‘As a matter of fact, Gerry, I think we’re very close to a formal investigation, starting pretty much right now, unless you can find a way of reassuring me that there is no need, and I doubt that very much. You will recall that Alan Connelly’s death occurred on a public road and I am perfectly within my rights to instigate an inquiry into that, which would then be sure to involve any other deaths of young people at Hangridge.’
‘I thought you and I had a better relationship than that, Karen,’ responded Parker-Brown. ‘And just because we’ve had a minor misunderstanding, it doesn’t mean we can’t sort things out between us …’
Karen had the nasty feeling that their whole ‘relationship’, such as it was, may well have been based on nothing more than Gerry Parker-Brown soft-soaping her so that she would not delve any further into the affairs of the Devonshire Fusiliers. But she didn’t want to go into that.
‘I don’t regard this as a minor misunderstanding, Gerry,’ she said. ‘And neither do I consider that you and I have any relationship at all worth mentioning, and certainly not one which is going to stand in the way of me launching a full-scale police investigation into these deaths, if I feel that is necessary, which I am increasingly beginning to do.
‘So, do you have anything at all to say to me that might make me change my mind?’
‘Well, I certainly know where I stand now, don’t I, Detective Superintendent …’ There was still a twinkle in his eye. Gerry Parker-Brown patently believed he could charm the world, and most certainly that he could charm a woman police officer from a seaside police force.
Karen really wasn’t having it.
‘Look, if you’re absolutely determined not to take me seriously, then I shall have to ask you to accompany me to Torquay police station where we can conduct this interview formally,’ she snapped.
‘You don’t really mean that …’
‘I mean it, absolutely. To start with, and this is really your last chance to do things the easy way, Gerry, I want to know exactly why you didn’t tell me about Jocelyn Slade.’
Parker-Brown held out both hands, palms upwards, in what appeared to be a gesture of supplication.
‘Jocelyn Slade shot herself while on sentry duty,’ he began. ‘It was a dreadful shock for all concerned. As far as I and my staff knew, she had no problems within the army at all. She was a good, young soldier with a promising career ahead of her. But I do understand that her personal life was not so good. There were certain family difficulties – a sick mother, I believe – although I don’t know the details …’
‘Gerry, Jocelyn Slade’s family life is another matter entirely, and although, of course, it is most likely now that we will need sooner or later to involve her family in our inquiries, at this stage all I am interested in, and all I want to know from you, concerns the military,’ said Karen firmly. ‘And you have not answered my question, have you? You are obviously well aware of what happened to Jocelyn Slade. I do not accept that you did not think I would want to know about her death. So why didn’t you tell me, Gerry?’
‘I honestly didn’t think it was relevant—’
‘Please,’ she interrupted sharply. ‘Credit me with at least a modicum of intelligence.’
‘Very well.’ He leaned back in his chair, opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a large cigar.
‘You don’t mind?’ he asked.
She shook her head impatiently and watched while he lit up, puffing perfectly formed balls of smoke into the air. When he started to speak again, his voice was conciliatory and his manner patient, bordering on condescending, she thought.
‘Karen, you must remember that the army is a family,’ he began. ‘And, like most families, we do not like to display our dirty washing in public. Indeed, we owe that to all the splendid young men and women here, at Hangridge, who will no doubt go on to have wonderful careers serving their country. I genuinely did not think that you were asking me about suicides, and I genuinely do not believe that anything has happened at Hangridge, certainly not in my time here, which could possibly warrant a police investigation. In the army, we do like to put our own house in order, you know.’
He paused, puffing quite ferociously on the cigar, which did not seem to want to burn properly. Karen realised that she had never seen him smoke before and couldn’t help wondering if that was in any way significant. He did seem different, or rather, perhaps, he had become different since she had gone into the attack. Before that, he had been his usual, affable, nonchalant self.
‘I think you will find that your superiors already understand that,’ he murmured casually, in between puffs.
She was startled. What was Parker-Brown inferring? That had not been a throwaway remark, she was quite sure. Indeed, she didn’t think Gerry Parker-Brown went in for throwaway remarks. Could he possibly be suggesting some kind of cosy deal with the civilian law-enforcing agencies, a deal that would probably have been agreed in an oak-panelled gentlemen’s club in Mayfair? Karen had encountered that sort of thing before, everybody halfway senior in the police force had at some time or other, and she had always hated it. All boys together, and, whatever happens, let’s keep the hoi polloi at bay.
Karen felt her anger growing. She did not like being manipulated, and she rather felt that that last remark had been yet another attempt by Gerry Parker-Brown to manage her – something she increasingly felt he had been doing his best to do from the moment they first met. And that was a depressing thought. However, if that was what he was trying to do, then he was going the wrong way about it. Karen thoroughly disapproved of the old boys’ network which she knew, damn well, from personal experience, operated not only within the police force and the military, but also in almost all corridors of power ranging from national government to the church.
