No Reason To Die

Nineteen

Eventually, Kelly staggered back to his car. It took him several seconds of fumbling to unlock the door before he was able to fall gratefully into the driver’s seat. In spite of his shaky condition he switched on the Volvo’s engine straight away. He had no wish whatsoever to spend a moment longer than necessary in the deserted beach car park. It was, after all, not remotely beyond the realms of possibility that his attacker might regret letting him live and return for another go. Kelly did not intend to give him that opportunity. Clumsily, he jerked the Volvo into gear and took off as fast as he could up the steeply winding hill past The Cary Arms. His head was still swimming alarmingly and he could barely focus. Swinging the big, cumbersome vehicle around the near-vertical right-hand bend, part way up the hill, almost proved beyond him. His first two attempts to tackle the bend in the big car failed. Each time, he ended up having to slip the clutch and allow the car to run backwards, before slamming it into forward gear and having another go. He succeeded on the third attempt, and, although functioning so inadequately, he eventually reached the main road at the top of the steep winding hill, where he pulled to a halt in the first lay-by and slumped over the steering wheel. And he remained there for another ten minutes or so before he dared try to drive again. He was well aware that he still should not be driving, but he just wanted to get away from Babbacombe and to get home as soon as he possibly could. He had absolutely no intention of calling the police, not even Karen, until he was able to think more clearly.

So instead, when he felt recovered enough to at least make the attempt, he drove very slowly home to St Marychurch, keeping the driver’s window open, partly because he thought fresh air might help clear his head, and partly because he couldn’t stand the acrid stench of his own urine.

As he drove, he tried not to think about anything except getting home safely. He needed every ounce of concentration he could muster. He reckoned it would probably be several hours before the effect of his concussion fully departed. And then there was the shock to consider. He knew that he was definitely in shock. He had expected to die, after all.

The five minutes or so that it took to reach his home were just about the longest of his life. His little terraced house, high above Torquay’s town centre, suddenly seemed like the most desirable place in the world. He desperately wanted some time there alone, to change his clothes, perhaps to have a shower, and to rest and recuperate a little before doing anything else. He knew he should probably drive straight to the casualty department of Torbay Hospital, but he didn’t intend to do that, either. For a start, he wasn’t yet ready to even attempt to explain what had happened to him.

Gratefully, he pulled up outside his house, vaguely aware that he seemed to have parked at an acute angle to the pavement but totally incapable of doing anything about it. At his first attempt to step out of the Volvo, he almost fell over. His knees gave way. It seemed that his legs were still not fully capable of supporting him. He leaned against the car for a minute or two, before taking a cautious step across the pavement and grabbing hold of the gate post. He realised that he was trembling from head to foot.

Once safely inside, he peeled off his soiled clothes as soon as he had closed the door behind him, dropping them in an untidy pile on the tiled floor of the hall, and made his way uncertainly upstairs to the bathroom, being careful to hold on to the banister.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water to very hot and full power. His head was beginning to ache unpleasantly, but no longer seemed quite so strange. In fact, the shower helped even more than he had expected, and when he stepped out of it onto the bathmat, he was already a little less shaky than he had been when he had arrived home. He wrapped a couple of towels around his dripping body, and rummaged in the bathroom cabinet for the packet of Nurofen he knew was in there somewhere. As he closed the cabinet’s mirrored door, he caught a glimpse of his reflected face. It was not a pretty sight. He was white as a sheet, apart from the swollen, multicoloured bruise on his forehead. And it also looked as if at least one black eye was beginning to form. Wincing — as much at his own sorry image as because of his headache — he struggled to control trembling fingers in order to remove three of the small white pills from their foil container. He put them in his mouth and washed them down with tap water which he brought clumsily to his lips in cupped hands, spilling half the water over his front as he did so.

