No Reason To Die

by Hilary Bonner

  Nick looked across at him appealingly. Kelly felt absolutely nothing. He knew that Nick loved him, had loved him since they had become so joyfully reconciled a few years previously, in spite of the fact that Kelly had been such a neglectful father. Kelly had always thought it a miracle that Nick had still been prepared to accept him, and had never failed to be deeply moved when Nick expressed his love for him. Until now, he thought grimly.

  ‘So, you knocked me senseless, instead,’ said Kelly flatly.

  ‘What else could I do? I had to be able to make a clean getaway. I couldn’t let you find out that it was me. My torch had a rubber casing, so I knew that if I chose the spot carefully, I should be able to stun you without doing any lasting harm.’

  ‘So you tried to knock me out carefully, is that it?’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose.’

  It was exactly what Kelly had thought at the time, of course.

  ‘And then you rang me up in the early hours of the morning with some spurious excuse, in order to make sure that you had been careful enough.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. I watched from the woods too. I saw you get in your car and drive away. What were you doing in that bloody great tank of a Volvo anyway? If you’d been driving the MG, I’d never have gone near you. I’d have known it was you.’

  ‘The exhaust went.’

  ‘Ah, just for a change, eh?’

  Nick understood about MGs. Kelly wasn’t interested.

  ‘But if it hadn’t been me, you would have killed whoever happened to be walking up and down that beach without question?’ he persisted. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Well yes. I suppose it is. But you don’t understand, Dad. Really, you don’t. There was good reason, you see …’

  ‘Try me, Nick. Tell me your good reason for being prepared to strike down and kill a quite possibly innocent stranger, just because your former squadron leader asked you to?’

  ‘Look, Dad, Gerry and I were in Northern Ireland together. And we both felt extremely strongly about what was happening over there. You have to see it to believe it, Dad …’

  ‘I saw it, Nick, you know that,’ said Kelly.

  ‘No, Dad. Not the way we did. And the IRA is like any other organisation. At the core of the worst atrocities, there is an extremist minority. Most of them call themselves the Real IRA, nowadays, whatever that means. Now we allegedly have peace, but there are all too many bastards who don’t even want it. Gerry, well – when things needed sorting Gerry was prepared to go that bit further than most, even within the SAS. His father had been an NCO in the Devonshires and had died in Northern Ireland. Did you know that?’

  Kelly shook his head. He neither knew nor cared, as it happened.

  ‘He didn’t give a shit, actually, Gerry. When balls were handed out, Gerry got given a pair the size of fucking footballs.’

  Kelly, who could see the pride in Nick, even under these circumstances, was becoming more and more starkly aware of just how deep into some other murky world his only son had become immersed. He said nothing.

  ‘We had this man over there, undercover. His information was dynamite. Always. He was an Irishman, but he was British army through and through. Trained in the Marines. He spent years there undercover. Gerry and I, well, we ran him. The man was amazing. A real hero. Last year they had to get him out, his cover was about to be blown. Gerry was determined to find a new life for him. He got him into the Devonshires, made up some story for him, gave him a new name and a whole new phoney background. You know what they say, if you want to hide a lump of coal, then put it in a coal bunker with lots of other lumps of coal. The Irishman was a soldier. So they slotted him into the Devonshires and made him a sergeant, and Gerry took him under his wing. But, well, he was never an easy man to handle. All that time undercover. It had done something to him. To his head. He was a bit of a monster with women, it’s true.’

  Kelly found himself thinking back to when he had been sitting in Parker-Brown’s office at Hangridge. He had a small bet with himself that it had been the Irishman who had opened the door and then quickly closed it again after Parker-Brown had shaken his hand in warning.

  ‘So he was sent to a barracks where vulnerable young women were being trained? Brilliant.’

  ‘Well, anyway. Apparently, he’d come on strong to this girl—’

  ‘Which girl?’

  ‘Her name was Jocelyn Slade.’

  ‘Just strong?’

  ‘Well, she claimed he’d raped her.’

