He sat in his car, parked outside Mrs Slade’s flat, thinking it all through. Kelly felt considerable compassion for Margaret Slade, and for her daughter, just as he did for the Connellys in Glasgow and for Mrs Foster in Torquay. Somehow or other, these people had all been caught up in something that was beginning to look increasingly sinister. He was determined to do his best to solve the mystery.
He made himself a roll-up while he contemplated his next move. He might be able to find out more about this young soldier called Trevor, by getting Sally to troll through inquest reports in the Argus’ library. But it would be much quicker to find out exactly who Trevor was and how he had died, if Karen Meadows would help. Although he had, not for the first time, ignored her entreaties for him to take no further action without her approval, he thought she might forgive him when he told her what he’d found out.
First he dialled her mobile, but it was switched to voicemail. Then he tried her number at Torquay police station, but was told that she was out. He left messages for her to call him and then set off on the long drive back to Torquay. It was just after 6.30 p.m. when he arrived in the seaside town, and Karen had still not called him back. He tried both numbers again, with the same results as earlier. He wondered fleetingly if she was avoiding him. After all, he knew he was leading her, and himself, into deep water.
He made a decision then. If Karen wouldn’t come to him, as it were, then he would go to Karen. He had, in any case, never had any intention of talking to her on the phone about what he had found out. He drove straight to Torquay police station and, remarkably, managed to find a parking space in Lansdowne Lane, just outside the dance school, from which he could see the entrance to the CID offices on his left and the big gateway leading into the car park at the back of Torquay police station, and the door to the custody suite, on his right. He got out of the car and walked towards the gateway. The actual gates that had once been there had disappeared years previously. Not for the first time, Kelly reflected on the apparent lack of security. There was closed-circuit TV in operation, of course, and the various doors leading into the station were all secure. It none the less amused Kelly to amble casually into the back yard of Torquay nick and have a snoop around. His purpose on this occasion was to check that Karen’s car was there. It was. The distinctive blue MG was parked in its usual place. Kelly was not surprised that she was still working. Indeed, he did not think she ever left the station much before seven, and that was on a short day. He resolved to catch her when she left for home.
His mobile rang just as he was climbing back into his own MG. He checked the display panel, wondering if Karen had called him back at last. Instead, his caller turned out to be Nick.
‘I’ve been out of touch all day, Dad. I just picked up your message about Moira,’ Nick began. ‘Any change?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Kelly was starkly aware that he didn’t really know. He hadn’t been in touch since leaving the hospice that morning. But nobody had called him. So he assumed that no news was good news.
‘I can’t get down to Torquay till the day after tomorrow at the earliest, do you think that will be all right?’
Kelly knew what he meant. Nick, too, did not want to put his true meaning into words. The question he was trying to ask was whether or not Moira would still be alive. And Kelly didn’t have a clue.
‘I’m sure it will,’ he said automatically.
‘Right, I’ll see you then.’
‘Yes.’
For once, the conversation between father and son was stilted. Impending death had that effect, Kelly reckoned.
For a moment he thought about discussing the Hangridge situation with his former soldier son, something he would certainly like to do at some stage. But definitely not on the phone, he thought. And not on the back of that awkward exchange about Moira. Indeed, it did not seem to be possible to talk about anything other than poor Moira. And when there was really nothing more that could be said about her, father and son ended the call in a kind of glum, mutual consent.
Not wishing to dwell further on Moira and her approaching death, Kelly fished in his pocket for his notebook and began to chronicle the events of the past few days, carefully assimilating the jottings he had made while talking to the various parents of the three dead soldiers whom he had so far met.
He was still a journalist at heart, however much he tried to fight against it. He told himself this would be his last story, and that it was going to be a huge one. He also told himself, that, for once, this would be a story which might do some good. This was going to be a classic example of true campaigning journalism, of the sort that he had gone into newspapers to pursue, in the days when he had still been young enough to believe in his own dreams.
As he wrote, he contemplated what he would do with the finished article. He was quite sure that he hadn’t uncovered one half of it yet, but, on the other hand, there was enough of a story in what he had already — at least three, probably four, deaths of young soldiers at Hangridge in fifteen months, and one of them, to his certain first-hand knowledge, in suspicious circumstances — to guarantee him publication in almost any national newspaper. However, if he went into print at this stage, the entire British press corps would then unleash its top investigative reporters onto the story.
The ramifications were, after all, enormous. At the very least, the army was surely guilty of a shocking lack of care at Hangridge. At worst, something very nasty was going on and, according to Karen Meadows, the army was already closing ranks.
One way and another, there was so much more that Kelly wanted to do, wanted to find out about, before he started to market the story. He needed to research some more military statistics for a start, like the number of alleged suicides and accidental deaths there had been in the army throughout the UK in recent years. He also wondered if finding the family of the fourth soldier would lead him to yet more surprises.
But, as he wrote, he became surprised at how much he already had to say. This could possibly be the biggest story of his life. Kelly could feel it in his bones.
As soon as she arrived back at her office from Hangridge, Karen Meadows attempted to contact the clerk to the coroner’s court to ask him for the records of the inquest on Jocelyn Slade, something which, upon reflection, she probably should have done before taking off to confront Parker-Brown. But she just hadn’t been able to wait.
A recorded message told her that the coroner’s court was in session and that the clerk would return her call as soon as possible. She left a brief message.
It was hard for her to think about anything other than Hangridge. And she was still reflecting on her meeting with Gerry Parker-Brown and going over and over in her mind all that Kelly had so far told her, when to her utter amazement, just before six o’clock, she received an email from the CO of the Devonshire Fusiliers, repeating his invitation for her to join him for Sunday lunch.
‘I know you were upset earlier and I do understand. But can’t we at least try to keep our personal lives separate from our work? I have so enjoyed spending time with you, and I’d really love to see you on Sunday as we had planned. I do so hope we can still meet.’
Smooth, arrogant bastard, thought Karen.
She pressed delete at once. She couldn’t believe the man’s cheek. One thing was absolutely certain, she was risking no more unofficial meetings of any kind with Colonel Gerrard Parker-Brown. He was covering something up, she was quite convinced of that now. She also remained pretty sure that he had been using her all along. And, with his repeated Sunday invitation, was, quite incredibly she felt, actually still trying to use her. The very thought of it made her blazing mad.