No Reason To Die

Two

Kelly continued to stare at the closed door of the pub for several seconds after the young squaddie and his unwelcome escort had left. In spite of the unexciting nature of his drink and the tedium of a pub which was now completely empty, apart from Charlie, he found himself rolling another cigarette and ordering another pint of Coke. The minor commotion caused by the arrival of the two men, and the extreme unease Kelly had experienced, had somehow destroyed his intention to make a move.

In addition, his stomach had begun to remind him that he had eaten nothing since his lunchtime scrambled eggs. Resolutely putting the incident of young Alan the squaddie out of his mind, after telling himself that he really had to stop letting his imagination run riot, Kelly concentrated his attention on The Wild Dog’s out-of-season weekday menu. To his relief he found that bread, cheese and pickles still featured, so that at least he could be saved from Charlie’s dubious microwaving skills.

The cheese was a decent enough Cheddar, and although the bread was definitely not as fresh as it could have been, Kelly wolfed the makeshift meal down.

One way and another, it was almost an hour later before Kelly finally decided to make his way home.

If anything the weather was even worse than when he had arrived at The Wild Dog. This was a truly filthy night. A lashing of horizontal rain hit him straight in the face as he stepped out of the old pub. It was cold as well as wet. The easterly wind continued to gust ferociously, and there was now a hill mist, whipped into flying wisps by the wind, swirling around the car park. Kelly hunched his shoulders beneath his inadequate suede bomber jacket, and wondered why on earth, as it had already been raining when he had left his house in Torquay, he had not worn a suitable coat. He broke into a trot, bowing his head against the weather, pulled open his car door and half dived inside, grateful that he never locked the little MG roadster. Kelly had driven an open MG for years and he knew from experience that there was no point in locking that kind of car. Anyone who wanted to break in merely slashed the soft top.

He started the engine, switched on the headlights and pulled out onto the main road. The visibility was dreadful. And when you drive an ancient MG in such conditions, you have an extra disadvantage. Kelly felt as if he were enclosed in a small black box. The windscreen was just a narrow slit between the dashboard and the hood, and in these conditions the headlights seemed to be no more effective than flickering gas lamps.

Kelly, who had only just got his licence back after three years off the road, following one of the more extreme acts of irresponsibility which littered his chequered past, drove with extreme care, concentrating every ounce of his being on the road ahead.

Even so, when, on a blind corner only about a mile or so away from The Wild Dog, a figure in a luminous orange waistcoat, waving a torch, materialised out of the gloom, Kelly thought he was going to hit it.

He slammed on the brakes and hoped for the best. The old car did not have the benefit of a modern anti-locking braking system, and its long low design had definitely not been conceived with emergency stops in mind. The tyres screeched in angry protest and Kelly felt the MG’s rear end swing wildly from side to side, but somehow or other the little car shuddered to a halt just a few feet from the orange figure. Kelly slumped across the steering wheel in relief. He could see now that the orange figure was a police officer, and wondered what on earth was going on. Then, as the policeman approached, he wondered if he was about to be chastised for the erratic manner in which he had pulled to a halt.

He cranked down the driver’s window and waited for the officer to speak first.

‘You’ll need to wait here for a moment, sir, afraid there’s been an accident, and the road ahead is blocked.’

‘I see. Right.’

There was no mention of Kelly’s driving. It seemed the policeman had other things on his mind. The MG’s engine was still running and Kelly had yet to switch off the headlights and the windscreen wipers. He peered into the gloom, straining his eyes. Gradually, he became aware of a big black shape fifty yards or so away, and realised that a large articulated truck was indeed blocking the road. To one side of it he could also see a dimly flashing light, probably from this officer’s police car parked beyond the truck, the bulk of which, even more than the poor visibility, prevented him from seeing what else was going on.

Well, Kelly reflected, at least he had a good excuse now for failing to visit Moira, his seriously ill partner. He was thoroughly ashamed of the thought as soon as it entered his head, but had, as so often seemed to be the case, been quite unable to prevent it doing so.

‘Have you any idea how long it will be before the road will be cleared, Constable?’ he asked.

The constable shook his head. ‘Not at this stage, sir. Unfortunately, we have a casualty and we are waiting for the ambulance service to arrive.’

‘Right.’

The policeman, shoulders hunched against the weather, walked away from the car and took up a position on the most acute angle of the corner which Kelly had just negotiated. Kelly suspected that having witnessed the way in which he and his little MG had so precariously slewed to a halt, the constable was probably trying to give himself a better chance of survival as he stopped any further traffic. He hadn’t looked very happy. Kelly didn’t blame him. He could just see the glimmer of the man’s torch in the misty darkness.

