Authors: Hilary Bonner
‘And husbands, past or present?’
Karen studied him through narrowed eyes. She hadn’t given it a thought, but, of course, Parker-Brown did not even know if she was married or not, because as usual she had said so little about herself. Yet he had still asked her out. Just for friendship, he had said. She wasn’t so sure. Was he always this attentive to, and this interested in, his friends, she wondered. Or did he have an ulterior motive.
‘No.’ She was abrupt again, partly because more and more nowadays, when she met a man who interested her, she found herself wishing she wasn’t always inclined to be so darned suspicious, which just seemed to come with the territory of her job, and partly because she remained determined not to talk about herself if she could possibly avoid it. But while she was still trying to think of a way to change the subject, he spoke again.
‘I’m surprised. I would have thought you would be much in demand.’
She laughed. Smooth bastard, she thought. Aloud she said: ‘Even if that were true, being in demand is not quite the same as getting married.’
He laughed with her then. She really was very easy in his company, and the rest of the evening passed extremely pleasantly. They continued to make small talk effortlessly and she discovered that they did indeed have a shared interest in collecting antiques.
‘Actually, most of my stuff would generally be regarded as junk, I expect,’ confessed Karen.
‘The best sort,’ said Parker-Brown. ‘Anybody with a healthy bank balance can spend a fortune in Bond Street. It takes talent to seek out special pieces of junk.’
‘Umm,’ mused Karen. ‘In my case, I don’t have any choice. I certainly can’t afford Bond Street on my salary.’
‘Me neither,’ said Parker-Brown. ‘In spite of having a great deal of family money, my dearest ex insists on screwing the maximum possible maintenance out of me every month.’
She sympathised with him. The conversation moved on to holidays in the sun and to favourite restaurants, then circled back to antique fairs and to great finds in car boot sales.
Karen, invariably awkward at what might be the start of any kind of new relationship, found herself surprised both by how much she was enjoying herself and how much she was warming to Gerry Parker-Brown.
In fact, it would have been almost the perfect evening were it not for the shadow cast by the Alan Connelly affair. All evening it was in the back of her mind, and she was very tempted to bring it into the
conversation. She wanted to know what Parker-Brown really thought and if his inquiries had made any progress. Indeed, she had wondered all along if at least a part of his purpose in arranging this occasion might be to talk about the matter.
But Parker-Brown didn’t even mention it. And it was nearly time to leave before Karen managed to bring the subject up. Even then, she was aware that her interjection sat clumsily amid the evening’s social chit-chat.
‘I wondered if you had made any progress with your Alan Connelly inquiries, Gerry?’ she asked quite bluntly, having failed to find any way at all of working the matter into the conversation.
Parker-Brown took a deep pull of his pint and stretched his long legs.
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Are you sure you want to talk about it tonight?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’ She had no intention of letting him off the hook that easily.
‘OK. Well, I’m pretty certain now that those two men your witness described are not in my lot. In fact, I can find no trace of anyone like them at all. Look, I know your witness was very sure in his own mind that they were soldiers, but he had no way of being certain, did he? It wasn’t as if they were in uniform.’
‘No.’ She felt mildly irritated now. She suddenly had the feeling that she was being handled, that this whole evening may have been little more than a softening-up process, leading towards the moment when Parker-Brown would tell her, in effect, that he had no help to give her. And possibly no intention of trying to help either, she suspected, although he had
been extremely careful from the start to avoid giving that impression.
‘He couldn’t be absolutely certain, but he got the clear impression that they were soldiers,’ she continued resolutely. ‘And, actually, our witness is, by coincidence, someone I have known for many years, someone whose judgement I trust.’
The absurdity of the situation struck her then. By and large, she did trust Kelly’s judgement, but she didn’t think she had ever let him know that.
Parker-Brown studied her thoughtfully, running the fingers of one hand over a chin that really could only be described as chiselled. ‘Well, in that case, of course, I’ll carry on making inquiries,’ he said. ‘I do want to assure you, Karen, that I will help all I can. One of my young men has died, and if there is anything suspicious about his death, then I want to know about it every bit as much as you do.’
