Authors: Catherine Sampson
“He picked the wrong men to scrap with,” he said, and hurried off.
After I had been sitting there waiting forever, Veronica Mann arrived and came to sit beside me, patting my knee.
“Do you want news, or do you want to be left to worry?”
I looked at her. “I always want news,” I said tightly. “I want to know where Christopher is.”
“He’s safe with Mike’s friends in Carlisle,” Veronica said. “We’ve sent people to check. He’s fine.”
“And I want to know what happened to Melanie.”
“I could lose my job for this,” Veronica said. She took a buff envelope from her bag and put it on my lap. “But I want you
to read it. It’s a statement Mike prepared before he came back tonight. That’s why he wanted to see you. He was going to give
you this and then give himself up. You have to remember he wrote it before he found Kes in bed with Anita.”
Veronica ran her tongue over her lip. She glanced up as Sheryl walked uncertainly into the waiting room. “Perhaps you could
read it somewhere a little more private.”
I nodded, and Veronica rubbed me on the shoulder and told me she had to go, she was absent without leave.
Sheryl sat down opposite, pulling her jacket around her defensively. Her face was bare of makeup, and she looked more vulnerable,
younger.
“How is Kes doing?” I forced myself to ask.
She frowned at me as though she couldn’t place me.
“I don’t know.” Then she added, with great precision and even more bitterness, “I decided some years ago that it was better
not to know how Kes is doing, or what he’s doing. Or who.”
“You were out this evening,” I said.
She nodded, face set. “I was at the pub with Ronald.”
For a moment neither of us spoke. I wanted her to go away so that I could concentrate on Finney. I did not want to hear about
Kes, I did not want to hear about her.
“I have known Ronald for less than a year,” Sheryl continued, her voice gathering in anger, “but he is more of a friend than
Kes has ever been. And that little bitch Jacqui and her silly accusations—”
I interrupted her impatiently. “You must have known about Anita and Kes.”
“I was out at Ronald’s, often, in the evening.”
“You knew. Jacqui told me. I didn’t believe her, but I do now.”
“All right, say, just say, that I knew”—Sheryl was annoyed at me, and her voice quickened—“or that I suspected. What could
I have done about it? Men don’t change. I knew what I was getting when I married Kes. He needed someone to look after Justin
while he was away, and I thought that at least I’d have companionship sometimes, when he was in the country. But he doesn’t
notice me anymore, just my friends. Why do you think I want Ronald as my friend? Because he’s a man, so Kes can’t have him.
What Kes did to Anita, it wasn’t the first time. I’ve watched him do it again and again and again. . . .”
She crumpled, and as her shoulders heaved I realized she was sobbing.
I went over to sit next to her. She had tried to do things for the best. But I felt so sick with worry for Finney that I had
no sympathy to give her.
“Why don’t you ring Ronald and ask him to come and sit with you,” I suggested. She nodded, and after a moment she went to
find a telephone.
I unsealed the envelope, glanced at the document inside, then let it fall to my lap. What would I do if Finney died? How would
I bear it? I had been so very lucky to find him. Why had I dragged him into this? I forced myself to start reading. The first
section of Mike’s statement repeated things that I already knew: that he had known Kes for twenty years, that they had fought
together and saved each other’s skins more times than they could count. That three years before, Melanie and Edwin had come
upon Mike’s patrol, the vehicle bogged down in potholed terrain off the road. It was then that the SAS patrol, as well as
Melanie and Edwin, had come under rocket-propelled grenade fire from Taliban forces on a ridge above them and that the SAS
had responded with the vehicle-mounted GP machine gun and a 40 mm grenade launcher.
It was then, of course, that Edwin had taken his photograph of Mike firing above the low wall and Melanie lying in the ditch
by his side. The Taliban withdrew, and Mike’s patrol moved rapidly on, reluctantly but chivalrously allowing Melanie to hitch
a ride with the proviso that she be dumped at the earliest relatively safe opportunity.
We pressed ahead with a reconnaissance patrol in a small settlement to our east. Our instructions were to make contact with
a man who would introduce us to the local warlord, who was reportedly willing to work with our forces. We proceeded to this
settlement successfully and waited until dark, then proceeded according to Kes’s navigational instructions.
