Within seconds of hanging up she patched herself through to Middlemoor again, on the line which she knew would connect her directly with Tomlinson’s secretary.
Joan Lockharte was her normal cool self. Karen responded merely by being brisk and businesslike.
‘I wondered if you happened to have a home address for Colonel Parker-Brown?’ she asked.
‘I might have,’ replied Joan.
Karen counted to six. ‘Could you look for me?’ she continued pleasantly.
There was a silence lasting little more than thirty seconds, while Joan presumably checked her computer database.
‘The Old Manor, Roborough,’ she recited crisply, when she picked up her phone again.
Karen may never have liked the woman, but she had always admired her efficiency. And had she been in the same room instead of on the end of a telephone line, she might have been tempted to give her a big hug. As it was, she settled for a very genuine thank you.
She was a little puzzled, though. Roborough was a village on the outskirts of Dartmoor, conveniently just a few miles from the centre of Plymouth, which had become extremely fashionable in recent years. And the Old Manor sounded a fearfully grand address to Karen. Parker-Brown had told her that he had married a rich wife, but he’d indicated that since the break-up of his marriage, his finances had been drained. Also, while she and Gerry had somehow never got around to discussing where he lived when he wasn’t in residence somewhere with his regiment, the Old Manor did not sound like the sort of house a man on his own would choose.
Kelly did not pick up his messages, not from Karen, not from anyone. He kept his mobile switched off while he was travelling to and from London and did not bother to check his answering machine when he finally arrived home.
It had been a nightmare journey. He still felt far from well. Kelly had been fortunate enough to pick up a cab almost immediately upon leaving Nick’s apartment block and stepping out into the street, which had been all for the best, because he had feared that he might be about to collapse.
He had recovered slightly on the drive across London to Paddington railway station, but none the less had been in something of a daze throughout the train journey to Newton Abbot. Appalling images of death and destruction, some that he had experienced during his long years as a globetrotting journalist, and some which were merely the product of a feverish imagination, kept flashing across his mind.
Somewhere around Taunton, he had finally fallen into a fitful sleep but that had brought no relief. Instead, he had dreamed that he was back in Northern Ireland in the 1970s, and that he had been taken blindfolded to some secret destination in order to interview an IRA leader.
But when the blindfold was removed, his son Nick stood before him, holding an automatic rifle aimed straight at Kelly’s head.
‘You don’t fucking understand,’ shouted Nick, but he spoke not in his own voice but in a broad Ulster accent. Then there was a huge bang and a blaze of light, and Kelly woke up in a cold sweat, just as the train pulled into Newton Abbot station.
Yet again Kelly had driven, although only the few miles to the station, when he knew he really shouldn’t have done, and now he had to drive home – very aware that the effects of that bash on the head remained a long way from wearing off. And to make matters worse, he was still driving the big cumbersome Volvo because he had not had the time or the inclination to swap it for the MG, even though he knew his little car was now ready. He had to concentrate very hard merely on focusing, as he made his way slowly to St Marychurch.
Once back in the comfortingly familiar surroundings of his home, he slumped into his armchair in the bay window and closed his eyes. He was neither asleep nor fully awake. The phone rang several times. He ignored it. There was nobody in the world he wanted to talk to. Nobody at all.
His doorbell rang. He peered out of the window. A police patrol car was parked outside and two uniformed constables stood at his door. Kelly sighed. He knew that if he tried to ignore them they wouldn’t leave him alone.
‘Are you all right, sir,’ asked the older of the two PCs when he opened the door.
‘Fine, yes.’ Kelly was abrupt. He just wanted them to go away.
‘Do you mind if I ask you where you’ve been, sir?’
‘Oh, just some shopping.’
‘Quite a long shopping trip, wasn’t it, sir?’
Kelly shrugged.
‘Right. Well, just don’t go out again without letting us know, OK, sir?’