‘Thank you …’ began Karen. He interrupted her before she had time to say anything else.
‘And now, let’s not spoil this evening with work things, eh? I really have enjoyed myself. You’re great company, you know.’ He paused. ‘For a police officer,’ he added mischievously.
‘And you’re not bad yourself – for a soldier,’ she responded almost automatically.
But she was no longer quite so at ease, even though she could not deny to herself that she had thoroughly enjoyed the evening and Gerrard Parker-Brown’s company. However, she still couldn’t help wondering if the colonel was deliberately making a friend of her, and maybe even looking for more than that, in order to put her off the scent.
‘C’mon, let’s get you home,’ he said, interrupting
her train of thought. He grinned at her yet again, and it really was a disarming grin. He looked totally ingenuous, a big boyish man in a big boy’s job, incapable surely, she told herself, of being so downright devious.
‘Oh, and I really hope we can do this again some time.’
She hesitated, still battling with the feeling that there was a hidden agenda here. It was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. She was merely being fanciful, just like Alan Connelly. This wasn’t some kind of Iraq-gate. Indeed, she had no information whatsoever concerning the death of Connelly or Craig Foster which indicated even the slightest need for any kind of cover-up.
There was no reason at all why she should not enjoy this man’s company as often as she liked. He was attractive, charming and in every way great to be with. She really must control her tendency towards suspecting other peoples’ motives all the time. And particularly the motives of anyone who seemed to show a special interest in her.
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said very deliberately, as he ushered her towards the door. And she meant it.
The following morning Kelly’s mobile rang just as he was parking at Newton Abbot railway station. And, as was usual for him, he had barely a minute to spare if he was going to catch his intended train.
He had no intention of replying, particularly as it was not yet 8 a.m., but he did glance at the display panel of his phone, nestling in its dashboard cradle, just in case this was a call he could not miss. News of Moira, perhaps.
In fact the caller was his son Nick, who, of course, knew that his father was up early every morning and at his desk. Or allegedly so, anyway. Hastily Kelly pushed the receive button. Nick was one of the very few people in the world that he always had time for – even if in this case it would have to be little more than a few seconds.
‘I just wondered how Moira was doing,’ enquired Nick over the airwaves.
‘Much the same, Nick.’ Kelly paused. ‘It’s not good, not good at all. I saw her last night. They say it might not be long now …’
‘Shit.’
Nick sounded both sad and angry. Kelly understood those emotions well enough. And he knew how fond Nick was of Moira, who had brought stability and more than a measure of happiness into Kelly’s life, and had stood by him even when
he had seemed determined to self-destruct.
‘So how are you coping, Dad?’
‘Oh, you know, bloody useless as ever. If it wasn’t for those girls …’
‘Don’t put yourself down, Dad. I know how much you care, and Moira has always loved you for the man you are, not for the man you feel you should be.’
Kelly felt his eyes moisten and found rather to his surprise that he was also smiling, just a little. For a moment he forgot all about his train. Nick had a wonderful knack of knowing exactly what to say and when to say it, and Kelly was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude that he had been given a second chance to get to know his only son. He felt proud too. Nick was a fine young man. And successful. As an ex-army officer, probably too independent to stay in uniform for too many years, or so Kelly had always thought, he had fitted back into civilian life admirably. For nearly four years now he had been working in the City as some kind of business and IT consultant, one of those jobs Kelly could never quite get his head round, but he was well aware of the rewards it had brought his bachelor son. Nick lived in a luxurious London Docklands apartment, holidayed in all the best places, usually accompanied by one of the string of glamorous girlfriends who seemed to drift in and out of his life in remarkably trouble-free fashion, and drove the kind of cars his father could only dream about.
