Authors: Hilary Bonner
Karen found that she was becoming seriously irritated. No wonder the chief constable sounded like Gerry Parker-Brown. The Hangridge commander had obviously already got to him and done an excellent job of damage limitation, it would seem. As he would. She took a deep breath and fought to maintain control.
‘It is, of course, quite in order for the civilian police to conduct a new investigation should we deem it necessary, sir,’ she responded mildly.
If nothing else came out of this debacle, Karen reckoned that at least another step or two might be taken towards ensuring that all non-combat, sudden military deaths were subject to a civilian police inquiry as a matter of standard routine, like any other sudden death.
‘I think you mean “if
I
deem it necessary,” Detective Superintendent,’ replied Tomlinson. Karen could almost see him bristling at the other end of the phone.
‘And quite frankly, I don’t,’ he continued. ‘I thought I had already made that abundantly clear. So now, if there’s nothing else …’
Karen was really angry by the time the call ended – with the chief constable, with Gerry Parker-Brown, and with herself for ever having been taken in by the
colonel’s smooth-talking charms in the first place. Parker-Brown may have got the chief constable eating out of his hand, but not her. No way. Not any more.
She had another look at the reports of the two inquests. The home addresses of both the second sentry in the Jocelyn Slade case, James Gates, and the other young soldier to have allegedly committed suicide, Trevor Parsons, were listed in full, which was a result. It meant that with a bit of luck both Gates and members of Parsons’ family could be contacted without going through military sources. On the other hand, assuming Gates was still a serving soldier, he may well already have been gagged.
Karen was beginning to go through conspiracy theories in her head. She told herself it was early days for that, and that she was getting as bad as John Kelly.
She also had to remind herself that she was still head of Torquay CID and, as such, had her normal heavy workload of cases to deal with – including a suspected major fraud, involving a well-known local councillor and former mayor, which promised to send shock waves around the entire West of England.
But throughout the day, whatever she was working on, she found her thoughts returning to Hangridge, and her feelings of anger and outrage mounting. She wasn’t totally naive. She knew that there were those who believed that military secrets should sometimes be kept at the expense of justice. She understood that protecting national security could be a dirty business. She knew that cover-ups happened, and that occasionally they happened for the best of reasons. But she was damned if she was going to be part of one.
She was a police detective. And if she believed that crimes may have been committed, it was her job to investigate, regardless of the consequences.
It could be that she didn’t dare to become directly involved herself, at least for the time being, but she did know a man who could do the job for her. If he chose.
Indeed, she had always suspected that she might have to rely on John Kelly, in the initial stages, at any rate. And knowing Kelly, as she did, she was quietly confident that he would effectively blow the whole thing wide open with or without her help.
Kelly was with his partner who, it seemed, was terminally ill. Perhaps dead. And Karen knew that even Kelly would need some time before launching himself again into the Hangridge mystery. But Karen could wait. For a few days, anyway.
She was, however, quite determined that the establishment was not going to cover this one up. No way.
They held the funeral five days later. Kelly helped the girls make the arrangements, and found during those four days that his mind was entirely taken up with that and with his grief. For once he did not seek a displacement activity. Moira was dead, so he was no longer looking for any excuse to do anything other than deal with her being sick. The grim reality of her death had focused his feelings in a way which he sincerely wished could have happened much earlier.
He spent long hours walking alone along the beach, just gazing out to sea and thinking about his life, and about the life he had shared with Moira.
He did not attempt to contact any of the bereaved
Hangridge families again. Neither did he contact Karen Meadows concerning Hangridge. And when she eventually called him to enquire after Moira, he told her the news briefly, gave her the funeral arrangements, and made it quite clear that he did not want to talk about anything else. Only very occasionally did he give Hangridge even a fleeting thought.
He did call Nick, of course, on the day of Moira’s death.
‘Oh shit, dad, I’m so bloody sorry,’ Nick had responded. ‘And I did want to see her. Damn it. Why didn’t I just drop everything?’
