Just as he started to dial the number, his mobile called him with a message from the previous day. It was Moira’s daughter Jennifer, yet again wanting to know where he was. He promised himself he would phone to apologise as soon as he had made that call to the Argus.
Sally seemed genuinely pleased to hear from him.
‘So, how are you, you old bugger,’ she asked affectionately. Sally was a genuine Devon maid, born and bred in the South Hams, and, like all true Devonians, was inclined to use the word ‘bugger’ as a term of endearment.
Kelly had also been born and brought up in Devon, in Torquay, and he knew the form well enough, though he had often been amused by the reactions of foreigners.
‘I’m fine, me lover,’ he responded warmly. ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’
‘Yeah, yeah, me dear,’ replied Sally sweetly. ‘So, what do you want?’
‘How do you know I want anything, me ’andsome?’
‘Oh, I’ve always been able to read your mind, you bugger,’ remarked Sally pleasantly. ‘In any case, leopards don’t change their spots. And, by the way, Kelly, I’ve got the afternoon off, so if you don’t spit it out smartish you won’t be getting it, whatever it is.’
Kelly grinned. He told her then about Craig Foster.
‘As well as looking for him by name, you could try any cuts on the Devonshire Fusiliers, and Hangridge, too. It’s some sort of address I’m after, most of all, or at least a town or a district. I do know there were stories, and there’s bound to have been an inquest report, but goodness knows whether it would all have been filed or not, the way the library’s been run down...’
They exchanged a few mutually comforting grumbles about how comprehensive the Argus’ cuttings library had once been, and how, like most newspaper libraries, the culling of staff combined with switching to a computer database, without first loading it with back information, had caused standards to drop alarmingly. In spite of all that, Sally agreed to do the check as soon as she could and promised to call Kelly back when she had done so.
He settled into his seat. The sun was shining directly into his side of the train, which this time was mercifully only half full, and he suddenly felt extremely warm and comfortable. He would call Moira later, he decided, when he was a little nearer home. Within minutes the warmth and the gentle rocking movement of the train, combined perhaps with the satisfaction of having put something in motion, had lulled him off to sleep. And he woke with a start when his mobile rang half an hour or so later.
‘I’ve found a few bits, Kelly,’ came Sally’s voice over the air waves. ‘A page lead, back of the book, when Craig Foster died, the inquest report like you said, and a death notice. You’re lucky. Deaths, marriages, and births, they still cut all of those. And he was a local lad, it seems—’
‘That’s great,’ interjected Kelly excitedly. Death notices almost always gave full personal details including at least partial addresses. He loved getting a result like that, wherever it might lead, always had done. ‘Will you read it to me.’
‘Foster, Fusilier Craig Anthony. Aged seventeen. Much loved only son of Phillip and Marcia Foster, of Grange Road, Babbacombe, Torquay. Killed in a military training accident. May 10th. Already greatly missed.’
A local lad and an address as well. Kelly could not have hoped for a better result. He told himself that this was fate, that he was destined to continue with his inquiries, at least until the next stage.
‘Thanks a million, Sal,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you managed to find a death notice. That’s bloody brilliant.’
‘Yes, well, the computer system is actually extremely efficient, as long as the information has been pumped into it, you can always get it out easily enough,’ said Sally. ‘The problem is it can only tell you what somebody has already told it, if you see what I mean.’
‘Ah, but nobody knows how to work the system better than you, Sal,’ responded Kelly.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’
‘Please do. It was meant as one. Well, very nearly...’
‘If I were you Kelly, I’d quit while you’re ahead.’
‘I will. And thanks again, Sal.’
‘Right. Do you want me to fax you the inquest report and the other story?’
‘Yes, please.’ He gave her his fax number.
‘I owe you one, Sal, I really do,’ he said.
‘One? You owe me one? I’ll send you an invoice, shall I?’
‘Yeah, if you like, but you know better than most what I’m like at paper work...’
She was chuckling as he said a genuinely fond goodbye and ended the call. Sally, and the familiar banter between them, was one of the aspects of newspaper life which Kelly sorely missed. But there were even more which he was extremely glad to see the back of, he reminded himself.
He dialled directory enquiries. He knew, of course, that the service did not give out addresses. It was, however, an easy enough trick to ask for a P. Foster and pick a street number at random. Kelly asked for a P. Foster at number 7 Grange Road.
The reply came automatically, just as Kelly had hoped it would. ‘I have a P. Foster at number 16, sir.’
Another result. Kelly switched off his phone, settled back into his seat, and within minutes was once more asleep.
He arrived back at Newton Abbot at around twenty past five, only a few minutes behind schedule. A miracle, he thought. With a bit of luck he could be at Babbacombe by around six, even in the rush-hour traffic, and he decided to go for it. Indeed, the truth was that he just couldn’t resist.
He had automatically decided on the same surprise approach. It meant going in cold, but as an old Fleet Street hand Kelly knew well enough that the advantages of so doing almost always outweighed the disadvantages.
The traffic was reasonably light, with the bulk of it heading out of Torquay towards him as he made his way along the A380 through Kingskerswell and swung a left by the hospital out towards Babbacombe, which lay on the north side of the town, just a little nearer to Torquay town centre than his own district of St Marychurch.
Grange Road was a neat street of small pre-war semis in the heart of Babbacombe village, set back from the seafront. The whole area was in stark contrast to Belle View. Almost every house had a tidily manicured front garden and fresh paintwork.
It was already dark, and a reproduction Victorian carriage lamp attached to the wall next to the front door of number 16 caused Kelly to blink very rapidly. It shone directly into his eyes as he stood on the doorstep. He glanced over his shoulder. The street was very quiet. Yet again he had that feeling of being an intruder. Yet again he conquered any such misgivings, with the alacrity which came with years of experience as a professional intruder into other people’s lives.
There was no doorbell. Instead, a brass ring doorknocker gleamed in the centre of the white painted door. However, Kelly did not need to use it. The door opened even before he had raised his right hand to the brass ring.
Before him stood a very thin, slightly unwell-looking woman, with unnaturally dark hair, dressed entirely in black from head to foot.
‘Mr Stiles?’ she enquired at once.
‘Uh, no,’ said Kelly hesitantly. He started to introduce himself.