‘I’m not planning on going anywhere, Constable,’ said Kelly. And this time he meant it. He had nowhere left to go.
Little more than an hour or so later, Karen and Mickey Turner arrived in Roborough. The Old Manor turned out to be a huge granite pile on the outskirts of the village, with sweeping views across the moor. Karen had been right. The house, with its tree-lined private driveway and apparently extensive grounds, was extremely grand indeed. It also looked well cared for. Indeed, it stank of money.
Karen looked around her with interest. A property like this must surely have been acquired thanks to Parker-Brown’s wealthy wife, she assumed. You certainly would not get even close to this place on an army officer’s salary. But what kind of woman would walk away from all this and leave her husband in situ, she asked herself? In any case, hadn’t Gerry Parker-Brown indicated that his marriage break-up had left him in some financial difficulty.
Still studying the imposing surroundings as she and Turner approached the tall, porticoed entrance to the house, she stood back to allow the young PC to ring the doorbell.
A tall, elegant woman, quite possibly in her early forties, but meticulously well preserved, answered the door.
‘Yes?’ she enquired coolly, flicking a strand of coiffured blonde hair away from her face, and apparently completely unconcerned by the presence of a uniformed police officer on her doorstep.
Karen, who had been even further taken aback by being confronted by a woman, allowed Turner to do the introductions.
‘We’re looking for Colonel Gerrard Parker-Brown, madam,’ he announced.
‘My husband? Is he expecting you?’
Her husband? Not for the first time during the course of this investigation, Karen felt as if she had been kicked in the belly by a mule. If the truth be known, she had begun to suspect such a possibility from the moment Joan Lockharte had supplied her with Parker-Brown’s address. But, my God, that man had done a number on her.
‘Is he here, Mrs Parker-Brown?’ she interrupted sharply.
‘Well, yes …’
‘In that case, please get him at once, will you?’
Within a couple of minutes Gerrard Parker-Brown arrived at the front door. He was wearing jeans and an England rugby sweater. He looked as handsome as ever, and if he was anything like as disconcerted by her unexpected visit as he should have been, then he was not showing it. But then, Karen remembered that the man was a consummate actor. Or that was one word for it. She was beginning to prefer words like charlatan and con man.
‘Karen,’ he began, smiling at her. ‘What an unexpected pleas—’
‘Detective Superintendent, to you,’ she snapped. ‘I’m here to formally interview you, Colonel, concerning a number of suspicious deaths within your regiment.’
‘Ah. I’m afraid you’re too late.’
‘I’m sorry …’ Karen was about to blow her top.
‘Yes. As soon as I heard that a police inquiry had been set up, I realised that I would have to make a statement. So I sorted it out through the top brass and I gave a full statement to two officers from the National Crime Squad, who drove down here early this morning. Apparently, there has been rising concern at the Ministry of Defence regarding the number of suicides at certain army bases, and an inquiry has been set up to look at the problem as a whole across the country, which is why the National Crime boys are already involved. As I told you, Detective Superintendent, we do take the welfare of our soldiers extremely seriously. No doubt, that statement w
ill be forwarded to you in due course. They told me that was all that would be necessary.’
I bet they did, thought Karen. She had never heard of an inquiry anything like the one Parker-Brown had referred to, and she rather suspected that it had probably been set up within the last twenty-four hours. In as much as it existed at all. Aloud, she said:
‘I see. None the less, Colonel, I am the senior officer in charge of this investigation here in Devon, and I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to go through that statement again, right away, with myself and PC Turner, and to answer any additional questions we may have. So perhaps you would invite us in, please.’
Parker-Brown did not move an inch from the doorway. As so often with him, she now realised, his face and eyes were giving nothing away.
‘I’m so sorry, Detective Superintendent. I have been instructed by my superiors at the MoD to give no further interviews to the police. It is felt that I have already fulfilled my every obligation.’