He switched off his engine and settled down for a long wait. If there were casualties, the police would not be able to do anything about any of the vehicles involved until a medical team arrived on the scene. He could have turned and driven back to Two Bridges, then right across the high moorland to Moretonhampstead and on to Newton Abbot and Torquay, but that was a major detour which, in these conditions, Kelly didn’t fancy at all. On balance, he preferred to wait. Automatically, he reached into his pocket for his tobacco and began to make himself yet another roll-up. He was adept at rolling cigarettes. He didn’t need to put a light on, which was all for the best as the MG’s interior light was totally ineffectual.

After a bit, he was aware of another set of headlights coming round the corner and the policeman waving his warning torch in the air. The vehicle pulled to a halt directly behind his MG. The policeman approached it and, silhouetted by his torch, Kelly could see a figure in a raincoat stepping out, then leaning back into the car to retrieve what appeared to be a briefcase.

The policeman seemed to speak to him briefly, then began to escort the new arrival towards the scene of the accident, using his torch to light the way. As the two figures passed Kelly’s car, the man with the briefcase turned his head towards the little MG, and was illuminated enough by the torchlight held in his companion’s hand for Kelly to be able to recognise him. It was Audley Richards, the regional Home Office pathologist.

So, somebody’s bought it, thought Kelly. That would seriously slow up any chances of the road being cleared in the near future. He sighed and, taking a long pull on his roll-up, settled down in his seat.

After just a minute or two the torch-bearing policeman returned to resume his sentry duty, and Kelly began to feel just a flickering of journalistic interest. He may have retired from the game in any sort of full-time capacity, but he had no objections to earning a few bob out of the odd freelance opportunity. In any case, under the circumstances it was probably an extremely good idea to keep his hand in. If he didn’t very soon get to grips with the novel he was writing, which was, of course, destined to transform his life J.K. Rowling-style, he might well end up back on the road all over again. This time as an even more tired old hack.

Kelly knew that — particularly given the dreadful driving conditions — the odds were on this being merely a routine traffic accident involving people whose death would be of no interest to anyone other than their own family or friends. But, on the other hand, he also knew you could never be quite sure of that. Kelly had not so long ago made a few enquiries at the scene of a relatively minor road accident, only to discover that the driver of one of the vehicles involved was a senior Church of England bishop and that the woman who had been accompanying him, and who, in an apparent state of shock, was demanding rather demonstrative comfort from him, was not his wife. That one had brought in a nice few bob in linage from the nationals.

And so, aware that his pay-off from his old job was close to running out and that his bank manager was unlikely to further fund his writing career without at least some indication of progress, Kelly, with slight reluctance, stepped out of his car. Within seconds he was drenched, his light suede jacket given yet another soaking from which, he felt, it was unlikely ever to fully recover. The lashing rain cut straight through his thinning hair and felt icy-cold against his scalp. None the less, he made himself join the policeman a little further up the road, his feet making unpleasant sloshing sounds on a road running with water. If Plod could cope with these conditions, then so could he, he told himself.

Out loud he said: ‘What’s happened, then? You’ve got a fatality, I presume.’

In the arc of the flashlight, the young policeman’s eyes looked overly big.

‘How do you know that?’ he asked sharply.

Kelly shrugged. ‘I saw Dr Richards arrive,’ he said. ‘I’ve known him for years.’

He smiled wryly and stretched out a hand. ‘John Kelly,’ he said. ‘I’ve been, I mean I was, a journalist for more years than I care to remember. This was my patch.’

Kelly could see the policeman relaxing. In high places, the tension between police and press was considerable and led to all sorts of much publicised confrontation. On the road, the foot soldiers of both professions shared a natural affinity. More often than not they rather liked each other. Certainly, they understood each other’s way of life and shared many of the same sort of experiences — standing around in the cold and wet, waiting for something to happen, being merely one example.

‘So, some poor sod’s bought it?’ Kelly said questioningly, looking at the policeman sideways.

The constable paused only for a second. He was wet through and the night was yet young. It wasn’t just struggling scribes who welcomed displacement activities.

‘Yeah, only a kid too,’ the police officer replied. ‘We’re not sure exactly what happened. The lorry driver’s in total shock, can’t tell us much at all. Apparently he should have been on the Okehampton bypass, on his way overnight down to Cornwall, but he took a wrong turning and got totally lost. He’s miles out of his way. Not surprising in these conditions.’