Kes objected to Melanie accompanying us, but at this point she had nowhere to go, and no transport, and we were in hostile
territory. Like us, she disguised herself in local clothing. She carried a small handheld camera, and she was instructed to
hide this under her clothing as we made our way into the town. I know she filmed us as we prepared for the mission—she undertook
to disguise our faces if she ever used the film—but after that the rules were that she would be allowed to film only on our
specific instruction.
As we approached on foot, I began to think we were in the wrong place. The streets were in the wrong formation, and the feel
of the place was wrong. Kes knocked on the door to the house which he believed to be our target. An elderly woman opened the
door to us, with children at her knees. As soon as we saw the expression of fear on their faces, we realized that Kes had
brought us to the wrong place. The woman slammed the door in our faces, and from inside we heard them shouting.
We moved away fast, and almost immediately we heard shooting behind us. We spread out and ran along the edges of the street
to make ourselves harder targets. Alan was out in front, then Kes. Behind Kes was Melanie, and behind her, Ray and I were
on opposite sides of the street, Ray to the rear of Melanie.
The gunfire was sporadic and we would have made it without incident if Kes had not panicked.
I saw Kes turn to check on the rest of us behind him. When he saw movement behind Melanie, he fired. Ray fell to the ground
with half his head missing. I was no distance from him. I saw his brain spill onto the road. Melanie saw it, too. I shouted
out Ray’s name, and Kes stopped in the middle of the road. I don’t think he could believe it. He started to run back towards
us, but I pushed him on. If we had gone back for Ray’s body, we would have died, too.
We made it back to our vehicle, and we were able to drive out of the area without being pursued. We were all very upset by
the loss of Ray. Alan could not understand what had happened, he hadn’t seen him fall. Kes told him Ray had fallen to enemy
fire. Melanie started to protest, but I told her to shut up.
Later, when we were alone, Melanie said she had seen Kes shoot Ray. I told her that he had been trying to save her life, and
that she should never have been there in the first place, and that Ray’s wife must never know that her husband had been killed
by one of his best friends.
As for Kes, he wouldn’t talk about Ray’s death. But I know Kes, and I know how hard this hit him, because it was all his fault.
When we reported Ray’s death, Kes blamed Melanie, saying that snipers had caught sight of her camera and opened fire.
That is not true.
Within the next year, Kes and I both left the army. Alan left a few months after us. When I saw Melanie Jacobs at HazPrep,
it was the first time in three years. We arranged to go out for a drink on the 9th January. I drove her to Sydenham, near
my house, to my local pub. I wanted to get away from HazPrep because drinking with clients is frowned on, and I didn’t want
to explain to anyone about the situation in which we had first met. While we were in the pub, Melanie took a call from her
boyfriend, who had driven out to HazPrep to see her. She told him she was unable to see him. She didn’t tell him she was with
me.
I should have realized that Kes Laver might come into the pub. As soon as I saw his face, I knew we were in for trouble. The
moment she saw him, Melanie walked out of the pub. Kes later criticized me for socializing with Melanie, because he said she
was responsible for Ray’s death.
Even if she was originally prepared to stay silent about Kes’s part in Ray’s death, I think Melanie changed her mind when
she saw him in the pub. Kes knew that if she started to talk, his reputation as a soldier would be on the line. Kes makes
a lot of money from security work. If word got around about taking patrols the wrong way, or shooting one of his own men dead,
his career would have been finished. But I most of all think he just wanted Melanie dead because he blamed her for the death
of Ray.
The next day, on January 10th, I went over to sit with Melanie at the bar when she again received a phone call, but she got
up and turned away from me, so I couldn’t hear what she said. It was short. Probably reception was bad. Almost immediately
she excused herself and got up to go outside. I do not know whether this was to make a phone call or whether it was to get
away from me because of what had happened with Kes the night before.
After Melanie had disappeared, I questioned Kes, and he denied any involvement. I did not believe him. Furthermore, he told
me that if the police asked, I was not to disclose that we had all known each other in Afghanistan.