‘You weren’t to know, son,’ said Kelly. ‘We didn’t think it would be so quick.’
He had no idea whether that was true or not. He didn’t remember at any stage ever discussing with anyone just how long Moira might have left. That had been one of those topics never to be broached.
‘I’d just like to have seen her one more time, Dad, that’s all …’
‘I know, son.’ Kelly did know too. Nick was another one who had always been extremely fond of Moira. She was a woman who had had in abundance the gift of making friends.
On the day, there must have been well over a hundred people, Kelly thought, crammed into the little crematorium chapel for the brief funeral service. It had been Moira’s wish to be cremated. Kelly didn’t like the idea of human bodies being burned, but, although he had known that her wish to be cremated was in her will, he had never tried to dissuade her. After all, if he was honest, neither did he much like the idea of human bodies rotting in a cemetery. At
best, the way in which humans were disposed of, or laid to rest – the euphemism invariably preferred by those involved with the process – could only be the lesser of various evils in Kelly’s opinion.
It was, however, gratifying to see such a good turnout. Moira had been a gregarious woman at heart and Kelly knew she would have liked to think that so many people would attend her funeral.
Nick drove down from London to be there, as Kelly had known that he would, in his new, distinctively customised, silver Aston Martin, which on any other occasion Kelly would have demanded to be allowed to take for a drive. He and Nick shared a love of sports cars, particularly British sports cars in Kelly’s case, and Kelly unashamedly envied his son for being in a position to buy himself almost any car he wanted.
There were various members of Moira’s family present whom Kelly hadn’t met before and there were all her friends from Torbay Hospital where she had worked on and off for most of her adult life, and where she had remained as a night sister in the children’s ward until she had finally, just three months or so ago, become too ill to continue. One of the senior doctors, a long-time close friend, had given the address at the crematorium chapel, and he had done so with great warmth and affection. Kelly had been grateful for the way he had so accurately presented Moira’s character, for the stories he told about her, and how he had praised her for her humour and practicality, for her kindness and generosity, and above all for her humanity.
Kelly’s head was filled with his own memories. How he and Moira had first met, introduced by his
matchmaking editor, and how they had first made love and he had been so nervous, after a long period of celibacy, and in such haste to remove his trousers, that he had actually fallen over because he had got them in such a tangle around his ankles. Like something out of a Brian Rix farce, Moira had said, and after that, all that followed had seemed totally natural.
He remembered as well her sense of humour, her willingness to laugh at even his most pathetic jokes, and, most of all, that great, big, rollicking roaring laugh of hers.
He also remembered Moira crying over the death of a child she and her colleagues at Torbay Hospital had fought so hard to save.
She had been a fine human being, and Kelly wished he had told her how much he had valued and appreciated her far more often. Indeed, he wished he had told her at all, other than when he had done something crass and offensive, which was about the only time he remembered doing so.
He sat in the little chapel next to Jennifer. She held onto his hand tightly throughout the brief service. Nick was sitting behind them. Kelly reckoned they were both rather exceptional young people.
He had looked around as he had walked into the chapel behind Moira’s coffin, but had somehow not been able to take a lot in. Certainly, he had recognised few faces that he knew among the congregation, but he had spotted Karen Meadows, sitting at the back near the door, and was glad to see her. She had been a good friend to Moira once, at a time when he had been anything but.
Moira’s daughters had invited everyone back to
their mother’s house for a drink and a snack after the funeral was over; a tradition Kelly had never liked, but he did not even consider opting out because he knew that would upset the girls.
As they all made their way out into the crematorium car park, Karen Meadows approached Kelly and touched him lightly on the arm.
‘I really am so very sorry, Kelly,’ she said quietly.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Yes. She’s going to be much missed, your Moira.’
‘Yes.’ These were just the usual platitudes, but Kelly knew she meant every word.
