Jennifer continued to call through the letterbox.
‘John, I told you, I’ve got some news. Good news. Paula’s pregnant again, John. And she’s going to have a girl. She’s had the scan and she’s going to have a girl. Mum’s second grandchild, and so soon after her death. It’s like it was meant, John. Isn’t it wonderful?’
Kelly put his head in his hands. It was aching, of course. But then, it had been aching for three days, ever since his only son had tried to kill him.
‘John, John.’ The voice was more plaintive now, as if Jennifer were giving up on him being there or at least on him answering the door. He heard the letterbox snap shut. He imagined her turning and trudging off down the little garden path, disappointed at not having been able to share her news, and probably still worried about him.
Suddenly Kelly found himself on his feet and hurrying out of the living room, almost unaware of what he was doing, acting on some kind of autopilot. He flung open the front door just as she was stepping out through the gate and onto the pavement.
‘Jennifer,’ he said.
She turned smiling, but the smile faded when she saw his face.
‘Good God, Kelly, what on earth has happened to you?’
‘Uh, I had to stop suddenly in the car and I bashed my head on the windscreen,’ he lied fluently. ‘That bloody Volvo, I hate it.’
She smiled again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘I was lying on the bed. I don’t feel all that hot.’
‘I’m not surprised. Oh dear, John, are you sure you’re all right here on your own? Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Yes, I have, and I’m fine. Just tired and a bit sore, that’s all.’
She nodded.
‘John, did you hear what I said?’
‘About Paula? Yes. That’s really great news, Jennifer.’
He found that he meant it too. It was great news.
‘They’re going to call her Moira, after Mum. She’d have liked that, wouldn’t she?’
‘Yes, she would.’ Kelly felt his eyes moisten.
‘Do you want me to come in and make you something to eat or anything?’
‘No. No, thank you. I just need to sleep, I think.’
‘Paula and Ben are coming down at the weekend. Will you come over for Sunday lunch? To celebrate their news.’
Kelly hesitated.
‘We’d really like you to be with us.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. I’d love to.’
‘Great.’ Jennifer left with another smile and a wave.
Kelly closed the front door and went back into the living room. He scooped all the pills back into the wicker basket, picked it up along with the bottle of malt whisky and the still nearly full glass, and made his way upstairs to the bathroom.
There, he poured the contents of both bottle and glass down the sink, and flushed the pills – all except the packet of Nurofen and the remaining few blockbuster painkillers, which he still had considerable need for – down the loo. Then he closed the lavatory lid, sat down on it, and proceeded to cry his eyes out.
Twenty-three
Six months later, Karen was sitting at her desk in Torquay police station, disconsolately leafing through some of the numerous files and reports which had by then been compiled on the Hangridge affair. She feared she had little choice except to put it all behind her now, but the case remained one of the most frustrating she had ever been involved with.
The police investigation she had fought so hard to put in place had so far been spectacularly unsuccessful, and although it was officially still ongoing, in fact most lines of inquiry had now been completed and there seemed scant chance of taking matters much further.
Karen had done her best to make sure that every possibility had been fully explored, every piece of evidence meticulously followed up and recorded. However, her highly unsatisfactory confrontation with Parker-Brown, and the contents of his statement to the National Crime Squad, consisting almost entirely of denial and evasion, had rather set the trend for the entire investigation. It had led nowhere. And the involvement of the NCS, throughout, had compromised her autonomy as senior investigating officer, as she had known that it would, and indeed suspected had been the intention of those in authority, both in the military and the police, who had involved the NCS in the first place.
No evidence at all had been found to indicate that Trevor Parsons’ death was anything other than suicide, and Karen had been forced to accept that the death of the unfortunate young squaddie really might be no more than a coincidence.
The body of Jocelyn Slade had been exhumed and an independent ballistics expert employed to study the gunshot wounds she had suffered. His findings, however, had not been conclusive. He reported that in the case of at least two of the five wounds Private Slade had suffered, the bullets had entered from an angle suggesting that the SA80, which had killed her, had been held considerably higher than he would have expected in a self-inflicted shooting. However, all five bullets had been fired from a distance which was consistent with a suicide attempt. And similarly, the ballistics expert found that while it was perhaps surprising for as many as five bullets – even fired from a fast-action automatic weapon – to have found their mark in a suicide bid, it was possible.
No evidence had been found to prove that the deaths of Craig Foster and James Gates were anything other than tragic accidents, although there were some particularly suspicious circumstances surrounding Foster’s death. The logbook of his SA80, which would have contained the rifle’s entire history, had inexplicably disappeared soon after Foster was killed, and the clothes Foster was wearing on the fatal exercise had since been destroyed.
In the case of Gates, the peculiar manner of his death remained questionable, but the level of alcohol in his blood system, almost four times the legal driving limit, countered that. Indeed, because of his extreme drunkenness, the German authorities argued that there was no cause to re-open the investigation into his death.
The death of Robert Morgan, knifed in a London street, had definitely been murder, of course, but no evidence was found to suggest that the military might be involved, or indeed to link his killing with the other Hangridge deaths in any way.