‘I’m afraid I do not agree with that, Colonel, and I must insist.’ Karen struggled to keep her voice calm. She was absolutely furious.
‘Oh. Are you planning to arrest me, Detective Superintendent?’
Parker-Brown was so cool that Karen wanted to slap him.
‘Not at this moment. No.’
‘In that case, Detective Superintendent, I am sure you will forgive me if I prefer to follow the orders of my superiors.’
Karen stared at him for several seconds. If she had thought there was any way she could have got away with it, she really would have hit him. She was trapped and she knew it. Gesturing to Turner to accompany her, she turned on her heel and began to walk away from the house.
‘Do not think this is the end of the matter,’ she commented rather lamely, she thought, over her shoulder. ‘We will be back.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he responded, his manner teasing, his voice displaying more than a touch of arrogance, she reckoned.
It was too much for her.
As Turner stepped into their squad car, Karen returned to Parker-Brown, who had not moved from his position in the doorway of his home.
‘I met your wife,’ she told him quietly.
‘Ah,’ he said. She waited to see if he would make any further comment. He didn’t.
‘Why?’ she asked.
He understood what she meant at once.
‘I didn’t think you’d have anything to do with me if you thought I was married.’
He could have no idea, of course, how ironic she found that remark. He didn’t know about Phil Cooper. Married men, unfortunately, had not always been off her agenda. Congenital liars were.
‘You’re a grade A bastard in every direction of life, Gerry,’ she told him, her eyes blazing with anger. ‘And I am going to get you, I promise.’
He said nothing, but she thought there may have been the merest flicker of concern in those strangely feminine brown eyes. And with this man, she thought, as she turned away from him again, even that was a result.
*
Kelly stayed in the armchair in the window for the rest of that day and the whole of the night, going over and over everything in his mind.
There had been a total of six sudden deaths of young soldiers stationed at Hangridge: Trevor Parsons, Jocelyn Slade, Craig Foster, James Gates, Alan Connelly and Robert Morgan.
Parsons’ death, it seemed, could well have been a genuine suicide after all. Jocelyn Slade and Craig Foster had, according to Nick, both been murdered by the monstrous and mysterious Irishman. James Gates’ death remained unexplained, although Kelly strongly suspected he had been murdered too, probably on the instructions of Parker-Brown. Connelly had almost certainly been dispatched by the Irishman and Parker-Brown. And Nick’s silence when his father had accused him of killing Morgan made Kelly quite certain that he was guilty of that final murder.
It was mind-blowing. Kelly felt sick. He sat staring into space, desperately trying to come to terms with it all. The phone rang several more times but he continued to ignore it.
He did not sleep properly all night, only occasionally dozing fitfully.
In the morning, still feeling nauseous, he decided to check his messages, even though it was highly unlikely that he would do anything about them.
There were several from Margaret Slade.
‘John, things are really starting to happen. We’re planning to do our bit, too, just to make sure this investigation doesn’t get swept under the carpet as well. We’re going to march on parliament at the end of the week and we want to publicise that. We also want to announce that we are calling for a full public inquiry. The papers already know there’s something up. People talk, don’t they? Neil Connelly has apparently told his local rag in Scotland that he now thinks his son was murdered and that he might not be the only one. I’ve had the Sun, the Mail, the Mirror and the Guardian on to me already and so far I’ve stalled, because I need to know what you are planning. Please call me.’
‘John, where are you? I think I’ve now had every paper in the country on the phone. They’re all champing at the bit. John, it has to be time to make our move.’
‘John. Please call me.’
‘John. If I don’t hear from you tonight, I’m going to try to handle everything myself. I’m going to have to start giving interviews.’
Kelly stared blankly at the machine. He knew he should call Margaret Slade back. She didn’t deserve to be suddenly abandoned. He just didn’t feel able to do so. He couldn’t tell her any of what he had learned. Not yet. But worse than that, unless he did something, unless he did tell Karen Meadows all that Nick had told him, unless he shopped his only son, he had a dreadful feeling the truth was never going to come out – even if the families did force a public inquiry.