If it was Kes who killed Melanie, he must have waited outside the building, observing her movements inside and seizing the
opportunity when she went outside. He’s trained to do that. He can’t always read a map, and he never does things to the letter,
but he can wait for hours. We call him Kes, for kestrel. He parachutes like a bird, but even when he’s on the ground he waits
like a kestrel hovering with his eye on some weak animal. Like he’s anticipating the pleasure of the kill.
After that night I did not want to be in close proximity to Kes. I took a job abroad although my family was begging me to
stay with them.
On my return, I realized quickly that Kes blamed his son’s accident on me, too.
When the police found out that I had known Melanie and called me in for more questioning, Kes was furious.
Shortly afterwards, my son, Christopher, was kidnapped. Kes never told me directly that he had Christopher—he must have known
I would kill him with my bare hands in those circumstances—but he found ways of letting me know that Christopher’s safety
relied on what I told the police. He made me volunteer a statement to the police. I told them about Ray Jackson’s death, but
nothing about Kes’s involvement. I said exactly what Kes told me to say.
Then Kes told me he had made contact with the kidnappers, and he gave me a letter that said my son would be returned on payment
of a ransom, which his wife, Sheryl, agreed to loan me. He argued with me and with Sheryl about paying the ransom, but I now
believe that was for show, in order to distance himself from the kidnapping, and so that I would not ask him to go with me
when I went to pay the ransom. In this way, he was able to hand Christopher back to me. I have only gradually worked this
out. At the time, I was mad with worry about my son.
When I heard on the radio that Melanie Jacobs’s body had been found near HazPrep, I knew that I would be questioned again,
and I was terrified that Kes would use my son as a hold over me again. I panicked. I didn’t even wait for my wife to come
home. I just took my son and left immediately and went to a friend’s house near Carlisle. While I was there I did a lot of
thinking. I cannot go through my life in fear of Kes. I am certain that he killed Melanie and that he must answer for it.
At the bottom, by hand, Mike had scrawled a note: “I returned last night intending to make this statement available through
the press and to the police. When I returned home and found Kes in my bed with my wife, I lost it. I do not blame my wife.
I blame Kes. He is a predator.”
When I look up, a doctor is standing there, asking whether I am with Thomas Finney. For a moment I stare at her. Shame washes
over me that I have let myself be distracted.
“Yes, yes, I am.” She looks so formal that for an instant I think my legs are going to give way.
“Are you the next of kin?”
“He has no kin. There’s only me.”
“Well, he’s out of surgery. He has broken four ribs in two places, he’s suffered pneumothorax, which is a collapsed lung,
in this case from a chest wound.”
I am speechless. She smiles and takes my hands.
“He’ll be in pain for some time. We’ll see how things go, but eventually you’ll be able to take him home in one piece. If
you hang on for an hour or so, you’ll be able to see him.”
And then I surprise myself by hugging her.
When she has gone, I head outside to get some fresh air. I pass a small room set off the corridor, and through an open door
I see Sheryl seated, with Ronald beside her, his head bent close to hers. Justin is there, too. A doctor is speaking to them.
He has pulled his chair up close to theirs. He is shaking his head. I know he is telling them that Kes is dead.
I
VOR Collins stood up when I approached, shook my hand, and stood behind me to adjust the positioning of my chair as I took
my seat, rather as I did for the twins so that their food had a better chance of reaching their mouths. His welcome verged
on the unctuous. He had invited me to lunch at his club. It was a sweltering day, but he did not remove his jacket or tie.
It was a classy way to bury the hatchet and a sweaty one, since the club did not indulge in anything as modern as air-conditioning.
“I’m not a monster,” he said as he sat opposite me and clasped his hands together on the linen cloth. “I don’t pull out the
fingernails of my journalists. I feed them fine food and wine in an atmosphere of calm sophistication.”
These last few words had an ironic ring to them. Collins, for all his chair adjusting, came from a background where the men’s
clubs were nothing like this leather-and-dark-wood confection. I would have said that neither of us belonged there.