The inquest on Alan Connelly, finally held three months after the launching of the formal police investigation, had been the worst moment of all for Karen. Kelly was called as a witness, and freed from the restrictions of libel laws by courtroom privilege, he could have made any allegations he wished against Gerrard Parker-Brown. Virtually the entire British press, alert by then to the possibility of a major scandal involving the military, had been represented at Torquay Coroner’s Court. And if Kelly had voiced his suspicions about the colonel, and explained how he believed him to have been one of the two men he’d seen escorting Connelly out of that Dartmoor pub, just minutes before the young man had been killed, media speculation would have run riot and could have led to all kinds of further developments.
But Kelly chose not to do so.
When asked if he recognised either of the two men who had come looking for Connelly, he’d merely replied that both men had been wearing woolly hats pulled down over their foreheads and had had their coat collars turned up, and that it would not be fair to make any kind of guess.
Karen had been surprised and had felt let down. After all, if it hadn’t been for Kelly’s various claims and accusations, not to mention his constant pushing, there quite probably would never have been a police investigation in the first place. It was all so infuriating. She remained absolutely convinced that Parker-Brown was up to his neck in some kind of nasty, and thoroughly sinister, conspiracy, but, to her immense irritation, she was no closer than she had been six months ago to finding out exactly what. And the way in which Kelly had backed down had not helped at all.
She’d had little choice ultimately but to accept the somewhat simplistic explanation he had later given her, which was that, upon reflection, he really couldn’t be absolutely sure
that Parker-Brown had been one of the two men in The Wild Dog. And that he preferred to keep silent, rather than make a mistake in court on something so vital.
Karen had been unconvinced, and had commented that it was not really like him to suddenly have doubts about something he had at first seemed so certain of. Kelly had merely shrugged. Privately, Karen later came to the conclusion that Kelly must have been frightened off, that he didn’t want to risk further involvement, and she couldn’t entirely blame him for that. He had thought he was going to be murdered, after all. None the less, that wasn’t like him, either. It was totally out of character for John Kelly to run scared, even when he had good reason to be.
The separate investigation into the attack on Kelly at Babbacombe beach had proved no more successful than the Hangridge investigation. The team had made no progress at all in finding out who had attacked Kelly. As he had predicted, there seemed to be no evidence except the fragments of flesh they had managed to extract from his teeth, but even they were no help unless there was a suspect with whom to compare the DNA. And there was no suspect. Neither had it even been possible to conclusively link the attack on Kelly with the Hangridge affair. His mystery caller’s claim that he could provide information on the Hangridge deaths strongly suggested such a link, but there was no proof. The attacker could have been someone with an unconnected grudge against Kelly.
Karen was extremely fed up and disappointed. It was late afternoon, almost 5.30. She thought she might try to find an excuse to go home early for once. She fancied curling up on the sofa with Sophie, her cat, and having a good sulk. Along with several large gin and tonics. There seemed little more that she could do.
Then, just as she had started to clear her desk, the door to her office burst open and in bounced the normally morose DS Chris Tompkins, his face unusually animated.
‘They’ve done it, boss, they’ve bloody done it,’ he cried, waving a thin sheaf of A4 paper at her. ‘The Hangridge families, they never gave up, did they? They’ve done it, boss. There’s going to be a public inquiry, after all. It’s just been announced.’
Karen’s spirits immediately lifted. There was just a chance that her ongoing police investigation, even if it had not been a very successful one, may also have played a part.
‘That’s great news, Chris,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it?’ the normally long-faced detective continued, with unaccustomed enthusiasm.
The relatives of the dead soldiers, led quite splendidly by a reborn Margaret Slade, had campaigned with tireless energy for a full public inquiry into the deaths of their loved ones. Karen knew that they’d gained the active support of more than a hundred Members of Parliament, and their various demonstrations – staged at Parliament, at the Ministry of Defence, and with relentless regularity outside Hangridge itself – had ensured that they’d rarely been off the front pages of the national press throughout the last six months.
Now it seemed that the British establishment had finally caved in. A victory for the people, thought Karen. The families would be absolutely delighted. She just hoped the inquiry proved to be genuinely independent, that was all.
‘There’s more, boss,’ continued Tompkins. ‘The Standing Orders to the Land Army are going to be changed to ensure that nothing like Hangridge could ever happen again. It’s all in a statement from the MoD, that’s just come through on email from the chief constable’s office.’
He slapped the sheaf of paper he had been waving onto her desk. Karen picked it up eagerly. In future, a civilian police investigation into all sudden non-combat deaths within the military would be standard practice, and a new protocol was about to be issued to UK police forces to ensure they properly investigated all deaths on army bases, rather than the previously accepted practice of only becoming directly involved in obvious cases of murder. In addition, both the Royal Military Police and military base commanders would be banned from taking an active part in investigations into suspicious deaths, except to act as witnesses.
