Authors: Hilary Bonner
The call was very nearly extremely short.
‘I told ye, I didn’t want to talk to ye,’ said Connelly sharply, as soon as Kelly gave his name.
‘I know, I just want to tell you something and then I’ll go away.’ Kelly spoke quickly, afraid the other man would hang up. ‘I now know of at least two other suspicious deaths at Hangridge, a young man and a young woman, and a possible third. The parents of the other two are getting together, they want a proper investigation into the deaths—’
‘You are a fucking journalist, aren’t you, just like I
thought.’ Neil Connelly interrupted. Neither his tone of voice nor his language were encouraging.
‘Not any more,’ responded Kelly, more or less truthfully.
‘Well, I don’t fucking trust you—’
‘You don’t have to, Mr Connelly.’ This time it was Kelly’s turn to interrupt. Now he really was afraid that the Scotsman would hang up. ‘But maybe you would trust the mother of a young woman soldier, called Jocelyn Slade, who died about six months before your lad. She wants to talk to you, and if you’d just make a note of her name and number, I promise you’ll never hear from me again unless I know you want to.’
It seemed a very long time before Mr Connelly spoke again. And when he did, he was brief and to the point.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That’s a deal.’
Kelly gave him Margaret Slade’s phone number and Neil Connelly ended the call at once. Kelly had no idea what the result might be. He thought Connelly was a stubborn man as well as a proud one, but there was little doubt that he had truly loved his son.
Kelly went over it all again in his head as he made his way upstairs to have a shower and dress. He was beginning to feel the familiar impatience. He wanted things to start happening. And he really wanted to talk to Karen Meadows. What was she going to tell him? What information was she going to give him? She hadn’t summoned him to her home for nothing, that was for certain. He just couldn’t wait for 7.30 that evening. And he had fat chance of doing any work on the great novel before then, he reflected
wryly, as he stood under the hot jet of water and rubbed shampoo into his head with more energy than he had mustered in months.
After arranging to meet Kelly later, Karen then found herself battling with nagging doubts. Was she doing the right thing? After all, she had originally promised herself that this investigation, and the extent to which she was allowed to investigate it at all, would be strictly by the book.
She picked up the paper cup of coffee which she had extracted from the machine a little earlier, then half forgotten about, and took a mouthful which she promptly spat back into the cup. It was barely tepid, and the stuff was bad enough even when it was hot.
She poured the coffee into the pot of the rubber plant she kept in one corner, noticing as she did so that the plant no longer looked all that happy, which could, she reflected, be not unconnected with the many previous cups of highly questionable coffee which had been emptied into its container. None the less, she set off downstairs to fetch herself another one. There were all kinds of people in a CID office who could, without too much difficulty, be persuaded to fetch coffee for their boss, but somehow Karen was never comfortable asking people to do such menial tasks for her. In any case, running the errand herself gave her thinking time.
She didn’t really have any doubts. Just some fears, she supposed. And that was only rational.
But by the time she reached her home that evening,
only just before 7.30, she had conquered her fears and come to terms with her intentions.
He arrived on the dot of 7.30. She had barely had time to take off her coat and rush around her flat picking up the abandoned shoes and various other items of scattered clothing, which she then hurled indiscriminately into the bedroom. Sometimes her untidiness did spread from there into the living room and other parts of her flat, in spite of her best efforts not to let that happen.
She had only just shut the bedroom door on the mayhem within, even greater now than it had been that morning, when her front doorbell rang. As she hurried to open it, she ran the fingers of one hand through her hair, in a pathetic effort to bring it to order after her exertions. She thought her face was probably bright pink. But, in any case, it was only Kelly waiting outside in the corridor. And she forgot about herself when she saw him. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale and drawn. He did not look well at all, and she thought he had aged dramatically over the last few days.
‘Come here,’ she said, and, almost automatically, gave him a big hug. ‘You look all in.’
‘I’ve had better days,’ he said. ‘And better times in my life.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, I’ve had worst times, too.’