‘Thanks, Nick,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding. Look, Dad, I can’t get out of London this week, but I’ll drive down as soon as I can. I’d really like to see Moira …’
‘I know. And I’m sure she’d like to see you too.’
Kelly switched off the MG’s engine and began to dismantle his phone from its hands-free system. Simultaneously, he checked the clock on the dashboard.
‘Oh, Christ!’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve got about two minutes to catch a train. I’m sorry, Nick, I really have to go …’
‘Sure, sure. I’ll call you tomorrow. Where are you going, anyway?’
Automatically Kelly opened his mouth to tell Nick where he was going and why, then realised that would call for an explanation he had absolutely no time for.
‘Research,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Bye.’
Given the way he lived his life it was all for the best that Kelly could still move fast for a big, slightly paunchy man in his late forties. He arrived on the platform with seconds to spare. The whole spur of the moment jaunt was absolutely typical Kelly, and had probably been inevitable from the beginning. Even though he had spent much of the previous night lying sleepless in his bed and telling himself that he would merely end up wasting both time and money.
The truth, however, was that he had probably made up his mind about what he was going to do the very moment that Karen told him about the second death at Hangridge.
Kelly was off to Scotland to see Alan Connelly’s parents. He had driven to Newton Abbot in order to board one of the direct cross-country trains running virtually the entire length of Britain from Penzance to Glasgow. It was a damned good service when it worked. But, unfortunately, nowadays it seemed to work despairingly rarely.
On this occasion everything had begun well. The train arrived on time at Newton Abbot, departing on schedule, at 7.53 a.m. precisely, and remaining so until it reached Birmingham. There, in the dark cavernous hinterland of one of the city’s network of cold black underground platforms, the red and grey Virgin Express sat for almost thirty minutes before anybody bothered to inform the passengers why.
Eventually the guard, or train manager as they were now called, muttered something about a mechanical fault. The passengers in Kelly’s carriage shifted uneasily. With the number of accidents there had been on Britain’s rail network recently, it had become almost as disturbing to be told your train had something wrong with it as to be told that an aircraft you were travelling on had developed a mechanical fault. Engineers were already working on the problem and we hope to be under way again shortly, continued the train manager in a flat, disinterested tone.
Kelly, wondering again, as he had done when he met Alan Connelly in The Wild Dog, what a Scotsman was doing in the Devonshire Fusiliers anyway, felt only bad vibes. He had been born impatient and he was, as ever, far more concerned with his personal timetable than his personal safety. And his pessimism in that respect was confirmed when, after another thirty minutes or so of complete lack of communication, the so-called train manager announced, with regret, that this particular train would be travelling no further that day. Would ‘customers’ make their way to platform eight and await the next train to Glasgow, which left at 13.51.
Kelly glanced at his watch. It was only just on midday. An already lengthy journey of around seven
and a half hours was turning into a nightmare marathon. He was beginning to seriously wonder if the trip had been a good idea at all, particularly as he had embarked on it without making an appointment at the other end. But that, of course, had been deliberate. Kelly had been well trained in Fleet Street in the art of taking people by surprise. However, there were disadvantages, especially when you were paying your own fare and travelling second class on a saver ticket, instead of in the relative luxury of first class as provided by his former employers, and when the trip in question offered no reasonable chance, at least initially, of doing anything other than further depleting your already sorry bank balance.
On platform eight Kelly hunched his inadequate coat round his bony shoulders. It was a cold day and the platform seemed to have transformed itself into a wind tunnel. Things were not going well. At around 1.30, it was announced that the 13.51 was running half an hour late.
Kelly stamped his frozen feet on the unforgiving concrete and, wondering why he never seemed to remember to carry any gloves with him, rubbed his bare hands together in a vain attempt to warm them. There was quite a crowd on the platform awaiting the 13.51 to Glasgow, as was only to be expected when one Scotland train had been cancelled altogether. However, the proximity of so many bodies had done absolutely nothing to raise the air temperature. Kelly thought that might be because everybody’s body temperature had already sunk to the same low.