There were also several messages from Karen Meadows.
‘I do hope you’re there, Kelly. I heard from uniform that you did a disappearing act. Will you please pick up the phone. I still need you on the case. You’d never believe the wall that the army are building round this little lot. One thing is certain, this investigation is only just beginning.’
The final call was from Jennifer.
‘I’ve also left a message on your mobile, John. I thought you were planning to come over? I’ve got some news.’
He switched off the answering machine, pulled the telephone socket out of the wall, and sat staring into space for several minutes. Eventually, he went up to the bathroom and removed the packet of Nurofen he always kept in the cabinet. Then he went downstairs and raided the cupboard in the kitchen, where he kept the rest of whatever other medical supplies he had. There was some paracetamol, some more Nurofen, and, best of all, a three-quarters-full bottle of sleeping pills that had been prescribed for Moira when she had first begun to feel ill. And the remains of the blockbuster painkillers, which the police doctor had supplied him with, were still in his jacket pocket. He piled the lot of them into the wicker basket on the worktop which Moira had used for bread. Then he went to the other cupboard in the kitchen, which served as a bar. Kelly knew that an alcoholic who can only refrain from drinking by avoiding all contact with alcohol was unlikely to succeed in his aim, and he had, so far at least, not been tempted to start drinking again simply because he kept alcohol in the house. He had always felt that visitors to his home should not be deprived of alcohol, just because he was no longer able to drink without destroying himself. He rummaged through the contents of the cupboard and at the back found an unopened bottle of Glenmorangie, which, ironically enough, was Nick’s favourite malt whisky. And when Kelly had been a drinker, it had been his favourite too.
He took the bottle from the cupboard, found a suitable glass, picked up the little basket of pills and headed for the living room. He switched the radio on. Something by Mozart, he was sure, though he didn’t know quite what it was, was being played on Classic FM. He turned the radio up as loud as it would go. He didn’t want to be able to hear himself think.
He drew the
curtains on the bay window that overlooked the street, and sat down in his favourite armchair, leaning back, trying to relax. For the second time in three days, he prepared to die. But this time it would be by his own hand.
There was a pen and a notepad on the table by his chair, and for a moment he considered writing some kind of letter. But he had absolutely nothing to say. And for the first time in his life, just as he was about to end it, Kelly understood why only twenty-five per cent of suicides leave a note, a statistic he had always previously thought surprising.
For a few minutes more he let the music wash over him, hoping that it might help to numb all of his other senses. Then he sat upright in his chair, opened the bottle of Glenmorangie and began to pour the whisky into the glass tumbler alongside it on the table. He filled the tumbler to the brim. Then he took the bottle which contained Moira’s sleeping pills, emptied the pills into his hand and counted them. There were twenty of them, surely enough to do the job. He glanced at the other packets of medication on the table. He thought he might take the paracetamol as well, just to make sure, but decided to begin with the sleeping pills.
He put two in his mouth, picked up the glass and prepared to drink a big mouthful of the whisky to wash them down.
Then the doorbell rang. Instinctively, Kelly put the whisky glass down. Then he picked it up again. It didn’t make any difference who was at the front door, he told himself. In any case, it was probably his police watchdogs, and he certainly didn’t want to be confronted by them. He would just carry on with what he had planned. He could think of no reason at all why he should want to remain in this world.
The doorbell ran again. Kelly took a gulp of whisky and swallowed. The first two pills disappeared down his throat. He was about to take two more when she called through the letterbox.
‘John, John, are you there? We’re worried about you. I’ve phoned and phoned. Answer the door, John.’
Damn, thought Kelly. It was Jennifer. The one person he could never easily ignore. He still didn’t intend to answer the door, though. But he did put down the whisky glass and empty the pills from his hand onto the table.
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