Thankfully, his legs felt much steadier. He made his way along the landing to the bedroom he used as an office and settled into his big leather swivel chair, where he sat perfectly still, breathing as deeply and as rhythmically as he could manage. He was only just beginning to realise fully how terrified he had been on that beach. He had been frightened, quite literally, out of his wits, and it was going to be some time before he would function normally again.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, which proved to be something of a mistake, because it brought about a return of the dancing lights. Swiftly he opened his eyes again, and sat waiting for the lights to disappear and, hopefully, for the Nurofen to start working on his splitting headache.

Eventually the pain in his head did begin to lessen and he started to think about what he should do next. He had a feeling he should tell Karen Meadows about what had happened as soon as possible. He did not yet have any idea exactly what he might have stumbled on at Hangridge, but he had certainly learned that he was now personally involved in a highly dangerous situation. There had been a string of deaths of young soldiers, almost all of which were at the very least highly suspicious, and now he too had almost died. Almost been murdered, in fact. Even Kelly knew that the time had come to step back and hand over everything he knew to those who, hopefully, were professionally qualified to deal with the consequences.

Impulsively he reached for the telephone to call Karen Meadows, but his vision was still suspect and his hands were still trembling so much that he realised it would be difficult for him to dial the number. He decided to wait a little longer. He would very much like a cigarette, but doubted he was capable of rolling one.

Then, just as he was desperately trying to remember if there was a packet of ready-made cigarettes secreted anywhere in the house, his mobile rang. In the hall downstairs. He remembered that it had been in the pocket of his suede jacket, which he had so unceremoniously dropped onto the floor just inside the front door. He had earlier dodged the calls that he knew Karen would be bound to try to make to him, but now he desperately wanted to know who could be calling him at such an hour.

Cursing under his breath, he jumped quickly to his feet, without thinking, in order to hurry to retrieve the phone. But the sudden movement set his head whirling again and he had to promptly sit down once more.

By the time he had managed to make his way downstairs and then delve in all the wrong pockets, his mobile had long since stopped ringing. When he finally found it, he at once checked the display panel, half expecting his caller to have been Karen again. After all, he had stood her up.

Nick’s mobile number showed up on the little screen. Kelly was mildly surprised. He peered at the clock on the wall to the left of the hallstand. As he had thought, it was nearly 1.30 a.m. A little anxiously, he checked the message service. There was one message from Karen asking him where the hell he was, but nothing from his son. What could Nick possibly want at this time of night, he wondered.

While he was contemplating this and trying to gather the strength to return the call, the phone rang again and again the number of Nick’s mobile flashed up on the display panel. Kelly answered at once.

‘Oh, hi, Dad, sorry to be so late, but I know you rarely go to bed much earlier than this, in spite of pretending to be an early-bird writer.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re probably right, and don’t worry, it’s always nice to hear from you.’ Kelly realised as he spoke that his words were very slightly slurred. His head was not yet completely clear. It was actually quite an effort to speak.

Nick seemed to pick up on that too, which was probably not surprising, thought Kelly.

‘Are you all right, Dad?’ he asked. And Kelly could detect the note of anxiety in his voice.

‘Yes, of course, I just fell asleep in the armchair, that’s all,’ lied Kelly, concentrating hard on his diction. He might well choose very soon to tell his son what had happened that night and would probably have already discussed the Hangridge affair with him, had he had opportunity. But Moira’s funeral had certainly not been the occasion. He had not seen Nick since and neither had he wished to discuss any of it on the phone. Now this, once more, was certainly not the moment. After his brush with death that night, Kelly was even less likely to discuss any aspect of Hangridge on the phone, and in any case he still couldn’t think clearly.

‘Oh, I did wake you, then. I’m sorry.’ Nick responded.

‘That’s OK. It’s fine.’ It was Kelly’s turn, in spite of his fuzzy-headedness, to feel anxious. ‘But what about you? I’m bloody sure you must have a good reason for calling me at this hour.’

‘Yes, sorry, Dad. I just wanted to pick your brains actually...’

Not a good moment for that, either, thought Kelly, whose brain still felt as if it were coated in thick gooey mud, but he did not interrupt, preferring to preserve what little energy he had left.