Karen read the statement again, more slowly, after Tompkins, still bouncing, had left her office. Then she continued to clear her desk. She would still leave early, but she no longer wanted to go home to curl up with Sophie. No. Her mood had changed dramatically. On an impulse, she decided she would drive round to Kelly’s house to share the good news with him. She understood that the contents of the MoD statement were not public knowledge yet, and she was sure Kelly would be as pleased as she was. After all, he must surely be unhappy with the lack of progress so far in the police investigation, just as she was, and also with his own failure to deliver, Karen suspected.
She had barely seen Kelly in the last six months, except briefly at Connelly’s inquest when he had seemed like a changed man. And she had barely heard from him either, which was highly unusual. She had wondered once or twice whether he was still embarrassed by the incident in her flat when they had kissed, although her own embarrassment had faded considerably with the passage of time, and, as ever, had been overtaken by a succession of other anxieties, mostly concerning her work. In any case, instinct told her that it was something else.
She arrived at Kelly’s house just after six. He opened the front door straight away, and as he led her into the living room, she at once blurted out her news.
‘So, the police investigation may be continuing to draw a blank, but this is a real result, Kelly,’ she enthused. ‘The families have got their public inquiry, and, regardless of whatever that produces, there’s going to be a new directive to the civilian police which will hopefully ensure that nothing like Hangridge will ever happen again.’
‘Great,’ said Kelly. But Karen noticed that he wasn’t smiling and there was little enthusiasm in his voice.
‘I should say so,’ she said.
He smiled wanly. She studied him carefully. He had lost a lot of weight, but that rather suited him. His paunch was gone for a start. He didn’t look ill exactly, just weary. He seemed totally devoid of his usual energy.
‘Kelly, is something wrong?’ she asked. ‘You really pulled back from this one, didn’t you? And that’s not like you at all.’
‘Yes, well, maybe I got scared. I did think I was going to get killed.’
‘I know.’ Karen ventured to put into words her thoughts on the way Kelly had backed down at Alan Connelly’s inquest. ‘That’s what I reckoned it must have been. But it’s not like you to be scared, Kelly. In fact, I have never known you to be frightened of anything. You usually just get all the more pigheaded and determined.’
Kelly smiled more easily at that.
‘Perhaps it’s about getting older,’ he said. ‘You scare easier as you get older.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Karen, still staring at him. His eyes looked tired and his hair was considerably thinner than when she had last seen him. She considered again what he had said – you scare easier when you get older. Perhaps it really was as simple as that.
Anyway, she knew Kelly when he was in this kind of mood. He wasn’t going to give anything away. She decided she may as well change the subject.
‘How’s Jennifer?’ she asked. ‘And the other two? Paula’s new baby must be due soon.’
Kelly hadn’t even been aware that Karen knew Paula was pregnant again. ‘They’re fine, the baby’s due in a couple of weeks, and it’s a girl. Paula and Ben are going to call her Moira.’
For the first time since she had arrived, Karen could see some life in Kelly’s eyes, and when he smiled his whole face lit up. She found she was extremely pleased to see that. Karen really was fond of John Kelly. And, in spite of her resolution to forget it, she had given some thought over the past few months to their one, long, lingering kiss. The timing had been dreadful, of course, but the kiss itself, although it had come as something of a shock, remained a special memory.
‘That’s lovely,’ she responded warmly. ‘I’m so pleased. And Nick? How’s that handsome son of yours?’
Kelly turned away. ‘He’s fine too. I think.’
<
br /> ‘You think? Don’t you know?’
‘I haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Is he abroad?’ Karen knew that Nick was a high-flying entrepreneur who travelled the world, but just like Kelly – until he had so recently learned the unpalatable truth – she had absolutely no idea exactly what he did for a living.
‘Yes. Has been for some time.’
Kelly did not seem inclined to offer any more information on that subject, either, and Karen was not that interested. She had always thought that Kelly’s son, although undoubtedly handsome and obviously highly successful, was rather an empty young man. But, naturally, she had never told Kelly that.
He turned to face her again and the life had gone from his eyes. God, he really did look tired. And, upon reflection, he was now too thin.
‘You look as if you could do with feeding up,’ she blurted out, on impulse again. ‘How do you feel about joining me for dinner?’
She was aware of Kelly hesitating. Maybe, unlike her, he really was still embarrassed by their kiss. And maybe he wasn’t prepared to risk any situation that might lead to a repeat performance. Or maybe he just didn’t want to have dinner with her. She waited.
Eventually, he smiled at her again. ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘What a good idea. Just let me change my shirt.’
Upstairs in the bathroom, he splashed cold water over his face.
What he had told Karen about Nick was very nearly the truth. Nick was in Baghdad, which seemed starkly appropriate to Kelly. There was still so much murder and mayhem going on out there that his son would fit like a glove, no doubt. Kelly did not like to think about what Nick might actually be doing in Iraq. He didn’t like to think about anything Nick might have done in his adult life. Indeed, he didn’t like to think about his son at all. Not any more.
And that broke his heart.
Nick had called several times from Baghdad. A couple of times Kelly had inadvertently answered, but had hung up at once when he heard Nick’s voice.
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