  ‘Oh, dear God, Nick.’

  ‘Look, the Irishman had lived too long under different rules.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I know the type. And he’d think young women soldiers were fair game, of course.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t really know what happened. Just that it all snowballed. Jocelyn Slade had a boyfriend, didn’t she? She’d told him all about it.’

  ‘Craig Foster?’

  ‘Yes. Well, Gerry tried to calm it all down, but Slade and Foster were apparently telling people that they were going to go to the newspapers. Eventually, the Irishman sorted it himself. Slade and Foster. A suicide and a tragic accident. Unfortunately, the other sentry – what was his name?’

  ‘Gates, James Gates.’

  ‘Well, he was suspicious of what had happened. The Irishman thought he was a loose cannon, him, and Alan Connelly. They’d been mates with Foster and did a whole lot of talking. Big talking. Anyway, Gerry arranged for Gates to be posted abroad, to Germany.’

  ‘And then had him killed over there.’

  Nick shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Could have been a genuine freak accident, for all I know. But Connelly didn’t think so. So when Connelly went AWOL, Gerry knew he had to find him.’

  ‘And kill him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea about that, either. It was an accident on a filthy night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, spare me, Nick. I was there. I saw how frightened that boy was. Out of his mind with terror. And no wonder. It was his CO who walked into that pub, and Connelly already believed that soldiers were being killed. It must have been so damned easy to throw him under a truck, make it look like an accident.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘I do. I did from the beginning, somehow. Parker-Brown and his sidekick – who was that, then, the Irishman?’

  Nick shrugged.

  ‘I’ll bet it was.’ Kelly paused, thinking back. The second man hadn’t uttered a word that night in The Wild Dog. If he had done, his Irish accent would have been evident.

  Kelly’s head was swimming almost as much as when his son had nearly killed him two days previously, but for an entirely different reason. He knew he was experiencing an acute emotional reaction to all that he had been told.

  ‘And what about Robert Morgan, the soldier knifed in London, on his way to the Gates’ family home? He knew things, too, didn’t he? And he had probably decided not to stay silent any longer. I’d bet my house on that. Am I right?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘I think I’ve said enough.’

  ‘Did the Irishman kill Morgan as well, then? Take his mobile phone? Make it look like a mugging? Was that the Irishman?’

  Nick looked away and said nothing.

  ‘Does this Irishman have a name?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘Several. But none that I’m telling you. Anyway, he’s gone with Gerry. He’ll have another name today.’

  As Nick spoke, Kelly was suddenly hit by another revelation.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t the Irishman who killed Robert Morgan, was it? It was you, Nick. That was you, again. You murdered him.’

  Nick continued to avoid his father’s gaze. ‘I’ve told you all I am going to …’

  ‘Fine. It doesn’t matter, really.’ Kelly’s voice was very flat. ‘You’ve told me all I need to know.’

  ‘I told you you wouldn’t understand, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Damn right, I don’t understand. You’re a cold-blooded murderer
, Nick, aren’t you? You’re prepared to kill a man on request, an innocent man, and to you, it seems, it’s little more than swatting a fly. You … you, you’re the lowest of the low. You’re inhuman, Nick.’ Kelly paused, and he could feel the tears pricking more incessantly at the back of his eyes. He had to fight to stave them off. ‘Damn right, I don’t understand,’ he repeated.

  It was then as if something snapped in Nick. He jumped to his feet and strode across the room towards Kelly, jabbing a pointed finger at him, his lips drawn back over his teeth in an unpleasant snarl. But Kelly wasn’t afraid. He was beyond fear.

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ Nick shouted. ‘The army was the only family I ever had, Dad.’ And the word ‘Dad’ came out heavy with sarcasm. ‘When I was growing up, you were off all over the world, allegedly on stories, actually cheating on your wife – my mother – at every opportunity, fucking everything that moved, drinking yourself into a stupor and ultimately sticking God knows what up your nose.’