‘I’m working on something big,’ Nick continued. ‘I’ve been at my computer all night. There’s a bug that’s got into the system at the MoD and it’s causing mayhem, hence the urgency. I’ve traced the source to Washington D.C. and I’ve just found an article on the Net — about exactly the same bug — written by that mate of yours over there who you often talk about. You know, Terry Wallis, the Times man in Washington, isn’t he? Apparently, it nearly brought down the entire Pentagon network and Terry seems to know an awful lot about it. I desperately need to compare notes with him, and if I have to wait until morning it will be the middle of the night over there. I wondered if you had a phone number for him?’

‘Um. So you thought you’d rather wake me up in the middle of the night than Terry Wallis, did you?’

‘Well, you are my father. I thought you’d be more likely to forgive me.’

Kelly smiled in spite of himself.

‘Smooth bugger,’ he said. ‘Hang on, I’ll look the number up for you.’

Kelly and Terry Wallis, one of his few old Fleet Street friends still in the employ of a major national newspaper, kept in quite regular touch. Terry’s Washington number was scribbled in the back of his desk diary, and it took Kelly only a moment to look it up and relate it to Nick.

‘Thanks a million, Dad. You may have saved the MoD, as well as my life.’

‘Jolly good.’ Kelly didn’t want to discuss lives being saved, right then, and was quite grateful to end the call, which at least seemed to have helped him to function a little better. The effort of making conversation, however perfunctory, appeared to have done him good, he thought.

He reckoned his speech was almost back to normal, and he now felt that he could just about cope with calling Karen Meadows. Even though he knew she was not going to be exactly delighted to hear from him at this hour.

He dialled her home number, his fingers still trembling but at least more or less doing what he told them to, and at around the tenth ring she answered very sleepily and not a little grumpily.

‘Yes,’ she growled.

‘Karen, it’s me. I’m so sorry to call so late...’

‘So you fucking well should be...’ She mumbled something else that Kelly couldn’t quite understand, before rounding on him in language he understood perfectly.

‘It’s not fucking late, Kelly. It’s fucking early. It’s a quarter to two in the fucking morning!’

Kelly ignored the outburst. He just wasn’t up to it.

‘Look, something’s happened. You ought to know about it, really you—’

‘What? Now? In the middle of the night? Are you off your head? Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to see me till tomorrow. I thought you were having dinner with Moira’s girls tonight.’

Kelly knew he couldn’t play games any more.

‘I lied.’

‘Yes, you bastard. I know, actually.’

‘You do?’

‘I phoned Jennifer.’

‘Checking up on me?’

‘Bit late for that, really.’

‘I’m sorry, but, believe me, I did have a good reason.’

‘Don’t you always?’

‘Maybe. But this time I really did.’

‘Ah.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Are you all right, Kelly.’

Kelly had thought he’d been managing his speech rather well. What had she picked up on, he wondered. Kelly supposed he should not be surprised. It was quite possible that Karen Meadows actually knew him better than his only son did. In any case, he probably was still slurring his words a bit, although he couldn’t be certain because there was an echo inside his head, which made everything sound slightly distorted.

‘Yes. Just about. But there has been an incident, something I never for a second expected. I need to talk to you about it.’

‘At this time of the morning?’

‘Yes. Honestly, Karen, it can’t wait. It really can’t wait.’

‘Look, it’s nothing to do with...’ she paused. ‘You know, what happened the other night, is it?’

‘What?’ For a moment he didn’t know what on earth she was talking about. Then he realised. She must be referring to their misguided kiss. For God’s sake, he thought.

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing, could be further from my mind,’ he answered honestly.

‘OK. OK. You’d better come over, then.’

‘No.’ Kelly shook his head as he said the word, and a shooting pain darted from somewhere around his eyes, right through his nervous system, down to the base of his spine. He really couldn’t do any more driving. For a start, his vision remained far from normal.

‘Look, I don’t think I should drive. Could you come over here to me?’

