hall. Their weary occupants looked out in surprise to see crowds lining the High Street all the way down to the front. Young and old stood side by side cheering enthusiastically. Flags waved, bunting and balloons fluttered. The effect on the men was immediate. Soldiers who had endured six months of unrelenting hardship without displaying a flicker of emotion suddenly found their eyes filling with tears. As they emerged onto the square, the sun even managed to break out from behind the clouds. A school band, which had been practising for weeks, struck up and led the crowd in a spontaneous rendering of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.

  Fearful that his men were in danger of making an exhibition of themselves, Sergeant Bryant yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘C Company, fall in!’

  Like trained animals, they responded on reflex and within seconds had formed two long rows.

  When the band reached the end of the chorus, the crowd fell silent. The only sound was that of a single seagull circling overhead.

  ‘Atten-shun!’ Sergeant Bryant’s order echoed down the street like a rifle crack.

  In response, 120 boots struck the ground in unison.

  The silence settled again. Then, from around the side of the town hall, came the thunderous beat of bass drums.

  Boom. Boom. Boom-boom, boom.

  The regimental band struck up with a peal of trumpets and their signature march. The bandsmen appeared from behind the building, led out by three mounted police officers on gleaming horses.

  ‘Left, turn!’

  The two ranks swivelled to form two sixty-man columns.

  With a swagger stick tucked smartly under his elbow, Colonel Hastings assumed his place at their head. When the band had passed by, Bryant gave the order: ‘By the left – quick march!’

  With their hearts swelling and eyes fixed straight ahead, the soldiers marched in step to the music. They were young and handsome, and their sunburned faces belonged to men who had seen and done things that the crowds applauding them could only guess at. Alongside the relief and joy they also felt sadness for those who had not come home or who were lying in hospital beds, but this was chiefly a moment to celebrate. They had done their duty. They had survived. And they were back in the bosom of those who loved them.

  Major Norton slipped away from the festivities unnoticed and sent Melanie a text promising to catch up with her shortly. He knew that Emily and Hannah would be bitterly disappointed not to see their father walking through the town with his men, but their feelings had to come second to more important business.

  His first call was to a modest semi-detached house a quarter of a mile from the entrance to Highcliffe Camp – the home of the Green family. Paul Green had been a sergeant in the regiment and their paths had crossed many times during Norton’s early years as a newly commissioned lieutenant during several tours in Iraq. He had met Paul’s wife, Rachel, on a few occasions but hadn’t to his knowledge met Sarah Tanner, Kenny’s fiancée. He had, however, heard members of the platoon telling Kenny what a lucky man he was to be marrying her. She was evidently considered quite a catch.

  As Norton had anticipated, it was Paul Green who answered the front door. He had dressed in a regimental tie and blazer in expectation of the visit. They exchanged formal greetings and a stiff handshake before Paul ushered him into the small sitting room at the front of the house.

  ‘Sorry we didn’t make it to Brize Norton,’ Paul said. ‘Things have been a little, you know – difficult.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The two soldiers understood each other perfectly.

  Norton removed his beret and took a seat while Paul went to fetch the others. The Greens’ home was like that of so many military families Norton had known throughout his career. There was little money in evidence, but a deep sense of pride. The walls and shelves were decorated with photographs charting both Paul and Kenny’s army careers. Paul’s campaign medals were displayed in a small glass case. Pride of place was taken by a photo of him speaking to the Queen as she inspected his platoon. It had been taken more than twenty years ago and the young Paul looked almost identical to his son. Norton imagined Kenny growing up in this house looking at that picture and feeling the weight of expectation on his shoulders.

  Paul returned a short while later with Sarah. She was deathly pale and very obviously pregnant. She wore a dark dress and minimal make-up and looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Norton stood to greet her. She shook his hand weakly and sat with her head bowed on the sofa opposite him alongside Paul.

  ‘I’m afraid my wife doesn’t feel up to meeting just yet,’ Paul said. His voice was quiet but steady, the soldier in him firmly in control of his emotions. Norton was grateful for this.

  ‘I understand,’ Norton said. ‘Whenever Mrs Green wishes to speak with me, I will make myself available.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Norton steeled himself. There was no easy way to do this. He would just keep it brief and factual.

  ‘Kenny died in action doing the job he loved. I didn’t see exactly what happened, but I was present at the scene and involved in the exchange of fire in which he was fatally injured.’

  Sarah began to sob. Paul reached for a box of tissues and handed it to her, grateful for the momentary distraction.

  ‘As you may already have been told, Private Peter Lyons had somehow been captured during the night by insurgents. The following morning, with the assistance of a local go-between, I led a section to a nearby village intending to negotiate his release. This party was comprised entirely of men who had volunteered for the task. Kenny was the first to put himself forward.’

  Paul nodded. Norton knew that although this wasn’t the unvarnished truth, it would sustain the dead soldier’s father until his dying day. Sarah continued to weep.

  ‘Unfortunately, once inside the village compound – a place which, I should say, had always been friendly to us and grateful for our assistance – we came under attack from insurgents who had been lying in wait. It was all very quick, probably less than two or three minutes from start to finish. We inf
licted casualties but also received them. Kenny, was, I believe, shot once and died instantly. Two others were badly injured by shrapnel from a grenade. Private Carter remains unconscious with severe head injuries and Private Roberts has unfortunately lost his legs. Both are currently in the specialist ward at Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. If it’s any consolation, I believe the man who fired the round at Private Green was killed in the subsequent exchange. I am told there will be a coroner’s inquiry. The details of the incident will be closely examined.’

  Norton knew that Paul would have either a host of questions or none at all. In his experience, bereaved families either felt the need to pick over every detail or contented themselves with the thought that their loved one had died with honour.

  Paul considered what he had heard for a moment then gently took Sarah’s hand between his. ‘We can all be proud of him, love,’ he said. ‘Anyone can be a hero when it comes to saving their own skin, but laying down your life for a mate, that’s something else. There’s a special place for men like that.’ He met Norton’s gaze, ‘Isn’t that right, Major?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed.’ He addressed Sarah directly: ‘It was an honour and a pleasure to have worked with him, Miss Tanner. He was much respected. His loss will leave a hole in many lives.’

  Sarah was unable to speak except to mouth ‘Thank you’.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?’ said Norton.

  ‘No,’ Paul said, then appeared to change his mind. ‘Well, I suppose I do have one question.’ His voice quavered with emotion for the first time during their encounter. ‘I suspected that Kenny was out on the front line in Helmand because we heard nothing from him, but in the last email he sent us, back in February, he said he was going to be spending the tour in Bastion.’

  ‘Some of the men do that,’ Norton said. ‘It’s not something I necessarily advise.’

  ‘My wife thinks he was told . . .’ Paul swallowed, his words sticking in his throat.

  ‘Let me reassure you, Mr Green,’ Norton said. ‘Before they left here in February, each member of the company knew where they were being posted. If your son tried to sweeten the pill for his family, that was his decision alone.’