She studied Gerry Parker-Brown carefully as he leaned back in his chair, drawing deeply on his fat cigar, which had begun to glow rather more healthily since his frantic puffing session. He still did not look at all like a traditional army officer, and she had, to her absolute fury now, thoroughly enjoyed his company. Indeed, she had been on the verge of allowing things to develop into much more than that. As well as being extremely attractive, the man was relaxed, funny and easy-going. Or that was how he appeared. But she was beginning to think it might all be an act, underneath which he was army brass through and through, and that he would do anything, absolutely anything at all, to prevent his particular military boat from being rocked.
He returned her stare without blinking. An old actor’s trick. More and more she was beginning to think that he was probably rather a good actor. He might even be a bloody Freemason, she thought. Like so many of them. He didn’t look the part, of course, not one little bit, but she was beginning to believe that was what Gerry Parker-Brown was all about. The acceptable face of the modern army on top, but, beneath the façade a dedicated career officer whose true attitudes had barely changed since the time of Wellington.
‘And what makes you think that my superiors already understand what you are up to?’ she inquired, struggling to keep her face expressionless.
He shrugged. ‘Just a figure of speech, Karen, that’s all. I was only trying to convince you that you really have no need to investigate Hangridge. We’re the British army, Karen, and that puts us on the same side as you. The Devonshire Fusiliers is a wonderful regiment, with a proud history of defending queen and country, dating back to the Napoleonic wars. We’re the good guys. And you’d surely be much better off chasing criminals, rather than wasting your time and the taxpayer’s money here. That’s my advice and I really do suggest you take it.’
He grinned to soften his words, and there was nothing at all in his voice to suggest a threat. And yet, she felt threatened. Or, at the very least, she felt that she was being warned off.
‘I never stop chasing criminals, Gerry,’ she said, rising abruptly from her chair.
As she did so she removed the little silver dagger brooch from her jacket lapel, where he had
pinned it earlier, and tossed it casually onto the desk before him.
‘Yours, I think.’
‘But Karen, we had such fun this morning.’ He picked the brooch up and held it out to her. ‘Surely you can keep this small memento?’
She ignored him and turned to leave. At the door she twisted around.
‘And you can forget Sunday,’ she told him over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think I’d better risk compromising myself any further, do you?’
His face was a picture of wide-eyed innocence.
‘Oh, come on, Karen …’
She left the room quickly, opening the door and closing it with a bang. It gave her some satisfaction just to cut off the sound of his voice.
Eleven
The information Margaret Slade had given Kelly was dynamite. This was turning into a major story and Kelly had never stopped being excited about stories.
He felt he had now gathered together several parts of a jigsaw, but he knew that there were lots more still missing. In the case of each death, the families of the young soldiers concerned had certain information which alone amounted to very little. However, when you put all these little bits of information together, the possible implications were mind-boggling.
Could the culture of bullying, of which the army all too often stood accused, simply have gone too far at Hangridge? Could there even be a psychopath on the loose within the Devonshire Fusiliers? Or was he allowing his imagination to take him a step too far?
He sat in his car, parked outside Mrs Slade’s flat, thinking it all through. Kelly felt considerable compassion for Margaret Slade, and for her daughter, just as he did for the Connellys in Glasgow and for Mrs Foster in Torquay. Somehow or other, these people had all been caught up in something that was beginning to look increasingly sinister. He was determined to do his best to solve the mystery.
He made himself a roll-up while he contemplated his next move. He might be able to find out more about this young soldier called Trevor, by getting Sally to troll through inquest reports in the Argus’ library. But it would be much quicker to find out exactly who Trevor was and how he had died, if Karen Meadows would help. Although he had, not for the first time, ignored her entreaties for him to take no further action without her approval, he thought she might forgive him when he told her what he’d found out.
First he dialled her mobile, but it was switched to voicemail. Then he tried her number at Torquay police station, but was told that she was out. He left messages for her to call him and then set off on the long drive back to Torquay. It was just after 6.30 p.m. when he arrived in the seaside town, and Karen had still not called him back. He tried both numbers again, with the same results as earlier. He wondered fleetingly if she was avoiding him. After all, he knew he was leading her, and himself, into deep water.
He made a decision then. If Karen wouldn’t come to him, as it were, then he would go to Karen. He had, in any case, never had any intention of talking to her on the phone about what he had found out. He drove straight to Torquay police station and, remarkably, managed to find a parking space in Lansdowne Lane, just outside the dance school, from which he could see the entrance to the CID offices on his left and the big gateway leading into the car park at the back of Torquay police station, and the door to the custody suite, on his right. He got out of the car and walked towards the gateway. The actual gates that had once been there had disappeared years previously. Not for the first time, Kelly reflected on the apparent lack of security. There was closed-circuit TV in operation, of course, and the various doors leading into the station were all secure. It none the less amused Kelly to amble casually into the back yard of Torquay nick and have a snoop around. His purpose on this occasion was to check that Karen’s car was there. It was. The distinctive blue MG was parked in its usual place. Kelly was not surprised that she was still working. Indeed, he did not think she ever left the station much before seven, and that was on a short day. He resolved to catch her when she left for home.