He grinned. Karen smiled. She knew all about his chequered past. Yes, he almost certainly had had worst times, she suspected.
Yet Kelly’s sense of humour rarely failed him, even in the grimmest of situations, and it was, to Karen, one of his most endearing characteristics. He was
acutely aware of his own shortcomings and had always used humour, often directed quite harshly against himself, to deal with the more unfortunate consequences of his frequently wayward behaviour.
‘Come in,’ she said, ushering him into the sitting room with one hand, as she closed the front door with the other.
She offered him tea and went to the kitchen to make it and to open a bottle of red wine for herself.
When she returned he was standing by a window, with his back to the room, looking out over the bay. She walked silently across to him and held out the mug of tea without speaking.
He turned and took it from her. ‘You know, I think Moira enjoyed walking along Torquay seafront more than almost anything else. We had holidays together – even one or two quite flash ones – but I think the times when we both had an afternoon off and we walked together along the front, had an ice cream or a hot dog, and maybe a drink in the early evening and a fish supper, I think those may have been our happiest times together.’
He stopped abruptly and immediately looked as if he wished he had not said so much. Karen knew only too well that it did not come easily to John Kelly to share his feelings. And it was highly indicative of his state of mind for him to tell her a story about Moira, rather than jumping straight in to cross-examine her about any developments in the Hangridge case.
She waited for a moment, but he said nothing else. She also knew better than to try to prompt him. Instead, she squeezed his arm and invited him to sit down on the sofa.
She sat next to him and, without waiting for him to
ask her anything, launched into an account of her problems with the hierarchy concerning any further investigation of Hangridge.
‘At the moment, I cannot get the CC to agree to launch an official police investigation. I think that is wrong—’
‘So do I.’
‘Don’t interrupt. This is tricky enough, and if you ever tell anyone a word of what I am about to say to you, I shall deny everything. OK?’
‘Can I speak now?’
‘Kelly!’ There was a warning note in her voice, but she was actually mildly reassured. He might be in a bit of a state, but he was still the same old Kelly. And as sharp as ever.
‘OK. I shall press delete immediately and wipe this meeting from my memory.’
‘Very funny. This is no joke, though, Kelly, as you well know, and you really will have to do just that for both our sakes. You see, I actually want you to blow this thing wide open, because it’s the only way, I’m afraid, that anyone is going to get even close to the truth.
‘So, I’m prepared to give you every bit of information I can to help you investigate. And I’ll be working with you behind the scenes. Officially I can do bugger all, not yet, anyway, but unofficially everything I can glean will be yours. However, in return, I do expect you to tell me everything you get. I don’t want any holding back.’
Kelly looked doubtful. He really was a typical journalist, thought Karen, much better at acquiring information than giving any away. And that went for his personal life, too.
‘That’s the deal,’ she said. ‘Take it or leave it.’
‘You’re a hard woman,’ he replied.
‘Sometimes I think I’m soft as shit,’ she replied.
‘Never.’
She waited.
‘OK, it’s a deal,’ he said.
He hesitated then. She saw through him at once. She knew Kelly well.
‘Come on,’ she instructed. ‘Spit it out. You’ve something to tell me already, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah, I guess I have. The families are getting together. Margaret Slade called me this morning, sounding, much to my surprise, extremely switched on …’
He then gave her a précised version of the call.
‘So, there you have it,’ he said when he had finished. ‘The families are going to form an action group, and they want me to be their official representative. Funny old world, isn’t it?’
‘It sure is. That could be extremely good news, though, Kelly. The authorities won’t be able to ignore you if you’re representing the families of the dead young soldiers, so you should be able to get access, certainly with a little persistence, to almost anyone you want to see. And it distances you from the media too.’
‘Well, up to a point …’ said Kelly cautiously.
Karen grinned. She was a realist. She would not even ask about whatever deal Kelly may have made with Margaret Slade, and indeed it was probably better that she didn’t know. But she could imagine it well enough. And, deal or no deal, to imagine even for one moment that Kelly would investigate Hangridge without recording everything that happened and
attempting to turn it into the story of his life would be completely unrealistic.