  Kelly recoiled. It felt as if Nick had hit him again.

  ‘Gerry Parker-Brown is the finest man I know, and when the army didn’t want me any more, he turned out to be my best friend. He never let me down. I’d do anything for him and for his regiment. As for the Irishman? I couldn’t begin to tell you what he has done for his country, and his country, Dad, is Great Britain, not fucking Ireland. We owe him. All of us. Everything he has done is down to the British army and what we put him through. Gerry was determined to protect him, and that’s why he came to me. Unfortunately the whole thing got a bit out of hand …’

  Nick stepped back, more controlled now and no longer behaving threateningly. Kelly, wondering at the understatement, managed a wry smile.

  ‘It did, didn’t it?’ he said. ‘But Gerry wasn’t really protecting the fucking Irishman, was he? Not in the end. And neither were you. The more out of hand it all got, the more he was trapped into protecting his regiment, and both of you were protecting yourselves. I dread to think what you two lunatics had done in Northern Ireland. But the Irishman knew, didn’t he? If he went down, you two would go down with him, wouldn’t you? That’s why you were prepared to kill for Parker-Brown, Nick, not for any fucking altruistic reason. You both had so much to lose, too, didn’t you? Parker-Brown had his whole fucking glorious career, and you, and you …’ Kelly looked around the luxurious and expensively furnished apartment, with its breathtaking river views. ‘You had your fancy lifestyle to lose, didn’t you? All of this, your flash cars and your holidays in the Caribbean.’

  Nick sat down again, apparently quite calm.

  ‘Think what you like,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like my thoughts,’ replied Kelly, forcing himself to focus. There were still aspects of all of this that puzzled him.

  ‘If life is so cheap among you, Parker-Brown and the rest, why didn’t you take out the Irishman himself, when he started to cause so much trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘To begin with, it was loyalty to him, whatever you think. Then, after he’d dealt with Slade and Foster, it became too dangerous. If he’d come to sudden harm, the colonel reckoned it would come back on us and blow out the whole Irish operation we had overseen. There could have been mayhem. It seemed easier to let the Irishman do it his way.’

  ‘And sacrificing those young people was not a problem?’ Kelly found the detached way his son discussed violent death quite chilling.

  ‘National security was involved, Dad.’

  ‘Absolute bollocks.’

  Nick looked down at the ground.

  ‘Well, we never expected it to snowball like it did, never expected it to involve so many …’

  ‘So many murders, Nick? Is murder the word you are seeking?’

  Nick shrugged.

  Kelly felt ill, really ill. He stood up, concentrating hard. The room seemed to be moving.

  ‘I’m going to leave now,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay here with you any longer.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to know, Dad. Not ever.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you did.’

  Kelly moved shakily towards the door. He had to hold on first to the back of the sofa and then to the edge of the table to ensure that he did not fall. Nick did not appear to notice.

  ‘How did you know?’ he asked. ‘What made you think it was me? I didn’t think you’d ever suspect me.’

  Kelly studied his son sorrowfully. ‘I suspected you once before,’ he said. ‘There was that other murder, wasn’t there, more than two years ago now, that I, just for a moment, came to believe you might have committed. But I told myself I was crazy, plumb crazy …’

  Kelly let his voice trail away. Nick looked startled, but made no response.

  ‘And there was something else,’ Kelly continued. ‘Just a coincidence, a very meaningful coincidence. Jennifer saw your car parked in Torquay on the same night that I was attacked. A customised Aston, so distinctive that she spotted it at once. Careless of you, Nick.’

  Nick’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t drive my own car to Torquay,’ he said. ‘I’m not an amateur, for God’s sake. I’d never have done that. I know my motor is distinctive, but it’s not the only one in the damned country. There are some others very nearly the same. Jesus! She didn’t see my car, Dad, no way.’

  Kelly managed a wan smile. This, surely, was the final irony.

  ‘Well, there you go,’ he said quietly.

  Nick stood up again, his handsome face creased in a frown.