His mobile rang just as he was climbing back into his own MG. He checked the display panel, wondering if Karen had called him back at last. Instead, his caller turned out to be Nick.
‘I’ve been out of touch all day, Dad. I just picked up your message about Moira,’ Nick began. ‘Any change?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Kelly was starkly aware that he didn’t really know. He hadn’t been in touch since leaving the hospice that morning. But nobody had called him. So he assumed that no news was good news.
‘I can’t get down to Torquay till the day after tomorrow at the earliest, do you think that will be all right?’
Kelly knew what he meant. Nick, too, did not want to put his true meaning into words. The question he was trying to ask was whether or not Moira would still be alive. And Kelly didn’t have a clue.
‘I’m sure it will,’ he said automatically.
‘Right, I’ll see you then.’
‘Yes.’
For once, the conversation between father and son was stilted. Impending death had that effect, Kelly reckoned.
For a moment he thought about discussing the Hangridge situation with his former soldier son, something he would certainly like to do at some stage. But definitely not on the phone, he thought. And not on the back of that awkward exchange about Moira. Indeed, it did not seem to be possible to talk about anything other than poor Moira. And when there was really nothing more that could be said about her, father and son ended the call in a kind of glum, mutual consent.
Not wishing to dwell further on Moira and her approaching death, Kelly fished in his pocket for his notebook and began to chronicle the events of the past few days, carefully assimilating the jottings he had made while talking to the various parents of the three dead soldiers whom he had so far met.
He was still a journalist at heart, however much he tried to fight against it. He told himself this would be his last story, and that it was going to be a huge one. He also told himself, that, for once, this would be a story which might do some good. This was going to be a classic example of true campaigning journalism, of the sort that he had gone into newspapers to pursue, in the days when he had still been young enough to believe in his own dreams.
As he wrote, he contemplated what he would do with the finished article. He was quite sure that he hadn’t uncovered one half of it yet, but, on the other hand, there was enough of a story in what he had already – at least three, probably four, deaths of young soldiers at Hangridge in fifteen months, and one of them, to his certain first-hand knowledge, in suspicious circumstances – to guarantee him publication in almost any national newspaper. However, if he went into print at this stage, the entire British press corps would then unleash its top investigative reporters onto the story.
The ramifications were, after all, enormous. At the very least, the army was surely guilty of a shocking lack of care at Hangridge. At worst, something very nasty was going on and, according to Karen Meadows, the army was already closing ranks.
One way and another, there was so much more that Kelly wanted to do, wanted to find out about, before he started to market the story. He needed to research some more military statistics for a start, like the number of alleged suicides and accidental deaths there had been in the army throughout the UK in recent years. He also wondered if finding the family of the fourth soldier would lead him to yet more surprises.
But, as he wrote, he became surprised at how much he already had to say. This could possibly be the biggest story of his life. Kelly could feel it in his bones.
As soon as she arrived back at her office from Hangridge, Karen Meadows attempted to contact the clerk to the coroner’s court to ask him for the records of the inquest on Jocelyn Slade, something which, upon reflection, she probably should have done before taking off to confront Parker-Brown. But she just hadn’t been able to wait.
A recorded message told her that the coroner’s court was in session and that the clerk would return her call as soon as pos
sible. She left a brief message.
It was hard for her to think about anything other than Hangridge. And she was still reflecting on her meeting with Gerry Parker-Brown and going over and over in her mind all that Kelly had so far told her, when to her utter amazement, just before six o’clock, she received an email from the CO of the Devonshire Fusiliers, repeating his invitation for her to join him for Sunday lunch.
‘I know you were upset earlier and I do understand. But can’t we at least try to keep our personal lives separate from our work? I have so enjoyed spending time with you, and I’d really love to see you on Sunday as we had planned. I do so hope we can still meet.’
Smooth, arrogant bastard, thought Karen.
She pressed delete at once. She couldn’t believe the man’s cheek. One thing was absolutely certain, she was risking no more unofficial meetings of any kind with Colonel Gerrard Parker-Brown. He was covering something up, she was quite convinced of that now. She also remained pretty sure that he had been using her all along. And, with his repeated Sunday invitation, was, quite incredibly she felt, actually still trying to use her. The very thought of it made her blazing mad.
And it was because of her state of mind that she did not want any further contact with John Kelly for a bit. Indeed, as soon as Kelly’s name had flashed on her mobile earlier, she had not only deliberately ignored his call but also instructed the clerk who answered her office phone to field any further calls from him. She was not yet ready for Kelly. She had inquiries of her own to make and quite possibly a major investigation to launch, one that was not going to be easy. The sort of investigation that makes and breaks careers.
Karen was no coward, and certainly no jobsworth. She was not at all adverse to taking risks. And, by God, how she wanted to give Parker-Brown the shock of his smug smooth life! None the less, she was starkly aware that she had probably already taken quite enough risks in her career to last most senior police officers a lifetime. On more than one occasion she had put herself in a situation where her job had been on the line, and at least twice John Kelly had been involved.
No Reason To Die Page 17