Karen hesitated. This was the kind of response she had feared, but there was more. Tomlinson’s attitude sounded so like that of Gerrard Parker-Brown, it was uncanny.
‘Look, sir, it seems to me that there is a distinct possibility that these cases could be criminal in some way, and I think, at the very least, we should look into them,’ she persisted. ‘I am convinced there is justification for that. In my opinion, all four investigations should be reopened and this time conducted by the civilian police force.’
‘Indeed, Detective Superintendent? And on what grounds exactly, pray, do you feel that we should take this course of action?’
Karen stifled her irritation with difficulty. The bastard was patronising her again. Surely, she’d given him grounds enough. Four deaths in just over a year, and at least two of them leaving a number of serious questions totally unanswered.
‘I thought I had explained that, sir...’
‘Nothing to warrant us meddling in legitimate army affairs, not as far as I can see. Gerry Parker-Brown is on the case, and he’s going to have another look at it all, just to dot the Is and cross the Ts, you understand. Decent chap, Gerry. Does a job properly. Knows all about making sure we don’t have any misunderstandings. You should be in no doubt, Karen, that I trust him to clear this up in no time. It’s always been our procedure, as you well know, to let the SIB investigate these kind of deaths, which they have always done quite satisfactorily in my opinion, and I see no reason to start interfering now, stirring things up unnecessarily, that kind of thing.’
Karen found that she was becoming seriously irritated. No wonder the chief constable sounded like Gerry Parker-Brown. The Hangridge commander had obviously already got to him and done an excellent job of damage limitation, it would seem. As he would. She took a deep breath and fought to maintain control.
‘It is, of course, quite in order for the civilian police to conduct a new investigation should we deem it necessary, sir,’ she responded mildly.
If nothing else came out of this debacle, Karen reckoned that at least another step or two might be taken towards ensuring that all non-combat, sudden military deaths were subject to a civilian police inquiry as a matter of standard routine, like any other sudden death.
‘I think you mean “if I deem it necessary,” Detective Superintendent,’ replied Tomlinson. Karen could almost see him bristling at the other end of the phone.
‘And quite frankly, I don’t,’ he continued. ‘I thought I had already made that abundantly clear. So now, if there’s nothing else...’
Karen was really angry by the time the call ended — with the chief constable, with Gerry Parker-Brown, and with herself for ever having been taken in by the colonel’s smooth-talking charms in the first place. Parker-Brown may have got the chief constable eating out of his hand, but not her. No way. Not any more.
She had another look at the reports of the two inquests. The home addresses of both the second sentry in the Jocelyn Slade case, James Gates, and the other young soldier to have allegedly committed suicide, Trevor Parsons, were listed in full, which was a result. It meant that with a bit of luck both Gates and members of Parsons’ family could be contacted without going through military sources. On the other hand, assuming Gates was still a serving soldier, he may well already have been gagged.
Karen was beginning to go through conspiracy theories in her head. She told herself it was early days for that, and that she was getting as bad as John Kelly.
She also had to remind herself that she was still head of Torquay CID and, as such, had her normal heavy workload of cases to deal with — including a suspected major fraud, involving a well-known local councillor and former mayor, which promised to send shock waves around the entire West of England.
But throughout the day, whatever she was working on, she found her thoughts returning to Hangridge, and her feelings of anger and outrage mounting. She wasn’t totally naive. She knew that there were those who believed that military secrets should sometimes be kept at the expense of justice. She understood that protecting national security could be a dirty business. She knew that cover-ups happened, and that occasionally they happened for the best of reasons. But she was damned if she was going to be part of one.
She was a police detective. And if she believed that crimes may have been committed, it was her job to investigate, regardless of the consequences.
It could be that she didn’t dare to become directly involved herself, at least for the time being, but she did know a man who could do the job for her. If he chose.
Indeed, she had always suspected that she might have to rely on John Kelly, in the initial stages, at any rate. And knowing Kelly, as she did, she was quietly confident that he would effectively blow the whole thing wide open with or without her help.
Kelly was with his partner who, it seemed, was terminally ill. Perhaps dead. And Karen knew that even Kelly would need some time before launching himself again into the Hangridge mystery. But Karen could wait. For a few days, anyway.
She was, however, quite determined that the establishment was not going to cover this one up. No way.
They held the funeral five days later. Kelly helped the girls make the arrangements, and found during those four days that his mind was entirely taken up with that and with his grief. For once he did not seek a displacement activity. Moira was dead, so he was no longer looking for any excuse to do anything other than deal with her being sick. The grim reality of her death had focused his feelings in a way which he sincerely wished could have happened much earlier.
He spent long hours walking alone along the beach, just gazing out to sea and thinking about his life, and about the life he had shared with Moira.
He did not attempt to contact any of the bereaved Hangridge families again. Neither did he contact Karen Meadows concerning Hangridge. And when she eventually called him to enquire after Moira, he told her the news briefly, gave her the funeral arrangements, and made it quite clear that he did not want to talk about anything else. Only very occasionally did he give Hangridge even a fleeting thought.
He did call Nick, of course, on the day of Moira’s death.
‘Oh shit, dad, I’m so bloody sorry,’ Nick had responded. ‘And I did want to see her. Damn it. Why didn’t I just drop everything?’
‘You weren’t to know, son,’ said Kelly. ‘We didn’t think it would be so quick.’
He had no idea whether that was true or not. He didn’t remember at any stage ever discussing with anyone just how long Moira might have left. That had been one of those topics never to be broached.
‘I’d just like to have seen her one more time, Dad, that’s all...’
‘I know, son.’ Kelly did know too. Nick was another one who had always been extremely fond of Moira. She was a woman who had had in abundance the gift of making friends.
On the day, there must have been well over a hundred people, Kelly thought, crammed into the little crematorium chapel for the brief funeral service. It had been Moira’s wish to be cremated. Kelly didn’t like the idea of human bodies being burned, but, although he had known that her wish to be cremated was in her will, he had never tried to dissuade her. After all, if he was honest, neither did he much like the idea of human bodies rotting in a cemetery. At best, the way in which humans were disposed of, or laid to rest — the euphemism invariably preferred by those involved with the process — could only be the lesser of various evils in Kelly’s opinion.
It was, however, gratifying to see such a good turnout. Moira had been a gregarious woman at heart and Kelly knew she would have liked to think that so many people would attend her funeral.