‘Look, I won’t be able to come back to the house, I’m up to my eyes, but I’ll be thinking of you, OK?’
‘Yes. Yes. Thank you.’ Kelly turned quickly away. He hated people to see him being emotional. For that very reason, he had chosen to drive his own car rather than travel with Moira’s daughters and other close family in the undertaker’s limos, and as he headed for his car he was glad of that.
On the way back to Moira’s house, he detoured to Babbacombe, and pulled off the coast road into a lay-by, where he sat quietly for a few minutes, looking out to sea, relieved to be alone. It was a beautiful day for the time of year. The sea sparkled. He thought about driving down the steep winding hill that led to The Cary Arms, one of his favourite pubs, right by Babbacombe beach. But he didn’t really have the time. Had he still been drinking he would have found the time, of course. And, by God, he fancied a stiff drink. But that would have been the final insult to Moira, who had given him such support when he had last kicked the habit. So instead he settled for a roll-up, which he smoked gratefully as he sat in his little
MG, looking out through the open window at the luminous navy blue of the Atlantic Ocean to his right and the rows of seaside hotels to his left, barely thinking, barely functioning, barely seeing. He did not break down and cry. It felt almost as if he was beyond that. He just wanted to be on his own for a bit, before rejoining the rest of the mourners.
By the time he arrived at Moira’s house, just a few streets away from his own in St Marychurch, the place was packed solid with people. Kelly had no idea how many had turned up, as they were all in different rooms. A group of women, whom he vaguely recognised as nursing colleagues of Moira’s, were giggling together over glasses of white wine. There was already that kind of hubbub you always get when large groups gather over a drink, regardless of the circumstances.
Kelly reflected not for the first time how strange it was that so many people seemed to have such a good time at funerals.
He struggled through the hall and living room, exchanging greetings and accepting condolences – mostly from folk he didn’t know from Adam – until he reached the kitchen at the back of the house.
The girls had hired caterers for the occasion. None the less, all three of them were in the kitchen supervising the arrangements, as Kelly would have expected them to be. They took after their mother. Born organisers who liked to be in control. Poor Moira, thought Kelly for the umpteenth time. She had never been in control of him, not really. Not the way she would have liked to have been.
Jennifer pushed a tray of sausage rolls and sandwiches towards Kelly. He shook his head. He felt
as if he would never eat again. Instead he touched Jennifer’s hand, holding on to the rim of the tray, and forced a small smile. She still looked unnaturally pale, and dreadfully tired. He felt a great pang of compassion for her. She had carried the burden of the last few months so magnificently. And she was so very young. It had been bound to take its toll.
‘You should get some rest,’ he told her.
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘I know. Neither can I.’
She put the tray down then and came to him for a hug.
‘You’ve been wonderful, you know,’ he told her. ‘Maybe you should get the doctor to give you something to make you sleep.’
‘Maybe.’
She pulled away from him and picked up the tray of food again.
‘I was just going to hand these around in the other room,’ she said.
He watched her go, head high, back straight, and wished, as ever, that he could have found more words. The right words. Any that weren’t trite and condescending, any that might make it all just a little easier. But then, there was no way to make it easier.
He decided to go out into the garden for another smoke, and had to push his way through yet more mourners to get to the back door. Once safely outside, he leaned against the wall of the house, swiftly made himself a roll-up and took a long drag, pulling at it as if it had been days or weeks since he’d had a cigarette rather than just minutes, holding the smoke in his lungs and closing his eyes tightly on the world.
The sun had shone brightly all day, but Moira’s back garden faced north and the November air was crisp and chilly. However, Kelly barely noticed. He inhaled the nicotine gratefully and tried not to think about anything.
‘Great minds, eh, Dad?’
Kelly opened his eyes abruptly. Nick, holding the collar of his suit jacket closed against the cold with one hand and a cigarette in the other, was standing alongside him. His son was about the only person in the world, Kelly thought, whom he could possibly have been pleased to see at that moment.