The constable waved his arms at the murkiness around him and narrowed his eyes as if imagining what it would be like to drive a large, articulated truck over Dartmoor on such a terrible night.

‘We’ve got the SOCOs coming out, and we’re still waiting for the ambulance from Ashburton. It was a bit of a surprise, actually, that Dr Richards got here first.’

‘Yes, well, he lives for his work,’ said Kelly, a little caustically. He had clashed with Audley Richards, a doctor of the old school, very aware of his professional status and an extremely precise, taciturn character, more than once during his days on the Evening Argus.

The constable shot him a questioning glance, unsure how to take the remark. Kelly made his face expressionless.

‘So, you don’t know what happened, then?’

‘Not really. It looks like the kid could have been drinking, though. He’s still reeking of booze and all the lorry driver keeps saying is that he suddenly loomed up in front of him.’

‘Loomed up in front of him,’ Kelly repeated. ‘You mean he was on foot?’

‘Yeah, didn’t I say? He was on foot. And you don’t get many pedestrians out here on a road like this. Not at night, anyway. Bad luck, though. Not much traffic either... I mean, who’d want to drive over the moors in these conditions...’

Kelly stopped listening. A kid. A pedestrian. A drunken pedestrian involved in a road accident so close to The Wild Dog. Kelly had a quick brain, always had had, but he didn’t need to be very quick at all for an obvious possibility to occur to him. His mind began to whirl. Could the casualty possibly be his young friend from The Wild Dog? On the one hand it seemed quite likely, but on the other, the Scottish squaddie had not left alone. He had been escorted out by two men, men whom Kelly had felt quite certain were army mates who had come looking for him in order to take him safely back to base. They wouldn’t have let him come to harm in his drunken state, surely? And yet, and yet... Kelly didn’t know what to think. Young Alan had looked frightened, after all, hadn’t he?

‘Look, Constable, I was in the pub back up the road — The Wild Dog — with this lad, just a kid, like you said... He’d had a real skinful. I wonder if it could be him?’

‘Well, I’ve really no idea...’

‘It might help if I could see him?’ Kelly persisted.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ hesitated the policeman. ‘I’m not in charge.’

‘Then perhaps I could speak to whoever is?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘It may be somebody I know,’ ventured Kelly hopefully.

‘Ron Smythe,’ added the policeman. ‘Sergeant Ron Smythe. The lorry driver called 999 on his mobile and the sarge and I were only down the road in Buckfastleigh on a domestic...’

‘I really think I could help,’ repeated Kelly. Being a displacement activity for a bored wet policeman was one thing, but Kelly himself was by now so wet he was afraid he might drown if he had to stand around in this downpour for much longer.

Without saying any more, the constable gestured for Kelly to follow and led the way through the narrow gap between the rear end of the articulated lorry and the stone wall to the right of the road. Kelly could see now that the big artic’, which he guessed would have been travelling in the same direction from which he had arrived on the scene, had jackknifed and the wheels of the cab were dangling precariously over the ditch on the other side of the moorland road.

Beyond the artic’ Kelly could just make out a figure laying in the middle of the road, limbs sprawled at unnatural angles, and another figure crouched by its side. That was Audley Richards, the pathologist. A third figure was silhouetted against the bright headlights of a parked police car, presumably left on to illuminate the scene. As Kelly and the police constable approached, the third figure, momentarily turned into a giant by the huge shadow he cast across the ground as he moved, strode towards them in an authoritative way.

‘Who’s this, Dave?’ he asked.

‘Name’s John Kelly, says he’s a journalist, Sarge.’

The sergeant, whose long bony face was now brightly lit up down one side, giving him a curiously skeletal appearance, studied Kelly with a complete lack of interest and no recognition, which in Kelly’s case was a mixed blessing. He knew a lot of police officers, but had not necessarily made the acquaintance of all of them in the most desirable of manners. Kelly had had a varied relationship with the police over the years.

‘No press,’ said the sergeant sharply, looking directly at Kelly. ‘The only information you’re going to get is through the press office, mate.’

He turned on his heel, glancing towards the constable as he did so. ‘And you should know that, Dave,’ he finished.

‘I’m not making a press enquiry,’ Kelly interjected swiftly. ‘There’s just a chance I might be able to help. It’s possible that I could have been with your victim earlier, in The Wild Dog.’