‘Once a hack …’ she said.
He grinned back.
‘Thanks, anyway, Karen,’ he said. ‘You know, together we may even be able to crack this.’
‘All I need from you is enough information, so that I can damned well force that arse-licking bastard Tomlinson to let me launch a proper police investigation. At least, that would be a start.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Kelly. Karen felt his eyes on her.
‘I have a feeling you may have some information for me first,’ he continued.
‘You’re right,’ she said, reaching for her Voyage denim bag which she had dumped on the floor next to the sofa. She opened it and retrieved a small sheaf of A4 paper print-outs from her office computer.
‘Inquest reports,’ she announced, and watched Kelly’s eyes light up.
‘Jocelyn Slade, whose death doesn’t add up at all in my opinion, Craig Foster, and a young man called Trevor Parsons.’
She paused for dramatic effect and was not disappointed. Kelly was on the edge of his seat.
‘And the death of Trevor Parsons is indeed another alleged suicide, even if it was much earlier.’ She tapped the small pile of papers. ‘Parsons’ home address is on record and so is the address of another young soldier, who seems to me to be of considerable interest. Fusilier James Gates. He was called as a witness at Slade’s inquest.’
‘Wow,’ said Kelly. ‘That’s a hell of a start, Karen.
I’d better be off. I’ll read the reports tonight and start following them up in the morning.’
He rose to his feet and held out one hand. She passed him the papers. He smiled at her, but it was a pretty wan attempt. Karen looked him up and down. His appearance was haggard. In spite of the enthusiasm he had displayed, she thought he might be close to total exhaustion.
‘You’re not sleeping, are you?’ she enquired.
‘No,’ he said, then managing a smile, added: ‘Well, not in a bed, anyway. Sit me upright in a chair and I go off like a light, only to wake up crippled with cramp and feeling a darned sight worse, I suspect, than if I hadn’t slept at all.’
‘And are you eating?’
‘Eating?’ Kelly sounded puzzled. ‘Do you know, I can’t really remember when I last ate anything. I felt sick all day yesterday, and today, eating just hasn’t occurred to me.’
‘Do you feel hungry now?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘How about staying here for a while, and I’ll order us a pizza?’
She saw him hesitate, then he sat down again on the sofa, folding the papers and tucking them into his jacket pocket.
‘I think I’d like that,’ he said.
‘Any particular sort?’
‘I’ll leave that to you.’
He may have recognised that he should eat, but he was obviously still uninterested in food. Karen was more than a little anxious about her old friend. Still watching him out of the corner of one eye, she reached for the phone and arranged for her
local pizza takeaway to deliver a large Four Seasons.
Kelly started speaking again as soon as she finished the call. And it was almost as if he had forgotten all about the controversial case they had just been discussing and the plot the two of them had hatched.
‘I know Moira and I never officially lived together,’ he told her, his voice much softer and weaker than usual. ‘But she was always in my house, and even when she wasn’t, well, it felt like she was. Does that sound stupid? What I mean is, I could always feel her presence. She was there. In my life. Even when she wasn’t actually within the same four walls. And now, well, she’s gone. For good. Her presence is no longer there and the place just seems totally empty. And I … and I … I feel quite desolate.’ He stumbled over the last few words.
‘Does that make any sense at all?’ he went on.
‘Yes,’ said Karen promptly. ‘Of course it does. That’s the way these things are, I think.’
It was the answer she thought that he needed, and she was also sure it must be the truth. But she realised, with a fleeting sadness, that she really had no idea whether that was actually the case, because she had never achieved a relationship which even approached what Kelly had described. There had been that disastrous early liaison with a man who turned out to be a con artist, which could have ended her career, had not Kelly, who was investigating the man, chosen to refrain from making it public. And her subsequent love life had been little more than a series of casual flings and one-night stands, until her recent, mind-numbing, soul-destroying affair with Detective Sergeant Phil Cooper. But she wasn’t going to think about him
and the devastating effect that relationship had had on her. Not tonight. Not ever again, if she could help it.