‘You haven’t been drinking, Kelly, have you?’ she asked suddenly, and now she really did sound alarmed.

‘No.’ He managed an attempt at a dry laugh. ‘I haven’t been drinking, Karen. But something has happened which could have even more disastrous consequences. And not just for me.’

There was a brief pause, and when she replied she did not prevaricate any more. He was aware that while she knew him to be capable of some quite extreme moments of madness, she would also know that he would not ask her to visit him in the middle of the night without a very good reason indeed.

‘I’ll be with you in half an hour, maximum,’ she said.

She pulled on jeans and an old sweater and then delved into the back of the wardrobe for her old and much-loved, quilted denim Armani coat, with its distinctive metal badge. She needed comfort clothes for this jaunt, she thought. And, preoccupied as she already was by her brief conversation with Kelly, the faded blue coat, which she reckoned oozed quality, still gave her a bit of a satisfied feeling as she pulled it on. ‘They don’t make ’em like this any more,’ she muttered to herself.

On the drive along the front and through a deserted town centre, Karen tried to imagine what on earth could have happened to induce Kelly to call her at 1.45 in the morning and demand an audience. Particularly, as whatever he had been up to earlier — and she had been right, of course, he had most definitely been up to something — he’d, apparently, at first been quite determined to keep it from her.

He had sounded quite peculiar, too. She wished now that she hadn’t referred to their little emotional lapse, but she had a feeling that the whole incident was in any case about to pale into insignificance.

In St Marychurch, she had to park a little down the road from Kelly’s house, mainly because of the large Volvo already parked outside, and at such an angle to the pavement that it blocked part of the road. He answered his front door before she even had the chance to ring the bell. She could only assume that he must have been looking out of the window for her to arrive and she had various lines of banter ready for him, all of which went completely out of her mind as soon as she saw him.

There was now a large, very sore-looking bump towards the upper left of Kelly’s forehead. It was a nasty, yellow-reddish colour and there were signs of residual bruising all around it. In addition, both of Kelly’s eyes were puffy and discoloured and he seemed to be having difficulty in focusing. She was genuinely shocked.

‘Good God,’ she said. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he replied. ‘Come in. I’ve made fresh coffee. I think we’re both going to need it.’

He led the way into the living room, gestured her to a chair by the fireplace, and poured coffee from a steaming jug into two big mugs. She waited with unusual patience. After all, she needed a few minutes’ grace to recover from the shock of his appearance.

‘Well?’ she enquired, when Kelly finally sat down across the fireplace from her.

‘As you can see, I’ve had a bit of a going-over.’

‘I certainly can see. Don’t you think I should take you to casualty?’

‘No, I’m all right, really.’

‘What the fuck happened?’

‘I think somebody tried to kill me,’ he began. ‘And I really have no idea why he didn’t go through with it.’

‘Shit,’ she said.

Kelly nodded his assent. ‘Shit, indeed,’ he said. ‘I’m scared, Karen, and I don’t mind admitting it.’

He began to tell her everything then, deliberately leaving the best bit until last. Even in the sorry state he was in, Kelly retained the tabloid journalist’s sense of the dramatic when it came to a good story. First of all he asked Karen if she had seen the article in the Evening Argus about the death of yet another young Hangridge squaddie, murdered in London on a street close to the family home of key witness James Gates, also dead.

‘No, I didn’t see the Argus yesterday,’ she admitted. ‘I was too busy.’

She thought for a second.

‘That’s shocking enough, but I get the feeling it’s not the half of it, is it, Kelly?’ she enquired. ‘And you’ve yet to tell me how you ended up looking as if you’ve just completed ten rounds with Mike Tyson.’

Kelly tried to smile. It obviously hurt. He told her about his anonymous tip-off and the arranged midnight meeting on Babbacombe beach, which he was now convinced had been a set-up. In graphic detail, he explained how he was attacked by an assailant he was convinced was a professional killer, and how he had been let off but could not begin to explain why.

‘Like John Lee,’ he said. ‘And just as unlikely an escape, I promise you.’