‘Really.’ Sergeant Smythe did not sound particularly interested, but he did pause as if considering what might be his next course of action. Then the wail of approaching emergency vehicles, rising above the noise of the wind and rain, demanded his attention. Smythe turned his back on Kelly as a second police car and an ambulance came into sight, sending showers of water into the night air as they pulled to a halt at the accident scene.

The two-man ambulance crew emerged swiftly from their vehicle and, carrying their medical equipment with them in boxes and bags, hurried towards the prostrate figure on the ground, slowing up when confronted by the crouched form of Audley Richards, whose presence indicated much the same to them as it had to Kelly earlier.

With rather less urgency, two officers carrying cases emerged from the police car. SOCOs, thought Kelly. Scenes of Crime Officers, whose attendance was standard procedure nowadays in the case of sudden death, even when there was little or no suggestion of any kind of foul play.

Sergeant Smythe promptly set off to join the various newcomers. ‘You’ll have to wait,’ he called over his shoulder in a rather peremptory tone.

Kelly hunched his inadequately clad shoulders against the rain and did just that. Icy-cold droplets ran down his neck inside his collar. He shivered. One aspect of journalism that he had been looking forward to leaving behind was the waiting. Door-stepping, they called it. Waiting on the outside, looking in, waiting on the off-chance that somebody who knew something might give you a minute of their time, and, in so doing, enough information to make a story. Kelly was too old for door-stepping. Come to think of it, he reckoned he had always been too old for door-stepping. But here he was, at it again. And this time he wasn’t even being paid for it, he grumbled silently to himself.

Eventually, Audley Richards stood up and stepped back from the body on the ground. Then the paramedics, by now looking as if they were quite satisfied that there was nothing they could do to help, began to load the dead man onto a stretcher.

The Home Office pathologist produced a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one with one hand and put it in his mouth, and with his other hand raised an old Zippo lighter to the cigarette’s end. Funny how many doctors smoked, thought Kelly idly. Indeed, doctors were probably leaders of the do what I say, not what I do brigade, he reflected.

The flame of Dr Richards’ lighter flickered uncertainly for just a few seconds before dying out. Two further attempts to light up produced only the same result.

‘Damn,’ muttered Audley Richards, hunching his back against the wind and rain, as he tried to provide some sort of protection from the elements with his body’s bulk.

‘Allow me,’ said Kelly, stepping smartly forward and cupping his hands around the pathologist’s cigarette end.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Kelly?’ asked the doctor conversationally, his small Hitler-like moustache bristling as he spoke. He and Kelly went back a long way. Kelly respected Audley Richards because of his reputation for professionalism, and was prepared to overlook his perennial grumpiness. Dr Richards, on the other hand, had always made it quite clear to Kelly that he saw no use whatsoever for journalists in general, and that he was particularly incensed merely by Kelly’s presence on earth. This did not, however, prevent him from gratefully taking advantage of the shelter provided by Kelly’s cupped hands in order to finally light up.

‘Just driving by,’ said Kelly. ‘Or trying to.’

Richards grunted around his cigarette, which had finally begun to burn surprisingly well under the circumstances.

‘I think I may know the victim,’ Kelly continued.

‘Poor sod,’ said Audley Richards. Kelly eyed him quizzically. Poor sod because he was dead, or poor sod because he had been unlucky enough even to have met Kelly in passing? Kelly wasn’t at all sure. But while he was still working it out, Sergeant Smythe approached and touched him lightly on one arm.

‘Right, you can have a look now, if you wish.’ Sergeant Smythe turned to the pathologist. ‘Unless you have any objections, Dr Richards? Unorthodox, I know, but the lad doesn’t seem to have any identification papers on him at all, and we do need to find out who he is.’

‘No objections, Sergeant. Nothing more I can do. The whole thing’s perfectly straightforward, if you ask me. One word of warning.’ Audley Richards extended a thumb in the general direction of Kelly. ‘It won’t be if he gets involved.’

‘You know this man, Doctor?’

‘Oh, yes, I know him, Sergeant. Just make sure his coat button isn’t a camera, that’s all.’

The sergeant looked puzzled. Kelly stepped past him before he had time to change his mind and approached the paramedics who were now loading their stretcher into the ambulance.

‘The sergeant says I can have a look,’ he began.

The older of the two paramedics looked towards Sergeant Smythe, who nodded his assent, albeit a little uncertainly.

The body on the stretcher was entirely covered by a blanket. The second paramedic pulled it back, exposing the face of the dead young man.