  ‘What are you going to do now, Dad?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to get some fresh air,’ said Kelly. ‘I need it.’

  ‘I mean, are you going to the police?’

  Nick reached out and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. Kelly shrugged him off. He couldn’t bear to be touched by his son. Not any more.

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ he said, leaning against the front door for support. ‘What would you do if I told you that I was going to the police – kill me?’

  ‘You know I couldn’t. I have already proved that.’

  Kelly opened the door. Suddenly, he really could not stay in the same room as his only son for a second longer. As he left, he had the last word.

  ‘Yes, well, I haven’t made up my mind what I am going to do yet. So, you’ll just have to live with that for the time being, won’t you? Which is, of course, a luxury your various victims have been permanently denied.’

  Twenty-two

  Meanwhile, at Hangridge, Karen left Cooper, Tompkins and the rest to methodically interview the entire barracks, if necessary, and headed back to Torquay police station, driven as earlier by PC Mickey Turner.

  On the way, she tried to call Kelly but both his phone at home and his mobile were on voicemail.

  ‘I hope you’re still sleeping, Kelly, and not doing anything daft,’ she said in her message. ‘I just wanted to touch base with you. Guess what, Parker-Brown has flown the nest. Call me as soon as you can to let me know you’re all right. Let’s keep in touch.’

  Back in her office, she learned that the patrol car which had just made a routine check on Kelly had reported that his borrowed Volvo was no longer there and his house appeared to be empty.

  ‘Damn the man,’ muttered Karen. He undoubtedly was doing something daft, and she was worried. His life could well still be in danger.

  But, after instructing uniform to continue to look out for Kelly, she did her best to put him out of her mind. There was nothing more she could do.

  She then contacted Tomlinson to bring him up to speed. Her call was double-edged. Parker-Brown had been transferred out of immediate harm’s way with extraordinary swiftness, she felt, and with interesting timing – just as she had been given the go-ahead to launch a full investigation into the Hangridge deaths.

  Karen suspected that he had been tipped off. And she had a pretty good idea that Harry Tomlinson, under those damned clubby, all boys together, rules again, had called Parker-Brown and told him what to expect. She was pretty damned sure, though, that
the chief constable would not for a moment have considered the possibility of Parker-Brown promptly doing a runner. After all, that was not playing the game. And, even if it was a bit childish, she was somewhat looking forward to telling Tomlinson about that.

  And indeed, when she explained to him the situation which had confronted her at Hangridge that morning, he sounded both shocked and let down.

  ‘What? He’s just gone? And without telling anyone?’

  Karen knew that what the chief constable meant was that Parker-Brown had not notified him that he was about to stage a disappearing act. And that, of course, no doubt broke all the rules of Tomlinson’s damn silly code of honour.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ she responded expressionlessly. ‘And, naturally, a top priority of this investigation now is to find Parker-Brown. All I have been told so far is that he has been transferred, that he’s on special duties, and that his whereabouts are classified. The whole thing stinks of a cover-up, quite honestly, sir. Anyway, I was hoping you might be able to help, put some pressure on the MoD to tell us where he is, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Umm. I’ll do my best.’

  For once, the chief constable did not argue. Karen reckoned he probably didn’t dare. He certainly wouldn’t want it ever to become public knowledge that he had given Parker-Brown any kind of warning about the impending investigation, as Karen suspected he had.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ she said.

  ‘He could already be a long way away, of course. We’ve still got dammed near a war situation in Iraq, after all, and that would certainly put him out of our grasp for a bit.’

  ‘It’s possible, sir. Yes.’

  ‘On the other hand, he might have gone nowhere at all. If you’re right about all this being another military smokescreen, well, he might just have gone home to put his feet up for a bit.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Karen sat very still for a few seconds after she ended the call. The chief constable had the previous day guessed straight away that she had set up Phil Cooper and the MCIT to support her bid for a formal investigation into Hangridge, and now once again she may have underestimated Tomlinson. Of course. Parker-Brown could well be at his home. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of that?