Karen was shocked. Kelly didn’t need to explain the analogy to her. She was, after all, a local girl, and, like almost everyone from the Torbay area, had been brought up on the tale of John Lee, the man they couldn’t hang.

She cupped her chin in her hands and leaned forwards in her chair.

‘Right, Kelly,’ she began. ‘I don’t think we should even go into why you are still alive. I just want to make sure you stay that way. So, let’s get one thing clear, shall we? You must pull back from the Hangridge affair at once. I’ll call the nick straight away and set up an investigation into the attack on you. I don’t need anybody’s authority to do that. On the surface, at least, this is a straightforward case of an innocent civilian being assaulted in a public place, and if that leads into military matters, then all for the better. I’ll get the SOCOs out to Babbacombe straight away, just in case they can pick up on something, and I’m afraid whether you like it—’

‘Karen, please, I haven’t got to the most important bit yet,’ Kelly interrupted.

‘Look, Kelly, we must move as fast as we possibly can in order to protect all remaining evidence. Whether you like it or not, you’ll have to come back to the nick with me now. You mightn’t want to go to casualty, but you do have to be seen by our police doctor, we may be able to get some forensic evidence off you.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Kelly, ‘I’ve had a shower.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I just wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘OK. Well, we can still go over the clothes you were wearing. Or have you destroyed them, too?’

Kelly managed a wan smile, apparently without too much pain, and shook his head.

‘Good,’ she continued. ‘And you said you managed to bite your attacker, so if you made a halfway decent job of it, there may be some fragments of skin in your teeth. You haven’t brushed them, have you?’

Kelly shook his head again.

‘Thank God, for that. We’ll want a statement too, but that can wait until later on in the morning if you don’t feel up to it. I’ll probably ask Chris Tompkins to interview you, because I shall go to Exeter first thing. Or as soon as I recover from this middle of the night assignation, anyway. Whatever comes out of this attack on you—’

‘Look, Karen,’ Kelly interrupted again. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you. There’s something else you should know, before you—’

But Karen still wouldn’t let him finish. She was on a roll, putting an investigation together, planning her next move. It was what she did best. And just knowing that she now had a valid course of action to follow was making her feel so much better.

‘Yeah, yeah, but first, Kelly, let me explain. Whatever comes out of this attack on you, that, coupled with this murder of James Gates’ mate in London, should really get things moving. In fact, if it doesn’t force frigging Harry Tomlinson to give the go-ahead for a full scale CID inquiry into every one of these deaths of Devonshire Fusiliers, I don’t know what the fuck will—’

‘Karen!’ Kelly raised his voice to a shout and Karen could see that he had really made his head hurt. He screwed up his face in pain. She studied him anxiously. In addition, there was something in his voice now that absolutely demanded her attention.

‘Yes?’ she queried quite meekly.

‘Karen, please, please, listen. Do you remember I told you about the two men who came into The Wild Dog looking for Alan Connelly, the night this all began?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’ Karen was mildly irritated. Did he think she had turned into an idiot?

‘Well, one of them, the one who did all the talking. I think I know who he was. Actually, I am quite sure I know who he was.’

‘Really?’ Karen was puzzled. Why the big build-up, she wondered.

Out loud she said: ‘Well, spit it out, then.’

‘I... I met him yesterday,’ Kelly continued. ‘And I recognised him. At once.’

‘What?’ Karen was even more puzzled by the air of mystery Kelly was creating. ‘Not the man who attacked you on the beach? I thought you said you couldn’t see him.’

‘I couldn’t. No, not him. Well, not as far as I know, anyway.’

He paused again. Infuriating man, thought Karen. Even in the state he was in, he was still playing to his audience, going for the biggest possible dramatic effect. She realised the quickest way to be put out of her misery was to play along with him.

‘Well?’ she prompted, expressionlessly.

‘It was Gerrard Parker-Brown. I am absolutely sure of it. Really I am. Colonel Parker-Brown.’