There didn’t seem to be a mark on him. Kelly had mentally prepared himself for a gruesome sight. But this lad just looked as if he were in a deep sleep. Whatever injuries he had sustained must have been solely to his body. His face remained untouched and Kelly had no problem at all identifying him.

Sergeant Smythe had followed him over to the ambulance. Kelly turned round to face him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. It is the lad I met in the pub.’

‘Right,’ responded Smythe. ‘You and I had better have a chat then, hadn’t we, Mr Kelly.’

He led Kelly over to his patrol car and gestured to one of the paramedics to follow them. The interior light snapped on as the sergeant opened the nearside rear passenger door. There was already a man sitting in the back seat, and Kelly registered at once that this must be the lorry driver. He had a wide, plumpish face, etched with laughter lines around his eyes and mouth, indicating that he was probably a jovial good-humoured sort. At that moment, however, he appeared anything but jovial. His skin was so pale it looked almost as if all the blood had been drained from him, his eyes were red-rimmed and bright with shock, and he was trembling.

‘OK, mate,’ said the sergeant quite gently. ‘The ambulance boys are going to look after you now. All right?’

Obediently, the lorry driver climbed out of the car. His legs buckled slightly as he tried to stand up. The paramedic put a supportive arm around him and steered him off in the direction of the ambulance. Sergeant Smythe and Kelly watched for only a second or two before getting into the car themselves, where, within its relative shelter, the sergeant produced his notebook and jotted down everything Kelly was able to tell him.

His attitude to Kelly seemed considerably less cool now, which was perhaps not surprising. After all, Kelly had done a large part of his job for him. He had been able to tell the sergeant that the victim was a soldier and that his name was Alan, and where he was stationed. One call to the barracks at Hangridge should be enough to sort out full identification. The accident seemed straightforward enough and Kelly guessed that Sergeant Smythe couldn’t wait to get the scene cleared up so that he could return to the warm familiarity of Ashburton police station and a steaming hot cup of tea.

Kelly could well guess how the other man felt. He was shivering himself now, and it wasn’t with shock. He had seen all too many dead bodies in his time. The cold and the wet had seeped right through his inadequate clothing and he felt chilled to the bone. But he was not yet quite finished.

‘There’s just one thing, Sergeant,’ said Kelly. ‘The two men who turned up in the pub looking for this lad. Two more soldiers, I’m sure. Where did they go? Has anybody seen them?’

‘I don’t know anything about any two men,’ said Sergeant Smythe, reverting at once to his earlier attitude of near hostility. Smythe did not want any complications, thought Kelly. His body language defied Kelly to question him any further. However, Kelly had a thick skin. You grew one in the job he had done through most of his life.

‘But didn’t the lorry driver see them?’ he persisted.

Smythe studied him for a few seconds without enthusiasm. Then, sighing exaggeratedly, he opened the driver’s door and began to swing his long legs out onto the tarmac road, straight into an icy blast of windswept rain.

‘Wait here,’ he muttered to Kelly, who needed no encouragement whatsoever to remain exactly where he was, almost curled into the passenger seat of the police car, with his arms tightly wrapped round his chest in a futile bid to retain as much body warmth as possible.

The sergeant returned within only a couple of minutes, shaking droplets of icy water off his police issue waterproof jacket and all over Kelly as he climbed back into the car.

‘The driver didn’t see anybody else,’ he said. ‘He didn’t see anyone at all apart from chummy, when it was too darned late.’

‘But those two blokes must have been with the lad. They wouldn’t have left him in that state, would they?’

‘Who knows what a load of off-their-head soldiers will do,’ responded Sergeant Smythe flatly.

Kelly opened his mouth to respond but found he didn’t have the energy. He reached for the door handle. His fingers were so cold he had difficulty even grasping it. But the good news was that his body temperature was by now so low that when he eventually climbed out into the wind and rain he barely felt it any more. None the less, he began to sprint back to the MG, but his path was momentarily blocked by the ambulance containing the body of the dead squaddie, which was now slowly pulling away from the scene.

As Kelly watched it leave he could see again, all too clearly in his mind’s eye, the lad’s lifeless young face, and wondered fleetingly just how old he had been. Under twenty, definitely. Eighteen or nineteen, maximum, he thought. Little more than a child in the great scheme of things, and with so much life left to live. To his surprise Kelly, who was, after all, not unfamiliar with the spectacle of lives wasted and cut unnecessarily short, suddenly felt overwhelmed by a great sadness.